Page 48 of Two Tricks

“You never know.” I shrugged, walking her to the front door. “Stranger things have happened.”

As I opened it, I noticed the delivery guy’s gun was still on the stoop, so I walked out with her to her car, making sure she didn’t notice it. Harper was my one pure goodness that I allowed in my life, and I wanted to do everything in my power to keep it that way.

“Talk to you soon, love ya babe,” Harper said, blowing me a kiss as she got in her car.

Waving, I headed back to the house, wracking my brain as I tried to figure out how I was going to deal with the stranger in my basement. It was too coincidental that the night I got home with one of the Phantom Saints, an armed stranger showed up at my door. This needed to be handled without Picasso knowing until I could figure out what I was dealing with. Finding him in the kitchen putting the dishes in the dishwasher, I couldn’t help but smile. His brother has trained him so well he just couldn’t help himself

“Come on, let me show you where you’re sleeping,” I called, waving for him to follow.

I brought him all the way up to my floor and stopped at the little living room that I had. Walking over to the couch, I pulled off the cushions and pushed the coffee table out of the way. Seeing what I was up to, Picasso grabbed the handle for the bed and pulled it out. It was brand new—no one had ever slept on it before—so I had no idea if it was comfortable or not. I headed for the closet in my art room where I kept the extra sheets I bought for it. When I turned around, I almost crashed into him as he stood, taking in my studio.

“You did all this?” he whispered, walking up to the piece I had been working on before I got kidnapped.

“Nope, I just rent the space for someone else to use right outside my bedroom door,” I deadpanned.

Ignoring my passive-aggressive comment, he moved deeper into the room, where my finished pieces were stacked. I was supposed to drop off new work for the art gallery and just hadn’t gotten to it yet. Picasso flipped through the paintings until he stopped and pulled one out, holding it up.

The painting was of a woman who had clearly just had sex but was left alone in the bed. Curled into a ball, arms wrapped around the pillow and the sheet barely covering her ass, a tear shimmered on her cheek.

The same emotions I’d been feeling as I painted that came rushing back. This was why I didn’t want anyone to know that I was the artist. Raw emotions were bled over every canvas; it was the one place I allowed myself to feel everything. Now having Picasso, a fellow artist, seeing into my soul, it was too much.

Leaving the room, I set to work on getting the bed made, refusing to let the tears that welled in my eyes fall. I was stronger than this; I didn’t need anyone to coddle me and tell me everything would be alright. We could survive without romance. Physical need was just that—a need. There didn’t need to be emotion to scratch an itch and move on with your life. It was the world and society that said everyone needed to have a special person that you connected with romantically. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why. All it did was make things complicated and messy. I didn’t have time for that kind of shit in my life.

As I tucked in the last corner of the sheet, I went to grab pillows from my room when Picasso’s arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me to his chest. “So the little vixen has a soft side.”

He leaned down and brushed his nose along the shell of my ear, sending a shiver down my back. “Tonight you showed me the person who painted those pieces. Harper makes you vulnerable in ways I haven’t even seen around Weston. So tell me, which one is the real Dax?”

Turning in his arms, I looked up at him, his chocolate-colored eyes filled with desire and fear.

“They both are, but the Dax that Harper sees died a long time ago with her twin. Harper is the only person that I still know and keep in contact with from that time of my life. That was back when I still had rose-colored glasses and thought I would travel the world with my paints. Seems the universe had different plans for me and decided to teach me the hard way that the world will take everything from you unless you fight to keep it safe. I won’t risk that happening again, Picasso, no matter what it costs me to do it.”

“Don’t you get it, Dax? We are the same in this. We need to fight together, not against one another. The woman who can paint like that is just as strong as the enforcer for an underlord. Not everything needs to come with bloodshed and brutality.” Picasso’s voice was raw with the emotions he was feeling.

I stood there searching his face, trying to see what he saw in me to say something so very innocent. He still had his whole family. They might not agree with what he was doing with his life, but they were still alive to care. There was no way he could know the pain of losing the other half of your soul. Weston and Harper helped me patch what heart I had left together, but it was scarred and tainted. The things I’d done to keep my people safe would leave anyone blemished, and it wasn’t going to end any time soon.

“It’s pretty to think that, Picasso, but that isn’t the world I live in, and one of these days you’ll have to take your own blindfold off and see it isn’t yours either. Thinking that people won’t do whatever it takes to survive will get you killed. I can’t protect you from yourself—no one can,” I whispered and pulled out of his arms.

I walked into my room, grabbed two of the forty pillows I had, and brought them back to him. “I’m going to work on a few things down in Weston’s office. If you need anything, just make yourself at home.”

Picasso opened his mouth as if he was going to say something more but then thought better of it.

* * *

After an hour or so catching up on emails and things for Silver Bullet Ink, I decided it was time to deal with my surprise houseguest. I stopped at the landing to listen, but the house was silent, making me feel fairly confident Picasso was asleep. Glancing at the clock in the kitchen, I saw it was one a.m., and from what I noticed, these boys were early to bed, early to rise, so it seemed a safe bet.

Back out in the garage, I shifted the shelves and flicked on the light as I headed down. With each step, I packed away all the emotions that Picasso had pulled out of me and readied myself for what I needed to do. This is who I was and the life I chose for myself, no point in thinking of what could have been. Reaching the basement, I saw the delivery man was indeed awake and thrashing in his bindings. When he saw me, his eyes went wide and he struggled even harder, but the leather restraints wouldn’t budge.

I walked over to the counter and pulled open a drawer, revealing a pair of thin spandex gloves with a coated palm for extra grip. Slipping them on, I then grabbed a few other items I thought I might need depending on how much trouble this guy was going to cause me. Selecting one of my thin knives, I walked over to the man, flipping the knife and watching his eyes track the weapon.

“Hello, I don’t think we were properly introduced. I’m Dax. I know you’re wondering why on earth you’ve been brought down here and strapped to a chair. The thing is, the owner of Lucifer’s and I have an arrangement that Tino is always the one who delivers to me. Unfortunately, I have some major trust issues and just can’t stand the thought of unknown people knowing where I live. So imagine my surprise when you showed up with a gun hidden in with my order.” I bent over so we were eye level. “I’m sure you can see the dilemma here.”

The man nodded his head and tried to talk around the gag, but nothing he said was decipherable. Reaching around, I unhooked the gag and let it fall from his mouth as I brought my knife up to his throat.

“Okay, let’s try that again, and let’s be honest the first time around. I’m not really in the mood to torture you tonight,” I sighed.

“Look, I had no idea that this was your house. I was given instructions to take out the driver and to take the pizza to the address. Then I was supposed to grab a girl named Harper and bring her back to another location,” the man blurted, panic bright in his eyes and sweat pouring off his brow.

My blood ran cold at his words. I wasn’t their target—Harper was, and I just sent her home.