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“Okay,” I whisper, trying to slow my rocketing heart rate and focus again on the slew of vehicles around me.
After a few minutes of silence, Liam’s voice slices through mythoughts. “We have some bikes too.” He walks toward the back, uncovering four motorcycles.
“I’m not as good with bikes. But I know that’s a Ducati.”
He nods, pointing to each motorcycle. “Ducati Panigale V4; Kawasaki Ninja H2R, fastest in the world; Aprilia RSV4; and a BMW S 1000 RR.”
“Who the hell are you guys?” The question flies out of my mouth before I can catch it, and I realize there’s a bit of unsteadiness to my tone.
By the look on Liam’s face, that may be working to my advantage. The arrogance he normally possesses falls away, a gentleness in its place. “We’re erasers.”
“Erasers? What’s that?”
“If someone needs to disappear—have their identity erased—we make it happen.” He drops onto a bench against the wall, arms spread over the back, ankle resting on the other knee in a relaxed stance. “On the flip side, if someone ismissing, we find them.”
“So, you erase people and find people who’ve been erased?” I repeat, trying to wrap my mind around what he’s telling me, all that it would entail.
“Yep,” he replies plainly, watching my face with a seriousness I wouldn’t have expected in him.
“Are you good guys? I mean, that sounds like a juvenile question, but I don’t know how else to ask it.”
He chuckles, egotistical smirk reinstated. “It’s a matter of perspective. Our clients see us as the good guys. But we’re … gray.”
“Gray, like morally gray.” It’s not a question, so he doesn’t answer, and I decide it’s best to ask as many questions as I can, judgment-free. “Makes sense. I imagine the reasons people need to disappear fall in various shades of gray. I’ll avoid digging further into that at the moment. So, erasing people? Creating new identification, no contact with people from your former life? Standard witness protection program stuff shown in books and movies?”
He shrugs with a slight tilt of his head. “We’re better.”
Always so damn cocky.
An unexpected laugh spills out of me. “How so?”
“Witness protection only cares about people who can offer them information. Their protection is limited, especially once they’ve gotten the testimony they want. Plus, the number of leaks is fucking embarrassing. We work alone. We’re not cheap, but worth every penny.” He raises his spread arms off the bench, offering the cars as evidence.
Point well made.
“And you also look for people? How do you go about finding someone?” I’m so riveted that I don’t hear Wells until he’s right beside me, but he doesn’t stop our conversation.
Liam acknowledges him with a tip of his chin before focusing on me again. “Most erasers aren’t as thorough as us. They tend to leave loose ends that enable us to find the person. If there aren’t loose ends, we manipulate the pulse points.”
“Pulse points? What are those?”
He stands, probably eager to end this so he can eat, but I’m far hungrier for answers. Thankfully, he continues his explanation. “People they can’t resist calling. Investments they weren’t willing to lose. Something that is too difficult to completely leave behind. It’s different for everyone. Most teams don’t manage their erased clients for very long, like we do. We’re always keeping tabs, ensuring they aren’t fucking it up. But lack of diligence is generally our gain when we’re looking for someone.”
I glance up at Wells, who nods for me to keep going. “So, how do you manipulate the pulse points? Monitor phones and other forms of contact, I’m sure. Is that it?”
“It’s normally enough,” Liam says. “But sometimes, we need to make a big splash. Get their attention so they show themselves or even come after us. Every mouse in hiding has a piece of cheese they can’t resist.” He winks. “At the moment, mine is covered in pepperoni.”
He swaggers into the house with the easy confidence he seems to carry everywhere while I try to sort through everything I learned.
Wells grazes his palm down my arm, bumps appearing instantly on my skin from both his touch and the heaviness blanketing me. “Was that too much?” he asks.
I swallow, peering up at him, my fingers aching to dust the dark hairs on his forehead away. “Too much?”
He sweeps his thumb across my cheekbone. “You’re a bit pale, Little Storm. Something on your mind?”
Yes. A million other questions—many of which I’m not prepared to hear the answers for. But maybe I could start with a couple that need to be settled before I can move on.
“Liam said you were expensive. Do you only do this for people who can pay top dollar?” I’m not sure why that matters to me, but it does.
