by Mazzy King
I lift my hands. “Hey, man. Whatever. I’m just going off what I was told. I don’t want to be sharing all the info with someone who’s not supposed to know it.”
“We don’t have any secrets,” the other guy says, and they both turn their backs on me.
I follow them through a cavernous garage bay. It smells like old motor oil, half-smoked cigarettes, singed metal. It’s pretty brightly lit for a place that’s supposed to be abandoned, but I don’t see any of the stolen luxury cars anywhere. There are regular cars scattered around, but they’re in various states—and not one looks to be a whole, complete car.
Chop shop.
I keep my face neutral as I follow them through the open area to a short hallway that opens to another area with a large garage door at the back of it. I imagine it faces the other side of the block, which is good—there are at least three teams of officers waiting there. I’m not wired, but we decided I’ll pretend to check my phone during the meet and send a pre-typed text message to them to alert them it’s go-time.
There are a few more men standing around all dressed in black. They’re talking to a woman who has her back to me.
I don’t miss the petite, curvy body showcased to perfection in tight black jeans and a black leather jacket, or the thick, waist-length hair the color of espresso.
Damn.
Then I shove the all-male part of me—hard.
Knock that shit off, Detective.
“Our guest has arrived,” one of my tour guides says.
The woman turns around, long hair swinging.
All the breath leaves my body, and not only because she’s the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.
It’s because I know her.
Lyra.
Chapter 2
Lyra Michaels
I pace in the back of the warehouse, my boots clattering on the concrete floor. I’m anxious, and when I’m anxious, I can’t settle down.
Earlier today, Max ordered me to take over this meeting, even though I said I didn’t want to. I’ve been wanting to get out of this life, and I’ve told him that, over and over. I don’t want to be a car thief anymore, but more than that, I don’t want to be around him anymore. As much as I hate him, I can’t get away from him. He holds every bad thing I’ve ever done with him over my head, and he’s threatened to rat me out via his many secret sources more times than I can count.
This last heist we’ve pulled—seventy-five cars in fifty days—was supposed to be my last job. I was supposed to get my cut, and then I was leaving Ridge City for good to never, ever come back. When I told him that right after the last car was stolen, he hit me so hard it made all the other times he hit me seem like kisses.
He’s my ex. He’s been my ex for over two years now, and yet, he still has control over me. It makes me hate myself more than I hate him, and I hate him bad.
Today, he told me something came up and he wouldn’t be able to make the meeting tonight, with some hotshot fence who could get the cars overseas to the black market.
“I need you to do it, Lyra,” he said in that sickly sweet way of his. “Please. Just this last one. Let’s get the cars lined up with the fence, and then you can go do whatever you want and I’ll leave you alone forever.”
What Max has in mind, I have no idea, but I don’t care. I just want to do this job, take this stupid meeting, get my cut, and get the fuck out. I’ve earned enough money over the years to buy myself a whole new identity, make myself disappear where he can never find me again.
“Why don’t you settle down?” one of the guys asks me, lazily watching me pace. “You nervous you get to be in charge of the classroom?”
I shoot him a glare. “Shut the fuck up. I just want to get this over with.”
He shakes his head. He and the other guy—both of them low-level thieves—smirk at each other. “You can run, Lyra, but you can’t hide. You’ll never fully be rid of Max. You know that, right?”
I want to flick the butterfly knife in my back pocket out and slice his stupid smirk off his face, but I restrain myself. I’d be playing into their insults, proving myself to be the overly emotional and incapable team member they thought me to be. I’ve always just been known as “Max’s girl” even long after I’d stopped being Max’s girl.
“Why don’t you shut your mouth and focus on the task at hand?” I say coolly.
He shrugs, then his gaze fixes on something over my shoulder. “They’re here.”
Behind me, I hear one of the guards call out, “Our guest has arrived.”
I whip around, ready to put on the act Max always taught me to have during business meetings, even when he was doing the talking.
But my rehearsed speech fails me when I get a good look at the man approaching me. Well over six feet, sandy hair, light eyes, a chest full of tattoos. My gaze first lands on his full lips, then drops lower, where his black shirt, unbuttoned to his sternum, offers a peek of a familiar tattoo. A black cross.
Saint Rivers strides toward me.
My heart stops.
When his gaze meets mine, his eyes widen, and he halts in his tracks.
It’s probably the first time since I met him two months ago that I’ve ever seen his cool demeanor drop.
We both stare at each other for a minute that stretches on until an uncomfortable and noticeable amount of time has passed.
One of the guys heckling me rises to his feet. “Cat got your tongue, Saint?”
“Yeah,” the guard behind him drawls. His hand hovers above the gun on his hip. “Is there a problem here?”
“No,” I manage to choke out, backing up fast toward the big bay door. “No!”
I catch a fleeting glimpse of Saint whipping around and disarming one of the guards as he brings his gun up, then quickly shooting the other in the knee before he can get off a shot. I yank the lever for the garage door to open, and as soon as it lifts just enough for me to fit under, I throw myself to the ground and wiggle under the opening.
“Lyra!” he shouts behind me, and his voice sends a shiver down my spine.
