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"Why don't we wait to hear from the police? When I'm sure my driver is okay, we'll go through the necessary protocols to file an insurance claim for your missing items. Do you have an estimate for the value of the stolen items? A police report?" She reaches over the desk and bends that tight little ass over in her black pencil skirt.
The two buttons at the top of her blouse are undone, giving me the perfect sightline to her perky breasts. Fuck me. I want to slam my cock so deep inside of her I'm forgetting that I'm supposed to be upset.
"I'll have a police report in a week or two. I don't know how helpful they'll be if they don't have the car or footage from the area. But, I still have my ticket from customs validating the value of the items in my luggage." I fish out the papers and hand them to the woman. "What's your name, sweetheart?"
"It's Gemma, not sweetheart," she says, eyeing the pages. Her brows scrunch together before her eyes dart around the room. She focuses on me and shakes her head. "Listen, Mr. Sanders, I'm going to do my best to help you. However, you should be aware that our insurance for customer items isn't going to cover the full cost of these items. There's no way three watches cost thirty thousand dollars."
I take a look around the office. A reminder that the place is bare bones, with two desks, an office, and a seating area. It's clear they put every dime into their fleet. I lean in so close I catch a whiff of her scent. She smells like summer and I wish I weren't so pissed, or else I'd bury my face in every valley of her body until I'm bathing in her aroma.
Still, I keep my temper in check as I tell her, "I don't care what you believe about my work, my talent, or the cost of my time. The fact is, I was robbed while in one of your cars due to the stupidity or the culpability of your fucking driver. You have twenty-four hours to straighten it out or I'll squeeze every penny out of this place until you beg for mercy."
CHAPTER 2
Gemma
Knox Sanders has my heart in my throat for more reasons than I can put together into a cohesive thought. Fear rips through my body as he leans in so close I feel like he's ready to wrap his fingers around my neck.
There's a vein pulsing along the side of his forehead, right next to thick brown brows, above harsh blue eyes. The squareness of his jaw hardens every second he continues to clench his teeth.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Sanders. I understand your frustration?—"
He slams a firm hand on the desk. "I don't want to hear any of your excuses. Get my watches or get my money. You'll be sorry if you don't. I'll call tomorrow for an update."
The moment Mr. Sanders leaves, I rush into the office where my father sits behind his desk on the phone. He's clicking away on his computer and turns the monitor to face me. I watch as he hits play on security footage from the very robbery Mr. Sanders mentioned.
"Fuck. How bad is this?" I ask him.
My father used to have the same strawberry blonde hair as me, but his hair doesn't trail down his back. It's balding in a horseshoe pattern. He stares at me with fear etching across his brown eyes.
The trembling in his voice makes me nervous. "Do you understand how bad this is?"
"That's what I literally just asked you, Pop. What is going on?"
"Paulie set up Sanders to get robbed. We found the car. No Paulie and no luggage. Look here." He points to the timestamp on the screen. There are cameras all over the car for us to track accidents, damage, and traffic stops. We don't tell our drivers specifically for reasons like this. I watch the footage of Paulie being let out of the trunk and the rear camera kicks on.
Paulie's voice is loud and clear. "You didn't have to hit me so hard, bro. Didn't I tell you the guy was a jeweler? Dope, right? Where are you taking the shit?"
One guy takes off his mask, and I pull out my phone to snap a picture as he speaks. "My guy in Coney Island will take care of this. Just sit tight. Meet me at Rita's in a few days for your cut. You did good, man. Real good. Later, Paul."
The unmasked robber takes off as he high-fives the other assailant, who's still wearing a mask. Paulie's left standing by our abandoned, car-jacked vehicle. We are fucked.
"We have to get this to the cops," I tell my dad.
"Are you fucking crazy? Do you know who Knox Sanders is?" he asks, practically on the verge of tears.
"One of our regular customers." I shrug.
"No. Knox Sanders is called the Sandman now because he makes timepieces, but the name was given to him about two decades ago because all he knows how to do is put assholes to sleep. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me," he whimpers and starts looking around the office.
I try to reason with Pop. "Okay, he said he only wants his watches back or the thirty grand for their cost. We can file an insurance claim?—"
The shift in my father's expression has a pit forming in my gut. I'm forced to ask him, "What?"
Regret washes over his face as he says, "Insurance won't cover customer items. The premiums went up last quarter so I dropped the coverage. I've been telling customers to book with their travel credit cards to make sure they at least have that in case of emergency."
"Way to fucking go, Pop. How did he end up as one of our customers?"
"He came recommended as a cash customer from Joey."
