by Cassia Leo
This girl is a maniac. She pulls that damn gun out every chance she gets. I should tell her to put it away, but it’s a bit late for that.
Besides, with my right hook and her trigger-happiness, I think we make a pretty fearsome team. Something out of a Tarantino flick. Damn, I wouldn’t mind going on the run with her if it meant I could bury my cock inside that gorgeous ass.
The guy holds his hands up. “I don’t want no trouble,” he says as he stumbles back a few steps.
The jerk I just knocked out begins to stir, and I nod at Izzy. “I reckon we should get going,” I say to her before turning back to the angry drunks. “Y’all have a nice evening.”
“Stay out of trouble, boys,” she says with a shit-eating grin.
I pull her towards me and wrap my arm around her waist to steady her, then we half-run and half-stumble toward the parking lot. “I’ll drive you home,” I say, guiding her toward my pickup as she attempts to go in the direction of her Ranger. “You shouldn’t be driving, young lady.”
“But my—”
“I’ll call a tow truck,” I reply quickly. “The pickup will be in your driveway when you wake up.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re gonna take me straight home?”
I chuckle. “Yes, ma’am. No funny business.”
“You’d better not try anything,” she says as she lazily pats her ass, where she just tucked her gun away.
Fuck. I have to check the safety on that thing. This woman has a death wish.
If killing her tonight were my mission, I’m confident she could do the job for me. But I need to find out where she stashed that damn suitcase, or Congressman Hunt, Garrett’s father, will have me drawn and quartered. And dead men — and women — tell no tales.
“Scout’s honor,” I say, stealthily sliding the gun out of her waist as I help her into the passenger seat. I detach the portable waste bin from the back of my headrest and place it in her lap. “A barf-bag. Just in case.”
I round the back of the pickup toward the driver’s side, listening intently for any sounds of retching.
What have I gotten myself into?
Mental note: Tell Santos to keep a closer eye on Izzy. She’s obviously a magnet for dangerous men, myself included.
The drive home is relatively silent, save for the occasional heaving noises from Izzy. When I pull into her driveway, I make sure to park with the passenger side as close to her front door as possible. Then, I carefully open her door, catching her so she doesn’t tumble out, and carry her up the front steps.
“Try not to collapse, okay?” I say, setting her down gently. “I have to look for your keys.”
“Are you feeling me up?” she asks as I slide my hand into each pocket of her jeans.
Her breath is coated in the sickly sweet scent of whiskey mixed with a trace of vomit. Her hair smells like the smoky atmosphere in the bar. But her body is dangerously warm and soft under my touch.
“No, ma’am,” I reply, pulling a set of keys out of her front pocket.
She reaches up and clumsily traces her fingertip down the front of my lips. “Why not?”
I shake my head. “Believe it or not, I’m not in the habit of taking advantage of women who are too drunk to remember their own name.”
“That’s a shame,” she pouts as I unlock the door. “It’s… It’s Jolene.”
She laughs as I scoop her up in my arms and carry her into the house, where we’re greeted by Steve. The gentle beast wiggles her butt violently as she sniffs me up and down, taking in the smells of the bar.
“Hey, Steve,” I greet her as I use my foot to push the door closed behind me.
“You have to call her Steve-Bella until she’s used to Steve,” Izzy corrects me.
Maybe I should refer to you as Jolene-Izzy until you’re used to your new name.
I lower her onto the worn-in beige sofa, which I assume she purchased second-hand at The Junk Drawer. Taking a step back, I watch with slight amusement as she adjusts a throw pillow under her head and closes her eyes with a big smile on her face.
“How did you learn those fancy moves?” she slurs.
“What are you talking about?” I reply, taking a seat on the edge of the coffee table so I can keep an eye on her for a bit.
I tell myself I need to make sure she doesn’t choke on whatever’s left inside her stomach, but I know I’m only kidding myself.