Nope nope nope.
I struggle to my feet. Across the street, out of seemingly nowhere, five or six men rush toward the building out of the shadows.
“Stop!” several of them yell at me, but I pay them no mind and take off in a dead run up the street. I have no idea where I’m headed, just that I need to get the fuck away from here now.
I spare them no backward glance as my feet slam against the sidewalk. If I reach the corner and turn left and head down that block, then cut over another couple of blocks, there’s an underground bar, Triple Six, on that street, that I know I can disappear in. It’s the kind of place you go to get lost, and that’s exactly what I need to do.
As I dart across the street, I make the mistake of glancing over my shoulder. The sight of a large, speedy form following me makes my heart lurch into my throat.
It’s him—Saint. He’s following me.
There’s no time to waste. I kick my legs into an even higher gear. The heeled boots I’m wearing tonight turned out to be a bad choice, but I didn’t anticipate I’d be running half a mile in them. But adrenaline pumps so hard and fast through me that I can’t feel a thing. Tomorrow I will—if I get a tomorrow.
Behind me, faintly, I hear, “Lyra! Stop!”
I reach the end of the second block and know I’ll never make it to Triple Six. I’ve got to find a place to hide. I cross the street to continue in the same direction I was heading in, desperate to put distance between me and Saint. There’s a narrow alley between a couple of brick buildings, so I duck into it and head for the dumpster at the end of the alley. I swing myself behind it and crouch down, the rusted metal against my left side and the brick wall of the building at my back. My chest heaves with the need to suck in oxygen, and I clap a hand hard over my mouth so my gasps don’t fill the still air of the night.
It’s quiet—too quiet.
I hear footsteps, measured and deliberate, coming
down the street I just ducked off of. I will myself not to breathe, but my heart thuds in my chest, in my throat, against my temples. The desire to flee burns in my legs, but I hold still. However, if he comes down the alley and checks on the other side of the dumpster…I’m done.
The footsteps stop about halfway down. There’s a long beat of silence. I press my other hand over the first, still against my mouth. After a moment, I hear more footsteps, but they’re heading back toward the entrance of the alley.
I wait a moment longer, then risk a peek around the side of the dumpster. The alley is empty.
I draw a deep breath, then slowly rise from my position behind the dumpster. It looks clear. I creep to the mouth of the alley and lean around the corner, checking up and down the street to make sure no one’s there. I can still go to Triple Six—that’s the best place to hide out for a couple of hours until the cops are done checking the area.
I don’t even take a single step outside of the alley before a large, heavy hand drops over my mouth and a thick arm snakes around my waist, trapping my arms at my sides, and pulls me back into the alley.
I throw all of my might against the arm that holds me. It doesn’t budge.
A pair of pillow-soft lips graze the shell of my ear, and a sinfully deep, throaty voice fills my soul.
“Lyra Michaels,” Saint Rivers whispers. “As I live and breathe.”
Chapter 3
Saint
She thrashes against me—or tries.
I hold her fast to my body. She’s so warm, and I can feel her heart thudding hard. I don’t mean to scare her, but I can’t risk her screaming, either. Those assholes in the warehouse escaped, except for the one I shot, and I don’t need them finding our location. Lyra had no idea she was running in the direction of my actual car, not the rental, that I parked near Triple Six bar earlier that afternoon in the event I needed to getaway fast, in case things went wrong. And things had gone very wrong. Lyra Michaels was where Max Hendricks was supposed to have been, and then she ran from me.
“Calm down,” I murmur into her ear. “I don’t want to hurt you. If you keep resisting me, I might.”
She stills, and I feel a wave of remorse. I don’t want to hurt her, at all. And I don’t mean that as a threat. It’s a fact—if she keeps resisting arrest, I will have to use techniques to get her to comply. And those techniques can be painful.
And I don’t want to hurt the woman I once promised to help.
My heart hurts. As in, physically hurts. It’s hurt ever since I saw her in the warehouse, wearing the mantle of leadership on her curvy shoulders. She was supposed to be in charge. It was in the tip of her chin, the purse of her full lips, the gleam in her blue eyes. An air of command that was so incredibly powerful and sexy.
And it also meant I failed.
“Lyra, what are you doing?” I whisper harshly. “What are you doing?”
I push her against the brick wall of the building. Her head turns to the side, and she bares her teeth at me. I wrangle her arms behind her back, slapping on a pair of cuffs. The click of them locking into place is the sound of my heart tearing.
“I told you back then,” she says through gritted teeth. “This life chose me. I don’t have a choice.”
I lean against her, bracing an arm against the wall, and tilt my head down to place my mouth close to hers. Her scent—a rich, spicy vanilla scent that’s juicy and dark—fills my nostrils and I can’t help the surge in my jeans. I wanted her then. I still want her now.
“And I told you that’s bullshit.” I turn her around and hold her back to the wall so I can look her in the eye. If it’s possible, she’s more beautiful now than she was when I first met her two months ago.
A lifetime has passed since then, and also no time at all.
