I watch as Jessica types something on her phone, hopefully texting the contact number with the news that she’s backingout, and recommending Blake as a replacement. Adam’s reading over her shoulder, nodding his approval.
She hits send.
It’s done.
Adam pulls her back into his arms, and she buries her face in his chest. He holds her like she’s precious, like he just saved her from something terrible.
And he did.
He’ll never fully understand how terrible, but he did the right thing. And Jessica will never know how close she came to walking into a nightmare.
They’ll be okay. They’ll figure out the money situation some other way. Maybe Adam will finally convince her to let him help. Maybe they’ll just make it work like most struggling residents do. Maybe a special Christmas elf named Leon will wire transfer a little something into her account for her trouble.
Either way, she’s safe and Blake gets exactly what she wants, even if she doesn’t know I’m the one who orchestrated the whole thing.
Before her shift ends, we’ll have all the intel we need and instead of a cozy Christmas eve at home, we’ll be crashing some rich asshole’s night and ruining a lot more than his holiday plans.
Saving lives and spilling blood with my Angel. Still sounds like Christmas to me.
CHAPTER THREE
BLAKE
“Areyou sure this is the right address?” I double-check the information in the email Jessica sent me and repeat it to Damon.
He taps the mounted GPS on his dash. “2847 Primrose Lane. That’s what she said, right?”
I nod, and glance out the passenger window again. The house in front of us isn’t what I expected. It’s an average-size, upper middle-class home. The kind with a two-car garage, a well-maintained lawn, and a porch swing. Could be the place. Except the multi-colored lights look like someone took their time climbing a ladder and freezing their ass off all day to install. And the plastic, illuminated Santa and reindeer on the roof don’t exactly scream sex trafficking ring.
There’s at least six cars in the driveway and lining the street. Not the luxury automobiles we saw when we busted The Brotherhood. I’m talking ten-year-old minivans, a beat-up Honda, and I think I spot a work van.
I crane my neck further and point across the yard. “Is that a Hello Kitty Christmas inflatable?”
Damon’s gaze strays to the spot I’m pointing at. “Uh. Yeah. It is.”
“Something’s off,” I say, triple-checking the address. “I’m texting Jessica.”
“Look, let’s just stick to the plan. It’s getting late and we don’t know what time everything’s going down. If it’s a sale… we know what can happen if we lose even ten minutes of time.”
He’s referring to the New Year’s Eve auction, back when we were still searching for Bailey. The one that Jasper and Falin fumbled and ended up losing multiple women and children. The thought makes my gut churn.
“Fine. But don’t go around the back. I want you with me—my assistant.”
I can tell he’s not crazy about this new addition… it’s all in the way his shoulders tense. “Whatever you want, Angel. I’ll grab the bag.”
He texts Leon and Falin before we leave the car with the updated plan. Not that they can do much, being over an hour away. I bend to grab my medical bag from the backseat, but Damon beats me to it. There’s no reason to argue with him about carrying my own stuff. He won’t have it. I smirk, a secret little look to hide the fact that I love how chivalrous he is. Can’t let his head get too big.
“Ready?” I ask, as my finger hovers over the doorbell. There’s noise coming from inside… boisterous conversation and… are those Christmas carols?
“All set,” Damon answers, his hand hovering over his concealed weapon.
The doorbell seems to ring louder than a fire alarm. Or maybe I’m just jumpy. In seconds, the door’s wrenched open and a large man in the most colorfully hideous ugly sweater greets us.
“Vinny! Your friends are here!” He looks me up and down. “He didn’t say he invited a girl.” His gaze turns to Damon. “Tell me she’s not dating you. I gotta get Vinny engaged and outta this house before my wife tries to give him the main bedroom. The kid already eats me out of house and home, takes the Camaro out whenever he feels like it, steals my recliner every damn Sunday. It’s like he’s the man of the house now.”
“Uhh,” I murmur and glance at Damon, who looks equally confused.
Before either of us can respond, the man—I’m assuming Vinny’s father—grabs Damon by the shoulder and pulls him inside. “Come on, come on! Don’t let the heat out. My oil bill’s already through the roof with all these people here coming and going like it’s Grand Central.”