Her eyelids flutter open, her gaze unfocused as she looks me up and down. “You tackled that guy like a defensive lineman, but you don’t look like a lineman. You’ve got quarterback written all over that hard body.”
I shake my head. “I used to be in the military. How did you learn those fancy moves? That was quite an elbow you dealt that guy.”
“I used to be in the military,” she replies with a cheesy grin.
“No, you weren’t.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
This girl just made off with 1.4 million dollars cash from a United States congressman. She’s obviously drinking to cope with the sudden loss of her friends and family. Yet, she still remembers to clam up about the details of her former life when she’s drunk.
I’m more impressed with her by the second.
“All right. I’ll let you keep your secrets,” I reply, getting to my feet now that I’m pretty sure she doesn’t need me here to watch over her.
“Thank you,” she says, closing her eyes again.
“For what?”
“For saving me.”
I stare at her for a while and think about the pea-sized surveillance camera in my back pocket. I’m supposed to switch it out for the camera we installed in Izzy’s bedroom vent before Izzy moved in, which is no longer operational.
But as I watch her sleeping, looking so damn vulnerable, I can’t bring myself to violate her privacy.
I can tell Winston Merrill, Congressman Hunt’s chief of staff, that I tried installing the camera, but there was some type of interference. I’ll say I suspect she may have installed a WIFI jammer to block surveillance signals.
None of that matters, though. If I don’t install the camera, they’ll figure out a way to do it themselves. I’ll have to do it while she’s at work.
I retrieve her firearm from my pickup and place it on her coffee table. I should pretend she lost it while drunk, but I’m not sure she would believe that. And she’s got a nice arsenal of backup weapons, so taking one wouldn’t make my job any less dangerous.
What the fuck is my job? I went from running a money laundering enterprise to what? I’m supposed to spy on Izzy, get close to her to find out where she’s hidden the suitcase, then I’m supposed to kill her. Does that make me a spy or a hitman or both?
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
I seem to be asking myself that question a lot lately.
Finding some aspirin in the medicine cabinet, I place the bottle and a glass of water next to the gun on the coffee table. I have to leave before I change my mind about installing the camera.
Steve follows me to the kitchen, and I give her a couple of biscuits from a jar on the counter to appease the dog. Closing the back door behind me, I let out a deep sigh. I’m going to fuck up this job just like I fucked up that mission in Afghanistan with Garrett. Only this time, it’s Izzy and me who’ll get burned.
9. Izzy
August 2nd
After another sweltering afternoon inside The Junk Drawer, I peel my apron off from around my sticky neck and drape it over my arm. Edie watches me digging inside my purse for my truck keys in silence. Smiling as I locate my Tarheels keychain, I extract the keyring and sling my bag over my shoulder.
“You sure have been grinning a lot today,” Edie remarks. “You sleeping well on that memory foam mattress?”
I chuckle as I round the checkout counter. “Yes, ma’am. Sleeping like a baby. And I should be able to pay you back after next week’s paycheck.”
She waves off my suggestion. “Oh, please. That can wait. I’m sure you’ve got m
ortgage coupons to pay and furnishings to buy. And maybe some nice dresses or something, you know, for dates.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think I’ll be going on any dates soon. I went to have a drink and play some darts this weekend and ended up in a bit of a pickle. I’ll probably be focusing on fixing up my house for a while.”
She shrugs. “Probably best. Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be frequenting bars alone, anyway. You weren’t hurt, were you?”
“Nope. I can handle myself pretty well,” I reply, turning around to head toward the exit. “See you tomorrow, Ms. Bryant!”
“Say hi to your handsome neighbor for me,” she calls back.
Turning around when I reach the door, I flash her a knowing smile. “He’s your neighbor, too. Maybe you should say hi to him.”
She shakes her head. “Honey, I haven’t said hi to a man since my Frederic passed. It’s been almost twenty years. I’ll leave that nonsense to the young folks, such as yourself.”
