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I glance at the envelope of test results and consider the way he’d said “mouse” as if the word was an endearment and not synonym for rodent. “Didn’t you know right away?”
His laugh is a hollow one with more than a little trace of pain. “Right from the moment I saw her.”
Left hanging in the air, unsaid, was that she did not reciprocate. Maybe he doesn’t want to jinx me, but more likely he doesn’t want to admit that the one he wants isn’t waiting upstairs in his bed for him.
“May all our trials end in gold.” I lift my glass.
“At least let us not die before the end,” he replies.
Evers needs to get laid. Me, too, for that matter. My gaze lands on the envelope, and I grin. My long dry spell is about to meet an end. Unlike Evers, I’m not letting my woman get away.
I finish my drink and then gather up my supplies. After I put together the care package, I let myself out of the building where my Ducati awaits. I slip on my helmet and gun the engine. The address of the intruder is in the upper part of the city where the wide paved boulevards and the grassy medians give way to narrow cracked sidewalks, sand, and weeds. The brick buildings have bars on the lower windows, and the graffiti no longer looks like art but random acts of violence.
The apartment complex where she lives is a ten-story one. Next to it is a spare empty lot that no one has bothered to improve. In five years, whoever owns this will sell it for millions, and the building where my intruder lives will be torn down, the tenants kicked out. The price of progress. I cut the motor and kick the stand down. The shiny bike screams “steal me.” Scavengers are probably waiting in the dark shadows. I don’t blame them. It’s how I survived so many years ago. I pull out my wallet and lay five bills on the seat. “I’ll be out in ten minutes. If my bike’s still here and in perfect condition, I’ll double what I’ve put here.” I announce into the darkness.
Tucking the helmet under my arm, I stride toward the door. It’s locked, which is good, but I only have to shake the handle for the bolt to slip out of the inner channel, which is obviously bad. Inside, no lights are on. The landing is barely illuminated by the small amount of moonlight that seeps in through the two long thin sidelights bracketing the door. The stairs are sturdy, though. The police report connected to her name says that she and her brother reside on the eighth floor. No wonder the girl has such a fine ass on her. Climbing eight floors at least once a day is bound to add a little junk to the trunk.
On the eighth floor, there’s actually a lighted exit sign at the end of the hallway, but when I reach it there’s no door—only a window. On the outside of the building is a half-attached fire escape that ends two stories down. It looks like the lower half fell off and was never replaced. The building’s a hazard. She’ll need to move, but I’m guessing that’s not going to be an easy discussion. She seems to be the type who’d rather bite off her hand than accept anything she could call charity.
On the floor in front of her door is a rubber welcome mat with two cat paws imprinted on it. A cat person? I wouldn’t have pegged her as someone who has a pet. I’ll find out when I get inside, which should be soon. I’ll be coming back here untilshe’s ready to move out. I wonder how much space I’m going to need. Per the police report, she’s got at least one brother that she cares for. There could be more. It doesn’t matter. All those are extraneous to my main purpose, which is to claim Lauren Roberts as mine.
Chapter Four
LAUREN
“Girl, you’re jumpier than a horned toad on a rainy day,” exclaims my client Rose as the door chime makes me flinch for the hundredth time.
“I’ve got a package coming,” I lie. Although is it? I’m expecting either the police to show up or Mrs. Ware, and both options would be bad for me. I force myself to concentrate. I just need to finish her cut and I can go on break.
“Ohh, what is it? Something pretty, I hope. You’re always wearing black. I think you should branch out. Look at Criselle over there. She’s always wearing something bright and fun, and she’s got more men than most women have purses.”
“Purses are expensive,” I murmur between snips.
“If you had more men in your pocket, they would pay for your purses.”
“I’ll keep my eye out,” I say because I really can’t argue with Rose. Her Hermes collection rivals the Kardashians, and as far as I know, the fifty-plus Fifth Avenue matron hasn’t held a job in her life. Liz, our perks girl who goes around giving hand massages during the cuts and styles, says that Rose’s hands are as soft as a marshmallow. The hardest task that she’s everundertaken is probably deciding which caterer to choose. One bag and my brother would be out of jail.
“My son was lamenting just the other day the lack of eligible ladies in the city. He says that he would bring one home if he could find one.”
Not that I’d want to date Rose’s son, but it’s interesting how she’s never offered to hook me up. I don’t think it ever occurred to her that I could be a potential match. To her, I’m probably not fully human, just the service bot who cuts, colors, and styles.
The door flies open with a bang. Even Rose jumps in her seat. I narrowly avoid chopping off a huge portion at the crown when Isabella McGowan comes running in.
“Did you hear the news?” she cries, her giant Delvaux bag banging against my friend Chloe’s work cart. Chloe toes it out of the way so the dye mixture doesn’t get knocked to the floor. I send her a look of sympathy, and she shrugs. What can you do? This is how we make money to feed our families.
“You almost made me spill my Americano, Issy.” Rose brushes a few droplets off her cape. I offer her a towel, which she takes and then tosses onto the floor. “Out with it. The gossip looks like it’s about to burst your seams if you don’t share.”
Issy bustles over to my station and drops down in an empty chair. “The Academy was broken into last night.”
The scissors slip out of my hands and glance off Rose’s cape-covered shoulder to fall harmlessly onto the concrete floor.
“My God, girl, what are you doing? You almost killed me,” shrieks Rose.
I mumble an apology and retrieve the scissors. Rose isn’t going to leave me. I’m the only one who gets the blond color right, or so she’s said, but I can say goodbye to any tip. My heart sinks to my knees. I need money for bail. The jail told me it was a grand, and I just don’t have that lying around.
Issy tsks. “Good help is so hard to find these days.”
“Forget about her.” Rose brushes her hand next to her face as if she’s ridding herself of a pesky fly. “Tell me more. Did they catch who did it? What did they steal?”
