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Nerves still on edge and needing to see beyond him, she moved a step to her left—he was so big, he blocked her line of sight to the front door, to any approaching threat.
He noticed and shifted too. His eyes swept the club as he spoke. “Don’t blame you for being freaked out. Okay if we talk? Maybe we could go somewhere, have a drink?”
That made her smile. She gestured at the club. “You do realize I own a bar, right?”
His eyebrows rose as if just noticing. He brightened. “Excellent suggestion, Gracie. We can catch up now. Never too early. And you can even make me one of those famous drinks.”
“Famous drinks?”
“Now, don’t hold back on me. I’m absolutely certain a girl who spent her teen years in a bar knows a thing or two about inventing drinks. And you’ve probably named them too. Something like Fuzzy Panda or Starry Night.”
She laughed, a laugh so spontaneous she had zero control over it. It felt good. Like something inside her had woken from a very bad dream and was stretching its back and purring.
Not good. She squelched her reaction. Forget the fact that someone was after her. Forget the fact that she needed to be on her guard at all times. This guy was investigating her family. And her. “It’s called Blood and Guts. But you need some to drink it.”
Ugh. She’d meant that to sound like a dismissal, not a challenge and an invitation. Her face heated. She bit her lip, tried to think of how to get rid of him. Safely.
Dusty smiled. “That’s an awful long pause, Gracie. What could you be considerin’? State of the Union? Temperature in Budapest? Last three deposits into your bank account?”
She laugh-snorted.
Obviously, she wasn’t going to get rid of him that easily. So maybe she should turn the tables, find out about his investigation, what he had on her family, and if his being around could have anything to do with whoever had shot at her.
All solid reasons that had zero to do with how cute he was.
The cute thing didn’t hurt, though.
She shrugged. “The club opens again to the public on Wednesday. I’m usually around.”
He shivered. “Brrr. That’s a climate-fixing invitation if ever I’ve heard one.” He put on his aviator glasses. Shields up. Game on. “But I’ll take it.”
Chapter 12
Dusty was a man used to hardship. He’d spent months living his own version of hell at that sex-slaver compound. So being in this ancient house, renting a room from a gentleman simultaneously the oldest, neatest, and most flamboyant person he’d ever met, wasn’t a big deal.
It wasn’t even a big deal that the room had a double bed with an iron headboard that rattled every time he breathed too heavily. Or that the table he sat at smelled like compressed gypsum aged to dust. None of that bothered him as much as the mural on the bedroom ceiling.
Ducks.
Not graceful, realistic ducks, ducks he could dream of hunting. No. Happy, comic book ducks like Daffy, Scrooge, and Donald. The ducks, like the walls, had a glossy shine and were painted with every color in God’s maniac rainbow.
Couldn’t shake their happy gazes. No wonder he kept having nightmares.
Or maybe the nightmares had nothing to do with the ducks. Maybe it was the fact that he’d felt more like a hero before he’d met Gracie. When he’d had only the email to go on.
He pulled out his wallet and found the creased and worn printout. He smoothed the paper on the table and read, “When you’re adopted into a family whose sole purpose is to train you to fight in their covert war, you lose all sense of yourself. You lose who you could have been. And have to spend most of your life fighting who they told you you were.”
That had really struck him. Reminded him of his own messed-up upbringing, sheltered from outside influences, being told and taught to believe without question. It was why—years after he’d gotten free from his father and his so-called ministry—he’d become an FBI agent.
He could see how Gracie’s upbringing in itself might’ve been a reason for writing the letter, but now he knew she had another. Or at least a potential one. Ms. Gracie Divine Parish had a son and a secret identity.
After looking into the True family, he’d come across Tyler’s birth certificate. Mother’s name was listed as Theresa Sylvia Hall. Trying to find her had caused him a little bit of consternation. But he’d recognized the last name. Hall. It was the same as Gracie’s bio-mom. A little research, and he’d discovered Gracie had been christened as Theresa Sylvia Hall before being adopted.
