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He started to piss me off. “They’re not a gang. With a psycho like Daniel Dalton, you fight fire with more fucked up fire.”
“Man, you can’t keep her in a bubble. No way in hell will Phoebe go for that. I promise, let me break it down for her, she’ll understand and be careful.”
“You won’t break down shit for her, Hough.”
“She deserves to know what’s going on.”
“No. I can’t risk anything happening to her or the baby.” Anger quickly replaced fear. “You’re working for me on the side, right?”
“Right,” he grumbled.
“Which means you do as I say. Am I making myself clear enough for you, or would you like me to send you a fucking email?”
The voice on the other end dripped with ice. “Crystal clear. Don’t worry, Mr. Bale, I’ll do my job per your explicit instructions. Miss Ryan will be taken care of without her knowledge.”
“Was all that necessary? Don’t I have enough to worry about without being concerned about bruising your ego?”
“Man, I like you, but you’re being a real dick right now. Pack your shit, go on tour, and I’ll give you updates.”
Regret rolled through me. What the hell was wrong with me? Jaxon Hough offered insider police knowledge and a no-strings friendship, and I all but sucker punched him through the phone. The stress got to me, but Hough didn’t deserve what I’d dished out.
“Shit, I’m sorry, you know that—”
“I’ll give you updates. Have a good interview.” A click indicated the call had ended.
Great.
I’d managed to piss off the one person with intel. Brilliant.
Throwing the phone on the couch, I walked to the window and gazed outside. Somewhere out there, a psychopath who tried to gut his own child waited. The concept chilled me. I thought about the impending birth of my own kid. The intense love I already felt blew me away, and it wasn’t even here yet. How could a father torture his own blood?
Cursing, I lifted the bottle back to my lips, letting the room temperature liquid dull the thoughts haunting me. In the pit of my stomach, I knew he waited for the opportunity I handed him every time I left on tour—Phoebe tied up in a red bow.
The beer sloshed in my stomach, and I swallowed repeatedly to keep it down. Sighing, I flipped the cell phone over in my hand a few times before dialing the number I’d hesitated calling.
He answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”
I cleared my throat. “Hey, it’s me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I need you to do me a favor, and I need you to not ask questions.”
“I’m listening.”
“Remember those friends you told me about last night?”
“Yeah.”
“I need you to call them.”
“What changed your mind?” I heard him take a drag off a cigarette and blow it out.
“I told you not to ask questions,” I hissed in annoyance.
“Well, what the hell am I supposed to tell them?”
“Tell them they’ll be paid well—more than well—to keep an eye on the house and Phoebe. If anything goes down, tell them to do what they do best.”
