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“Babe, don’t even know who the fuck you are, what the fuck you’re doing here, or why the fuck you think I want to be friends with you. So you’ll excuse me for being cautious. Now how the fuck do you have access to my or Ranger’s texts?”
“Call off the sniper attack, bring in your Babysitter, and we can talk,” she told him.
And since we had no idea who she was or what she wanted – or, quite frankly, what she had on us – Quin had no choice but to follow her demands, call off Ranger, tell him to come in.
He did about five minutes later, seeming to take up half the room, the rifle still in his hand, though not aimed at anyone in particular, just there in case he needed it.
“Happy?” Quin asked, tone low, furious. For a man used to being in control, being the one in power, being made to bow and kowtow and follow orders was clearly grating on him.
“Getting there,” she said, putting the quartz ball down, but keeping her feet on the desk, looking around the room that seemed to see too much, know too much, something that had me stiffening.
“So, Quinton Baird. Should we start with you?”
“Start with me how?”
“You have quite the record, don’t you? And that wife of yours too. Killed a man. You’d never know that by looking at her. Your woman either,” she went on, looking right at me. “Socialite darling husband killer. Your woman, of course,” she said, looking over at Gunner, “is clean. She’d have to be with how – what’s a nice way to say ‘uptight’ – she is.”
“Gunn, no,” Quin demanded as Gunner pushed off the wall, ready to go at her. You didn’t fuck with our women. And in Gunner’s case, you didn’t even get to talk shit about Sloane’s personality.”
“Good boy,” she cooed at him with a smile. “Does he know how to give his paw and roll over too?” she asked, looking back at Quin.
“Enough with the theatrics, lady,” Quin shot back, hitting his breaking point. “We get it. You have shit on us. We all know what we’ve done. We don’t need a history lesson. So get the fuck on with who you are and why are you here. Are you blackmailing us?”
It wouldn’t be a bad set of people to do it to.
All of us made a nice sum of money.
And some of our women had even more.
Sloane and Jenny, of course.
“Is he always so moody?” she asked, rolling her eyes at Miller. “Anyway. Fine. Ruin the fun. My name is Nia. And I’m your newest employee,” she informed Quin, making his brow raise, surprised only for a second.
Quin was the boss for a reason.
He recovered quickly from surprises.
He saw opportunities where others saw complications.
And he had this uncanny fucking way of knowing people’s specialized skill sets.
So that was how Nia joined the team.
She had a nickname that day too.
The Hacker.
Smith – 4 months
Quin kept me off active duty while I was still working on Jenny’s case. He’d call me in on the occasion that someone else needed a hand with paperwork or some surveillance or something, but I didn’t have any cases for myself all that time, allowing Jenny and I to create this secluded little life.
It was good in a way, I guess, that he finally decided it was time for me to get back to work.
We couldn’t live in a dream world where we could spend just about every waking hour together, where we were the only two people in the world.
I was going to need to work.
Jenny was going to have to find ways to fill her days.
We couldn’t live in a fantasyland forever.
She’d understood, had given me a smile saying she was behind on her Etsy orders, that it was good that she would have a few days to catch up.
I’d had Miller and Lincoln come in, help me put in a new security system in her house even though we had changed all the locks and passwords a while back. I was being paranoid, but I didn’t like the idea of leaving her all alone in that giant house by herself. I’d offered my place instead, but she had paled a bit and admitted that she was freaked out to be there all alone with the bears and coyotes roaming around.
Lincoln assured me that he would check in on her. Bellamy offered to drop in and teach her to play poker though she had never shown any interest in learning that particular skill. Miller told me that she would drop in, figuring maybe Jenny would be sick of all the testosterone stinking up her place.
I’d kissed her, packed a bag, and headed out.
It was hard, at first, to focus, to keep my mind on the job instead of wondering what she might be doing all alone in that house, if she was getting work done, if she was having bad dreams without having me there for her.
