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She hugs her body tightly, nodding her head again. “He said that it would be a shame if something were to happen to Chloe or me, and that if I thought you could keep us safe, I was mistaken.”
“Me? Did he mention me by name?”
“Yes. He said, ‘Alex Rockwell and the men of Four Forces.’ Then he said he represented a multi-billion-dollar empire that would make me dis—disappear.” She breaks, a tear falling down her cheek as her lip begins to quiver.
“Come here,” I say, stepping toward her with my arms out, but she brushes me off.
“I’m okay.” She wipes away the tear, turning to grab a glass from a shelf and filling it with water.
“Where’s your phone? I want to search the number and see what I can find out.” She hands me her phone and I send the details to myself. I pull up Luka’s number and hit CALL.
“Hey,” I say when he answers the phone. “Need you to look up a number for me in all of the databases. See what you can find.” I read off the number to him and hang up. “Luka is at the office, so he’ll do some research on the number. In the meantime, I’ll double-check the cameras—make sure there were no suspicious people or activity in the last 24 hours.”
“The tablet is in the living room,” she says as I nod and start to make my way across the kitchen to the doorway. “Do you want some coffee or tea?” she asks softly.
“Yeah,” I smile. “Coffee would be great.”
A few moments later, Juliette appears beside me in the living room with a tray. “I wasn’t sure how you took your coffee, so I brought cream and sugar.” She places it down on the coffee table, taking a seat beside me as I swipe through the security footage. “Find anything?”
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for the mug of coffee. “No, everything looks good so far.” I take a sip. “And I’m a black coffee kind of man.” I don’t know why, but I wink at her.
“Yeah, I figured.” She gives me a coy smile.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. You just seem like a black coffee kind of guy. And if I had to guess what your drink of choice is, I’d put all my money on whiskey.”
“You think you’ve got me all figured out, huh?” I laugh.
“You’re not asmysteriousas you think you are, Mr. Rockwell.”
I could be wrong, but it almost feels like Juliette Pierce is flirting with me. Though maybe it’s just the relief of me being here—the adrenaline dump probably has her nerves on edge.
“Well, in that case, you’re wrong. My drink of choice is not whiskey . . . because I don’t drink.”
“At all?”
“Nope.” I shake my head, taking another sip of coffee.
“Any particular reason why?”
I take another sip, letting the cup linger at my mouth to buy myself a few seconds. I never talk about my older brother Zane—not to anyone. He was my entire world when I was growing up. At seven years older than me, it felt like he was experiencing an entire lifetime before me. He’d let me hang around, teach me how to work on trucks and cars, show me how to fish. Since our dad ran off when I was barely two, my brother was the man of our house. It was his dream—not mine—to be in the Special Forces. But after joining the military at 18 and barely making it past his 20th birthday before being killed by a drunk driver, he never got to live out that dream. So I lived it for him.
“Just a personal choice. Besides, never could get used to the taste of beer or liquor.”
The truth is, I did drink at one time. I started at 13, when Zane was killed, and by the time I was 16, I was a functioning alcoholic with a juvenile record and well on my way to prison . . . until I had a judge talk to me like I needed to be talked to. He told me I had two choices: either end up in prison or dead, or join the military and make something of my life. The day I heard that speech, I never touched alcohol again, and the second I turned 18, I enlisted.
“I don’t like the taste of those either,” she says, looking down into her cream-colored coffee. “I enjoy wine and a good martini.” We sit in silence for a few seconds, both of us staring into our mugs. Finally, my phone rings and breaks the silence. I stand up, answering it.
“Hey,” I say to Luka when I pick up. “Anything?”
“No. Looks like a burner.”
“Shit, that’s what I figured. Okay, thanks.” I hang up and turn to Juliette. “Seems like it’s just a burner phone. That’s what I figured, but I wanted to make sure just in case they were stupid enough to use a phone actually registered to someone.”
“So what does that mean?” She places her mug on the coffee table and stands up. “Should I get a gun for the house?”
“Do you know how to use it?”