Probably a sin to break into church records, but it surely wasn’t his first.
That christened name didn’t carry any real weight, wasn’t recorded any place legally, but Gracie had used it on her son’s birth certificate.
Money. Can’t buy you love. Can buy you a secret identity.
Guess when your family was kind of a big deal, and into revenge, you needed to do all you could to secure some semblance of security. Not just for her, but for her kid and her ex.
He had no idea how things had fallen apart with the guy, John. Gracie didn’t have contact with him now, but she stalked her son. So something had gone wrong. How pissed had he been when he’d seen Gracie stalking their kid? If he had to guess, pretty pissed off.
Could John be behind that shooting?
Maybe. The better money was on her family and their activities. Still, he’d keep looking into John. Had to admit, he was worried about Gracie. Didn’t sit well with him at all that someone had it out for her. He wished she’d trust him enough to let him help with that.
Fuck. He stretched back, and his chair cracked like it was about to give way. The problem with being a big guy in a world designed for average guys, even furniture didn’t fit.
He stood up, gave the chair a break. What he needed to find was a deeper way in with Gracie. Not just so he could help her out, but because she was his way into her family. She was the weak link.
Or, to his mind, the strongest one.
Strong enough to leave her family to take care of her dying mother—a woman who’d given her up for adoption. Strong enough to give up her own son, which, judging by her trip to see him, had been a deep and difficult act of love. Strong enough to see past the culture of her family and reach out to the FBI.
She’d sent the letter. Had to have.
But she didn’t seem to be reaching out now. Nope. She’d closed up for sure. He’d thought it would be easier. More like her brother, Tony. He’d been pretty easy to befriend, but Gracie was a bit suspicious. And though she’d accepted his invite for a drink, he had no doubt she had ulterior motives. Like feeling him out.
To earn enough trust to get an invitation into the inner circle, he’d need more than one drink. He’d need to become a regular at Club When?
Maybe if he got close enough to get an invite to the family, he’d work on getting her to drop that question mark in her club name. Irrational, but it annoyed the heck out of him.
He stretched his shoulders, neck, dropped his head back. Damn ducks. Hadn’t seen such glassy eyes since he’d worked as a bartender in college.
That’s an idea. If he needed to spend time at the club, why not get paid?
He took his cell from the table and hit the speed dial. Mack picked up with a “Yup.”
“Mack, do you remember that sweepstakes promo we ran in Philly to get that guy in the Knowles case out of town?”
“The one where we gave him a free trip, so we could set you up as a temp in his job? What does that…” Mack laughed. “You want a way into the club. You’re going to make it hard for the lady.”
Yeah. That was the plan. He’d feel guilty except for the hope that he could spare kids the shit he’d had to deprogram from his own head.
Now, if he could just cultivate Gracie into the helpful asset he knew she could be.
Chapter 13
The rapid click of Tyler True’s keyboard filled his darkened bedroom. His focus on the online game was absolute. His virtual reality headset vibrated against his ears. The VR mask made every hastily fired shot and unexpected explosion seem real.
Real enough that he reflexively jerked his head at a shot to the left of his character. More bullets whizzed by, and he crouched his character by a truck, scoped the area, and dashed forward.
They’d hunted this group through the jungle of Brazil and had fought their way to the drug cartel’s remote stronghold. Now he and his team raced across the compound to the rundown building where the hostages were being held.
An enemy combatant jumped out from behind a wall of stacked wooden crates.
Tyler shot. The bam, bam, bam rumbling in his ears. His heart rate picked up. He noted the fear but boxed it, put it off to the side so he could remain calm. The key was to feel all of it—the nerves, the pressure from his team, the overwhelming desire to free the hostages—but not let it take over.
He played with his team, implemented the planned strategy, and moved through the compound. If they failed, the group of stolen women would never be rescued.
When the message slid across his vision, he spared it barely a glance. Until he read who it was from, then his fingers froze. He missed a target, got shot, and died. Four angry voices, his teammates, yelled at him through his headset.
