Page 5 of Tempted By Shadow

Which is why I’m not going to think about his sister in the way I want to.

I’m going to finish this carburetor, clean up, and forget she exists.

That’s the plan. Simple. Professional. The kind of plan a prospect who wants his patch should stick to without question.

The plan lasts about four hours.

King finds me in the garage that evening, wiping down tools and trying to look like I haven’t been useless all afternoon. He’s got that look on his face — the one that means he’s about to give me something to do that I’m not going to like.

“Shadow.”

“Yeah, Prez.”

He leans against the workbench, arms crossed. King’s not a big talker. Never has been. When he has something to say, he says it and moves on. No buildup, no softening. It’s one of the many things I respect about him, even when it makes him hard to read.

“My sister’s back in town.”

I keep my face neutral. Don’t react. Don’t let him see that those four words just made my stomach drop.

“She’s settling into an apartment over on Cedar,” he continues. “I want eyes on her.”

“Eyes on her how?”

“Not full protection. Just keep tabs. Make sure she’s not getting into anything stupid.” His jaw tightens, just slightly. “She’s got a history of making bad choices. Following the wrong people. I want to know if she’s about to make another one.”

“You want me to tail her.”

“I want you to watch out for her. Report to me. Anything that looks off, anything that seems wrong — I hear about it first.” He pauses. “She’s not going to like it. She’s got a problem with being told what to do. But she doesn’t need to know you’re there.”

It’s a shit job. Babysitting. The sort of thing you give a prospect because prospects don’t get to say no. And because if it goes wrong, nobody important takes the fall.

“Sure thing, Prez.”

King nods, pushes off the workbench, and heads for the door. Then he stops. Looks back at me with those cold eyes that see way too much.

“She’s my sister, Shadow. The only family I’ve got left. Don’t let anything happen to her.”

“I won’t.”

He holds my gaze for a second longer than comfortable. Then he’s gone.

I stand there in the empty garage, rag still in my hands, and think about what I just agreed to.

Keep tabs on Naomi. Follow her around. Watch her.

The same Naomi I haven’t been able to stop thinking about for four straight hours.

This is going to be a problem.

Three days later, I’m starting to think I might actually be good at this.

I’ve tailed her to the grocery store twice. Watched her apartment from across the street while she unpacked boxes. Followed her to a coffee shop downtown where she spent two hours filling out job applications on her laptop, chewing on a pen and occasionally swearing at the screen.

She hasn’t noticed. At least, I don’t think she has. I’m staying back, keeping my distance, trying to be just another guy on a bike in a city full of bikes.

Professional. That’s what I’m being. Professional.

Never mind that I know she takes her coffee black. Never mind that I’ve memorized the way she walks — quick, purposeful, always looking like she’s got somewhere better to be. Never mind that I’ve spent more time thinking about that parking lot smirk than I have about anything else in weeks.