“What’s up, boss?” she asked, her voice thick with sleep.
“I got a call from Laikyn Quinn.”
“Yeah? She get snatched again?”
“Didn’t sound like it.”
“You want me to meet you somewhere?”
“Yes. I’m on my way to her mother’s house.”
“You need the Reds to come, too?”
The Redswas how she referred to Red Wally and Willy, who, if I had to guess, were currently asleep in her bed.
“No. Not yet.”
“Gotcha. See you in a few.”
I liked Rhyan Ambrose for the simple fact she did what I needed her to do, and she didn’t expect me to make small talk. Yeah, she was nosy as fuck, and she asked questions she knew I wouldn’t answer, but I figured she’d earned that right since I’d been working with her for the better part of eight years now. However, she knew to put the job first, and I appreciated that.
Especially now because I didn’t want to admit it, but this job was going to get messy. And I wasn’t talking about the actual cleanup of whatever Monica Quinn fucked up. It had been five and a half years since I’d rescued Laikyn Quinn from that dingy basement in Tijuana, and I’d thought about her damn near every day since. Each year, on her birthday, while ringing in the new year, I would mentally calculate whether she was at an age that would be appropriate for me to instigate a chance meeting. And each year, even after she turned eighteen, I decided I was out of my fucking mind.
Instead, I kept track of her through other means. I wouldn’t call it stalking, per se. I merely wanted to know what her mother was up to because Monica Quinn was what people in my line of work called repeat business. She was prone to making bad decisions. The kind that resulted in people getting hurt. Innocent people. Rescuing her daughter wasn’t the first time I’d met her, and I doubted this would be the last time our paths crossed, either. Some rich people—those with more money than sense—tended to find themselves in predicaments they needed help getting out of. I was notoriously good at making that happen, hence the reason I was on so many speed dials.
I was curious what Monica had gotten herself into this time. My fees weren’t cheap, and the menu of things I was willing to do was long, provided you were willing to pay upfront—in cash. If you were hiring me, you were someone important, and you’d done something you didn’t want anyone to find out about. And if you were calling on my servicesagain, you were going to pay the frequent flyer tax.
“Hey, Siri. Send a text to Jinx.”
“Sure. What would you like to say?” the automated voice replied.
“On a job. Might need you.”
“Would you like to send it now?”
“Yes.”
A few minutes later, his response came through.
— Whatever you need.
That was Jinx, straight to the point without asking questions he knew I wouldn’t answer anyway.
Half an hour later, I was pulling up to the gates at the Quinn estate. I rolled down the window to press the button. A camera was aimed directly at my face, and a moment later, the gates began to open. Once I was through, I stopped and waited for them to close behind me. No sense letting someone slip through. I wouldn’t put it past the paparazzi to be lingering nearby even minutes before dawn.
I pulled down the short drive until the house came into view. It was a ridiculously opulent residence that matched the owner’s over-the-top personality to a T. I’d hated it the first time I saw it, and my feelings hadn’t changed. The only thing it had going for it was that it was set back from the road and not visible unless someone was flying a drone overhead. Considering the time of night and my presence in the neighborhood, there was a good chance one of those sneaky reporters would launch one over here soon enough.
Since I didn’t know what I was walking into, I retrieved my gun from the lockbox in the trunk, tucking it into the holster at my back and using my shirt to cover it. I looked around, scanning my surroundings as I made my way to the door. It was a little after five in the morning, and the house’s exterior was lit up like someone wanted it to be seen from space. I wasn’t sure whether that was a security precaution or simply because Monica Quinn wanted her house to be seen at all times. From all planets. The latter certainly wouldn’t surprise me.
I knocked on the door and stepped back.
When it opened, the air in my lungs locked up for a moment as I took in my first face-to-face—after five and a half years—with the woman I’d rescued all those years ago.
Unlike then, when she’d been a grimy mess after spending two weeks in a cage, she looked healthy. Her hair, which was dark chestnut at the roots, hung to her shoulders and gleamed with an array of cinnamon and red-gold highlights. Her eye makeup was smeared, but the fact she wasn’t worried about it made her that much hotter.
Every cell in my body came to life.
It was the same reaction I’d had when I first met her all those years ago. She’d still been a child at the time—barely seventeen—but she certainly wasn’t now. Which I figured was why I was looking at her through lenses hazed with lust rather than mere observation. Standing there in a pair of ass-hugging shorts and a tank top that cradled her chest like it was in love, looking like she’d just walked out of my best fucking dream, I was struck as mute as Jinx.
