1
Mercy
MY CELL PHONE mocked me from my desktop, daring me to make the call.
No, he’s fine. I’m overreacting.
The series of worst-case scenarios playing out in my head claimed otherwise until I picked up the phone and opened my contacts. With one last steadying breath, I hit call and listened. God, I hated conflict, and dialing this number went against every ounce of common sense I had.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring.
Each ring felt like a test I was failing.
Someone knocked on my office door.
The call clicked over to voicemail, and I panicked, hanging up and lowering the phone in my hand.
Projecting my voice, I called out, “Come in.”
The door opened, and my receptionist, Adina, slipped inside my office and eyed me warily. “Is everything okay?”
“Of course.” With anxiety churning in my gut, I forced a smile. “Why do you ask?”
“Your door was closed. It’s… never closed.”
“I needed to make a personal call.”
Her gaze shot to the cell clasped in my hand, hovering inches above my desk.
I quickly opened my top desk drawer and dropped it in.
Concern pinched her expression. “Your ten o’clock is here, but if you need a minute….”
“I’m good. Thank you. Send them in.”
“About that.” She eased the door closed and lowered her voice. “Did you know he’s a biker?”
I blinked at her. We lived in Seattle, where rental bikes could be found on nearly every block, so I didn’t see the big deal. “And?”
She shook her head. “Not a bicycle biker. We’re talking motorcycle gang biker. With the leather and the patches and that whole piss-me-off-and-I’ll-stomp-your-face-into-the-cement vibe.”
Unexpected, but still not a deal-breaker. “Probably shouldn’t leave them waiting then.”
She made no move to leave as she eyeballed me.
Like me, Adina had grown up in this neighborhood and knew exactly how shitty the locals could be. It had made her a smidge judgmental.
“The Wilsons want to donate to our preschool,” I said, straightening my desk. “How dangerous can they be?”
“The wife is wearing Jimmy Choos.”
“Rich doesn’t mean evil, young padawan. Money is necessary for books and supplies for the kids.”
“As long as it’s not drug money,” she grumbled as she opened the door and slid out into the hall.
Moments later, a leather-clad black man filled my doorway, effectively blocking my exit. Built like a bodybuilder, his mere size was intimidating, as if the leather vest sporting some kind of gang insignia wasn’t enough. I fixed a smile on my face, hoping I came off as friendly and welcoming as his narrowed gaze swept my office before giving me a once-over that wasn’t remotely sexual. No, this frightening son of a bitch was checking for threats. I would have bet my life on it.
My heart skipped several beats before I summoned the courage to stand and round my desk, intent on making introductions. I opened my mouth, but he grunted and stepped aside, gesturing for his redheaded companion to enter.
