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Fine, then I don’t need to feel guilty about opening the laptop again and finding the recording on my phone. I don’t need to doubt myself when I cycle through until he saysunlock. I bring it to the laptop, and then it opens up.
It’s time to find out exactly who I’m dealing with here. It’s better than sitting around and doing nothing. On some level, I think part of me wants to discover that Jamie is a good man. He’s not lying to me. He’s going to help me save Mom.
Then what? We’re going to live happily ever after?
Yeah, right.
CHAPTEREIGHT
Jamie
I sit outside the bar for two hours, watching people come and go. Antonio is difficult to miss when he finally makes his appearance. He’s several heads taller than most men, maybe a head taller than me. He’s built like a slab of brick, a rectangular body with relatively small arms. He doesn’t lift. He is just huge as some men are.
After waiting for another couple minutes to be sure the street is quiet, I leave my car and go to the trunk, grabbing the tracking device. Luckily, it’s always in here. I hurry across the street and place it behind the tire of the beat-up car he arrived in.
Then I return to my car and drive around the corner, parking in an alleyway. After that, it’s more waiting, just like so much of this work is. I watch the tracking app on my phone, trying not to think about returning to Lena, crushing her against me in a fierce embrace.
“You’re not leaving me. Ever. You’re going to stay exactly where I want you.”
Then I’d kiss her, but I know that would be the end. If I ever let myself kiss her, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll tear her clothes off after tasting her, needing to taste every part. I’ll have to feast on her young soaked honey pot, tongue her eager hole, lick her excitable clit, fuckingownher in every way.
My phone starts beeping. The tracker is moving. Good. Something to focus on. I can’t keep obsessing, but I can’t stop, either.
Even as I follow the tracker, always keeping one or two streets between us, Lena is in the back of my mind. When I save Simone, she might never want to see me again. I wouldn’t blame her. Simone wanted a better life for Lena. That was the whole reason I agreed to it in the first place. I saw a desperate mother.
Maybe this is all my fault, but I can make it right. I keep driving.
* * *
I pull up outside the house. It sits on the end of a row, all one-story shack-type things. The beat-up car Antonio arrived in is parked on the lawn. He sits on the porch, smoking a cigarette, another man sitting beside him. I reach into my glove compartment, scan my thumb, and take out my pistol. Then I walk to the trunk and quickly take off my T, put my vest on, and pull my T over it. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing.
I watch the windows for threats as I walk past the beat-up car. Antonio stands slowly and flicks his cigarette away. Up close, he seems his age. It’s his confused smile. Despite his face tattoos, he looks young. He’s only twenty-two. Hell, that’s still older than Lena.
“You want trouble, gringo?”
The other man stands, shorter, wider, with a tattooed belly poking out of a white tank. He glares at me. Antonio laughs a moment later. “You are dressed for war, my friend.”
His tone has completely changed. His pupils are far wider than in his mugshot photo. He’s clearly on something that could work to my advantage. His hand is twitching, so I slowly put mine behind my back, glancing at the windows, hoping like hell there isn’t a gunman posted across the road.
This is sloppy, but I have to work fast for my woman.
“I am ready for war, my friend,” I reply. “I need some information.”
Antonio sits just as slowly as he rose, but the other man keeps glaring at me. “I see no gun, gringo. I see no reason to be scared of you.”
“So, am I scared?” Antonio says, looking up at the man. But he’s so tall that he doesn’t have to look upthatmuch. “I’m sitting. I’m ready to talk. This is interesting to me. But if I take your word as gospel, I’mscared, is that it?”
“No, I—”
I leap back when Antonio springs into action. He moves far quicker than I would’ve guessed. He explodes into a right-hand punch, hitting his so-called friend across the face. It’s a routine I’ve seen before. The drugged-up boss beats up his own men. I step back as he hits him twice more, then spits on him.
He turns to me, smiling shakily. “Where were we?”
The man on the ground groans. I don’t have the time to give a shit. Anyway, he probably deserves it, as pessimistic as that might be.
“Simone Harwood,” I tell him. The other man has rolled onto his back. He’s carefully probing his nose, and there’s something about the movement. It looks like he’s done it before. “How much do you want?”
He places a hand on his chest, looking genuinely offended. “It’s not a question of money, sir.”
