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“Again,” Imogen said, righting the strap of her purse on her shoulder. “You already punched him in the face.”
“No one said I was done.”
Strat put an arm around her, pulling her close as they crossed the black tarmac that made up the backlot of Jagg’s Autos. Jagg owned the place and lived there with his best friend James Stratford, also known as Ford, Strat’s son, Imogen’s brother.
Jagg and Imogen getting together had been a surprise to everyone. Lachlan took it hard too. He didn’t say that, but she knew her brother. Love came in the strangest, sometimes most unexpected, packages. She didn’t like to see her brother hurt but couldn’t blame Imogen for falling in love with her brother’s best friend.
Strat took it so bad because he raised Jagg like another son. She didn’t know the latter’s family situation, but Jagg lived with Strat growing up, so it couldn’t have been great. That elder loved the boy as though he was his own.
Imogen opened the side door and led them into an office, behind the counter and through another door into a hallway.
She heard a TV before she saw what was in the next room. A living room, breakroom maybe, a large space with a kitchen in the corner, couches and armchairs in the opposite one, a pool table by the door.
The two seated guys stood up. Imogen went to Jagg and put an arm around him as he cupped her face. The other was Ford. She knew him. But even if she hadn’t, the resemblance to Strat would’ve made the ID easy.
“I’m sorry about the alderman,” Ford said. “About your loss.”
“Thanks,” she said, having lost count of how many times she’d heard those words that day.
“Strat,” Jagg said, holding Imogen against his side.
“We’re not okay,” Strat was quite firm in that. “But you keep my little girl safe.”
“Always.”
“It’s on you now, Dunn. All on you.”
“I get it.”
“He’s always looked out for me,” Imogen said and something of a saucy smile curved her lips. “Gone to all kinds of lengths to keep me, and my virtue, safe.”
Jagg’s hand dropped from her shoulder; it looked suspiciously like it landed on her ass. “You think that’s helping?” he asked, crouching to kiss the top of her head.
“I think I want to go to a club this Friday.”
“We’ve got our own private club.”
The couple shared a smile that hid few secrets. Transfixed, it was something to see love right there, in front of her, playing out in real time. Imogen was a good person. She didn’t love Lachlan like he wanted her to love him. Someday, her brother would find the love he deserved. There was more hope for him than her.
“This better be worth it,” Strat said, directing her toward a stool at the kitchen island.
“It’s a crapshoot with Evander,” she mumbled, keeping their conversation discreet.
“The guy’s not the most serious person in the world. You think he’ll take this serious?”
“I think he’ll like me asking for help.”
“And if he brings up Ire?”
She swallowed, sliding onto the stool, dumping her purse. “Then we’re all fucked, aren’t we?”
“Do you know what happened?” Ford asked. “You got any details?”
Jagg and Imogen were already sharing the couch under the TV, though they could’ve shared the smallest armchair for all the space they left between them.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Strat said to his son, probably blocking out the couple behind him. “We know his housekeeper found him midday.”
“Why so late?” Ford asked, sitting in the armchair perpendicular to Jagg and Imogen. “When was he last seen?”