I push the door open with my butt and laugh. “I might just have to make you a Tinder profile, Ms. Bryant.”
“You will do no such thing!”
I smile as I wave at her through the glass door, noting how I can see her caramel-brown skin turn a deep shade of crimson all the way from here.
As I drive through the winding country road toward my house on the lake, I try to come up with a suitable bio for Edie’s online dating profile.
Seventy-four-year-old small business owner with a heart of gold.
Nah. Sounds like a pushover.
Independent, mature woman seeking the same for fun, friendship, and possibly more.
Nah. Too cliché.
My favorite color is sunshine yellow. My favorite book is “An American Marriage.” My ideal way to procrastinate is by doing good deeds. Life is too short to not eat cake.
Oh, yeah. Much better.
I pull into the long dirt driveway of my house, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. There’s a faint cloud of dust in the air, hovering between the line of trees flanking the path, as if someone just pulled out or into the driveway recently.
I pull forward slowly, adrenaline flooding my veins as I find the front door agape. My heart gallops in my chest as I reach for the Glock 19 in the glove compartment.
I leave the car running, in case someone is still inside, then I switch off the safety as I slide out of the truck. Glancing at Colton’s house, I don’t know if I’m more disappointed or suspicious that I don’t see him anywhere. Slowly, I creep up the creaky porch steps and enter the open front door.
The new deadbolt I installed when I changed the locks appears to be damaged. The side table next to the sofa is toppled over, the lamp that rested on top of it is lying unbroken on the floor. The cushions are upended, and the couch has been pushed all the way back against the dining table.
The burglar was probably trying to see if I had a secret compartment under the sofa. Do they think I’m stupid enough to hide money in a secret compartment in the floor?
Recalling the dust hanging between the line of trees, and the lack of a vehicle in the driveway when I pulled in, I realize the intruder is almost certainly gone.
I rush outside to stash my gun in the glove compartment and turn off the truck. Stuffing the keys in my pocket, I grab my purse off the passenger seat and head back inside.
The kitchen cabinets are flung wide open; their contents spilled across the counter and floor. It looks like someone took a sledgehammer to the walls in my bedroom. It’s almost as if they were looking for something hidden in the drywall.
I head to the bathroom to begin the process of checking the many small stashes of money I’ve hidden around the house. I start with the toilet tank. Unsurprisingly, I find the tank lid shattered on the floor and the money gone.
I head to the spare bedroom and open the closet, but the access door to the crawl space below the house looks undisturbed. Performing a sweep of the rest of the house and the backyard, I find the intruder only found the stash of money in the toilet tank. Either the intruder wasn’t looking for money, or they were simply a bumbling idiot.
It definitely wasn’t Colton.
Unless the break-in wasn’t a burglary. Maybe it was a way to send a message: We know what you did, and we know where you live.
They could be watching me right now, waiting to see if I attempt to check on the suitcase.
I need to move it again.
As I head toward the kitchen, something catches my eye. A trail of blood drops leading out the back door.
I keep Steve in a large area on the side of the house with plenty of water and shade while I’m at work. I used chicken wire and wooden stakes to enclose the area until I can “afford” to put in a proper fence. But I didn’t hear her whining with excitement when I got out of my truck a few minutes ago, the way she typically does whenever I arrive home from work.
Where’s Steve?
I race outside, and my heart drops when I find the chicken wire fence toppled over.
Steve is gone.
My stomach is a tight ball of anxiety as I set off westward into the woods separating my property from the next house on the lake. Shouting her name at the top of my voice, it’s not long before tears well up in my eyes, and my throat constricts with emotion.
The hilly terrain is divided between me and the middle-aged couple who live on the west side of my house. Colton’s cabin is to the east. But my house is half a mile from my westerly neighbors, and the woods between us are thick with cypress trees, from sapling to fully grown fifty-footers with fluffy bottle-brush branches.
