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“I was fixing—” He stops, peeking at Mason and Nolan. “I was fixing something.”
“What the fuck were you fixing?”
“A jet ski.”
“This is more fucking important than fixing a fucking jet ski, Leon.” I get up in his face, trying not to let my other grievance with him cloud how I handle this. But he knows. He knows pickups and drop-offs are done outside club hours. He knows the actual jet skis come last to everything else.
“Well, thing is, B-Boss,” Leon says, fidgeting. “I didn’t think you’d want the police sniffing around the boatyard.”
“Why the fuck would the police be sniffing around the boatyard if you don’t fix a fucking jet ski?”
“Because if I didn’t fix the jet ski, the sheriff’s son would have reported you for assault and vandalism.”
I recoil, my anger shrinking along with my body. Fuck it. “You should have sent the fucker to me and I would have put a bullet in his fucking head.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think that was a good idea either, given who he is.”
Initiative. Loyalty. Leon’s got it all. And the hots for my girl. The fuck, Brad? “Get on with it,” I snap. “And use the rear entrance.”
“Already parked there, B-Boss.” Leon and Nolan leave, and I turn, placing my empty on the bar.
“Another?” Anya asks.
“No.” I take a stool, seeing Otto walk into the club.
“The phones you gave me to look into?” he says, pulling one out.
Finally.
“This is what I found.”
I look at the screen. “Jesus, Otto.” I turn away from the footage of a woman bent over—“Wait, is that my desk?” I brace myself and look again. “That’s my fucking desk.” I point, ignoring the sight of a man’s ass driving forward and retreating.
“Recognize the arse?”
My eyes widen in disgust as I study the bare cheeks. “Nolan,” I murmur. “I’ll fucking kill him.”
“She has a lot of messages and calls from someone in particular.”
“Who?”
“Someone called Cody. But it’s on this phone.” He holds up the other cell. “Boyfriend?”
“For fuck’s sake.” I take down Cody’s number, handing that phone back to Mason before pocketing the other.
“I’m going home.” Otto leaves.
“Where the fuck is he?” The little fucker. Hasn’t he learned? I start to rise, ready to go reinforce a few lessons, but a man approaching the bar catches my eye. I look him up and down and don’t like what I see. He’s got a cocky air about him. And trouble written all over his pumped-up, muscled body. His neck’s thicker than my thighs, his lip in a constant sneer.
My beef with Nolan is momentarily forgotten. I get comfortable, and Mason doesn’t miss my observations.
“What can I get you?” he asks the guy.
“Rum and Coke.”
Mason eyes me as I raise my brows, tapping the top of my glass. I think I’ll stay for another after all. He takes care of the customer first. Then me. I lift my drink to my lips as the guy settles and waves Mason over again, reaching into his pocket. He pulls something out and slaps it on the bar. “I’m looking for this girl.”
My glass pauses at my lips, and I crane my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever’s in the picture. Red invades my vison. My glass lowers. My stomach turns.