I met her when I first started casing the places Max Hendricks went, before I contacted him online. I wanted to get a feel for his habits, see the company he kept. I stuck to the shadows and followed as many of his movements as I could. On the night of his birthday two months ago, I lurked in the shadows of Triple Six, when it reopened after a shooting my buddy Vice Detective Dominic Black was involved in. That night, an arrogant Hendricks had swaggered in, in a designer outfit that probably cost more than my mortgage. The two guards I met tonight had been with him—and so had the most beautiful woman I ever saw.
She wore black jeans and strappy heels, a plunging, tight black top, everything showing off her exquisitely curvy body. I noted not only her beautiful face, waist-length hair, and sinful body, but also the stunning, elaborate sleeve tattoo on her left arm from shoulder to wrist. It was hard to make the design out, but the intricate, three-dimensional shading caught my eye.
Along with her miserable expression.
Now, she glares at me. “You’re lucky I didn’t say anything about you being a cop back there. You’d be dead if I had. Maybe you should say thank you.”
“Thank you,” I reply immediately.
“Your life for mine,” she mutters, and her eyes close, her brows drawing together like she’s in pain.
She doesn’t have to explain. She’s running with a dangerous crowd known for pulling the trigger before asking questions.
“It doesn’t have to be that way,” I tell her. “I can help you, Lyra, if you let me.”
She says nothing, but I don’t miss the quiver of her chin.
I lean back and pull her gently by the elbow. She’s not fighting me anymore, but she won’t meet my gaze.
I keep one hand on her shoulder as I pull my cell phone out and dial Gunner. He answers on half a ring.
“Saint?”
“G,” I say. “I need some help.”
“I’ll say,” he says, sounding anxious. “Shit went sideways. We got two of the guys in that warehouse, though.”
“Good.” I look at Lyra. She’s pretending to ignore me, but there are only so many places she can look in our close proximity. “I have a potential witness, but we’re in a tight spot. There’s more than just the guys you pinched tonight, and I don’t want to blow my cover—or what’s left of it. And I need to get her somewhere safe.”
“Safehouse?” Gunner says after a brief pause that tells me he didn’t miss me saying her.
“I need the keys.”
“All right. Meet me at Sharp Ridges diner. You near your unmarked?”
Triple Six is just across the street. “Yep.”
“All right. See you in fifteen.”
I hang up and tuck my phone in my pocket. Lyra finally glances at me.
“We’re going to a safe location,” I tell her. “You got a cell phone on you?”
She glances down at her side. “Back pocket.”
I reach behind her. My hand grazes the generous curve of her ass as I feel for the phone. We lock gazes as I find the phone and pull it out.
Ignoring my suddenly hammering heart, I hold it up. “Sorry, but we can’t take this with us.”
Her full lips tighten into a line. “Then do what you have to do. Detective.”
She may as well have said, “You piece of shit” for all the venom she channeled into that one word. It’s strangely hurtful, considering I’m just trying to help her, but I turn and hurl the device against the wall. It shatters, and I stomp on the remains a few hard times for good measure.
“What’s the plan here?” she says, shifting her weight. “We’re kind of out in the open, and I’m kind of a dead woman if we just stand here.”
I turn to face her. “We’re going to meet another cop to get keys to a safe location. That’s the plan.” I take her elbow and point across the street. “I’ve got an unmarked car parked over there.”
I pull her close to me so it’s not immediately obvious to anyone passing by she’s in cuffs and lead her quickly across the street. She stumbles a little, almost going down to a knee, and I wrap an arm around her waist and haul her close to me.
She glances up at me. “Thanks.”
“I won’t let you fall,” I
murmur.
Her throat moves as she swallows.
I help her into my car, my head on a swivel as I make sure no one is watching us. I don’t immediately see anyone in the vicinity, though I hear loud, raucous music coming from Triple Six.
My unmarked is just that—it’s a basic, dark sedan, nothing eye-catching, with heavily tinted windows. It looks like a beater, but it’s bulletproof and has a souped-up engine.
I slide in behind the wheel, lock the doors, and fasten my seat belt. Then I turn to help her with hers.
“Is it really necessary you keep me in cuffs?” she says. “You already know I have nothing on me. And where am I going to go?”
“I can’t have you trying to jump out of the car while it’s in motion.”
She looks down at her lap, shaking her head. “Why would I try to jump out? I’m safer with you than not.”
I study her for a long moment. All my training tells me no, absolutely not.
Against every ounce of my better judgment, I gently shift her so her back is to me and unlock the handcuffs.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, massaging her wrists. Then she tugs her seatbelt on.
“Don’t make me regret doing that,” I tell her in a hard voice.
“I won’t.” Lyra folds her arms tight over her middle. “Please—just get me out of here.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
I also can’t shake the nagging thought that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Lyra Michaels.
Chapter 4
Lyra
I sit quietly in the car, watching Saint converse with another cop outside a diner on the outskirts of the downtown area. They seem engrossed in the conversation, and with every second that passes, my anxiety spikes.
Tonight couldn’t have gone more wrong if it tried. How could I know the meet was actually a damn sting? If only Max was there instead of me. If only—