Not to mention, I’ve illegally booby-trapped my property with concealed ditches. It’s not exactly legal to booby-trap your home in North Carolina, but those pesky rules don’t apply to outlaws such as myself.
A deep sense of despair washes over me as I realize I’m never going to live a quiet, peaceful life.
I should have never taken that stupid money.
“Steve! Stevie!” I bellow as I fall to my knees to collect myself while I take a brief rest. “Come back. Please come back, Steve.”
The crunching of leaves underfoot startles me, and I swivel around as I spring to my feet.
Colton approaches me warily. He’s wearing a dirty tank-top and worn-in jeans, black dust smeared all over his hands and forearms. His icy-blue eyes narrow as he studies my face, but his glare softens as he seems to notice my tears.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice tender with concern. “What’s going on? Did you lose Steve?”
I wipe tears from my chin as I glare at him. “Why are you so dirty? What were you doing?”
He looks confused. “I was working on my truck. What’s going on, Jo? Are you hurt?”
I shake my head as I swallow my emotions. “Someone broke into my house… There’s blood on the floor, and I can’t find Steve,” I say, pulling up the collar of my gray Junk Drawer T-shirt to wipe the moisture from my face, but also to hide any possible twitch in my expression that may betray my underlying suspicions.
The pained expression in his eyes is unreadable. Is it guilt or pity, or something else entirely?
“I’ll help you find her,” he replies without hesitation. “How do you know she came this way?”
I shake my head as I lower the shirt from my face. “I don’t know. I just assumed she came this way because the wire fence was down near the woods. But I’m really just guessing. I don’t know where she is,” I reply, unable to stop fat tears from rolling down my cheeks.
He steps toward me and folds me into his arms. “Don’t you worry, Jo-Jo. We’ll find her.”
“Jo-Jo?” I reply with a brief chuckle.
“Would you like me to call you something else?” he asks as he strokes my hair.
Clutching the front of his T-shirt, I inhale deeply as I bury my face in his sculpted chest. His shirt is saturated with the sharp tang of sweat mixed with gasoline. He was working on his truck.
“You di
dn’t see or hear anyone making a ruckus at my house?” I ask, praying he can be my knight in shining armor again.
He doesn’t respond right away, but he lets me go before he does. “I’m sorry. I had my music on while I was working in the garage. I didn’t hear anything until you started yelling.”
“You don’t have to apologize. I just…” I take a step back. “I seem to attract a lot of bad luck, I guess. It’s frustrating. You must really regret buying that cabin now, huh?”
He smiles. “No regrets here.”
His words make me feel like a giddy teenager, and my instinct is to take another step back; as if putting more distance between us will help me maintain a sense of objectivity. But as soon as my foot moves backward, searching for solid ground, I know something’s wrong.
My stomach flip-flops as my foot plunges through the layer of dried leaves and pine needles I laid on top of the netting. I let out a loud yelp as I reach toward Colton, but there’s no way he’ll be able to react fast enough.
Except, he does.
With ninja-like reflexes, he grabs my forearm in his left hand, immediately jerking me forward so he can catch the front of my T-shirt. I’m still leaning too far backward, and I gasp when I hear the seams in my T-shirt start to rip apart.
Without hesitation, Colton let’s go of my shirt and quickly wraps his arm around my waist to pull me away from the ditch. The sudden movement sends us both tumbling onto the forest floor.
His arm is still wrapped tightly around the small of my back. My gray Junk Drawer T-shirt is now torn on both sides, exposing my pink cotton bra. Our chests heave as we attempt to catch our breath, but it’s really difficult when our bodies are this close.
I look up, and our eyes meet. “Thank you,” I whisper.
His icy eyes are dark with desire as his hand tightens around the fabric of my shirt. “Don’t mention it.”
I close my eyes, waiting for him to kiss me, savoring the sensation of his breath on my face. But his lips never touch mine.
