“How many boys does he have?” I asked.
“A thousand,” she answered.
That would require a large harem, and by the looks of that guy, he could not only amass that, he could also service it.
That said, I didn’t think Jules would be down.
Without further ado, Stark and Crowe took us to Fortnum’s.
When we arrived, a gaggle of the Rock Chicks were there. Shirleen had come with us. Gert was waiting fretfully for our return, then she got ornery when we showed and threatened to legally adopt me. Smithie was also there and declared after our latest scenario (even if it wasn’t any of the guys’ fault) he wasn’t a big fan of any of his girls hooking up with a commando, so his vote was no across the board to all the matches. And Lottie was sitting with him, but she just ignored him and went to the coffee counter to get us Textuals.
And last, the cash register was broken so Tex was in a state.
“So…what? The bad guy has a crush on Evie?” Roxie, perched on the arm of a chair, was asking.
“Not surprised about that,” Gert said.
Man, even if Cisco/Brett being into me still gave me the willies, I loved Gert.
“He’s creepy, but at least it made him drop us off rather than keep us captive,” Pepper remarked.
“I was kinda in the mood for a donut,” Ryn put in.
“Then that’s what we should do,” Gert decreed. “Go get donuts. It’s loud in here.”
“We’re not allowed to leave,” Hattie whispered to Gert. “Luke Stark said we had to stay here until the guys got here.”
“You don’t have to say Luke Stark’s full name every time you talk about him, Hatz,” Pepper told her.
“That man is too much man for one name. Two syllables barely cover him,” Hattie replied.
I had to admit, she was right about that.
“Okay,” Jet was saying, “I know the latte is four dollars and fifty-seven cents, with tax, and the cookie is a buck fifty. But no one just buys a cookie, so I’m just gonna have to guess on tax for that. So let’s say six twenty-five and if you give me—”
Enough!
I couldn’t hack it.
“Sales tax is eight point three one percent, which makes the cookie a dollar and sixty-two cents,” I called, getting up and heading toward the barista counter. “Add the latte, it’s six dollars and nineteen cents. She’s giving you a twenty, that’s thirteen dollars and eighty-one cents change.”
Everyone had stopped talking (and shouting) and was staring at me.
I moved behind the counter and shoved through Indy and Tex, edged out Jet and stared at the cash register.
“I need a screwdriver and the key,” I announced.
“On it,” I heard Indy say.
“Key’s right here,” Jet said, reaching to the shelf under the register and pulling out a rectangular Tupperware filled with Sharpies, paper clips, baby binder clips, a couple bouncy balls and a pack of Bubblemint-flavored Orbit gum.
It also had a key, which she pulled out and handed to me.
I opened the top of the register and Indy showed with the screwdriver, so I also opened the plate at the base.
I pulled the top off, looked at the mess inside, made an immediate diagnosis and turned to Indy.
“From the looks of it, this has had approximately five hundred and twenty-seven coffees spilled on it. It’s a miracle it worked at all. However, the latest spill means it’s gasped its last breath. It’s a wash. You need a new register.”
“Shit,” Indy muttered.
“You did all that math in your head?” Tex asked.
“I’m good with math. I’m usually good with this kind of stuff too.” I waved a hand to the register. “But at a guess, that was made in 1982. It was probably time to say good-bye two decades ago.” I turned my attention to Indy. “You should upgrade to a tablet-based POS system. Not only are they rad, they save tons of space, and have business, tech, data and environmental features you’ll like. If you still want the feel of a register, or deal in a lot of cash, they’ve got tablet-based with a cash drawer. I can do some research for you and help you set it up if you want.”
Indy, Tex, Jet (and I could feel it, everyone) were staring at me.
No one said anything.
And then Tex muttered (trying to make his lips not move, and failing) to Indy, “What does ‘POS’ mean?”
“Point of sale,” Indy muttered back.
“Gotcha,” he replied.
“Will you train us on it?” Indy asked me.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Sure.”
“She charges one hundred and fifty dollars an hour,” Gert called.
I shook my head at Indy trying to look like I wasn’t shaking my head at Indy.
She grinned at me and said, “We’ll work something out.”
“Seven times forty-two,” Tex threw out at me.
“Two hundred and ninety-four,” I told him.
“Check that, Loopy Loo,” Tex ordered Jet (he called her Loopy Loo, I had no idea why, but it was cute). Then to me, he shot, “Two hundred and ninety-four minus eighty-two plus one hundred and twenty.”
“Three thirty-two.”
“Three thirty-two times thirty-two.”
That one, I had to give a second.
Then I answered, “Uh, ten thousand and um, six hundred and twenty-four.”
“Holy crap,” Jet breathed, looking up from her calculator. “She’s right.”
Tex grinned a maniacal grin (that was kinda cute too). “Fuckin’ A, smarty-pants, I’m impressed.”
I shrugged again but felt my cheeks heat, not with embarrassment, with pride.
That feeling was a first for me.
And it far from sucked.
“Got me a girl who’s been hiding her light under a bushel, which can’t be easy, since she’s naked most the time she’s in my joint,” Smithie said.
Oh man.
I slowly turned my gaze to Smithie and caught myself from biting my lip, because soon, I would not be naked in his joint at all.
He looked at my face and then he screwed up his face and looked at mine harder.
Uh-oh.
“You’re quitting,” he accurately deduced.
“Smithie, it’s just that I want to go to school and—” I began.
He lifted his hand my way and I stopped talking.
“You’re quitting?” Hattie asked, sounding freaked.
“I knew she’d quit,” Pepper said to Ryn.
“Mm-hmm,” Ryn said to Pepper.
“Smithie—” Lottie started.
“No. Nope.” He shook his head and dropped his hand, still scowling at me. He turned to Lottie. “I know men like this. All’s said and done, I won’t have any girls left. So I do not give any of these matches my blessing. Hear me?”
“Smithie,” Lottie said softly.
“I like these ones,” Smithie declared, throwing an arm out to encompass all of us girls. “If I have to get new ones, I might not like ’em.”
“Smithie, you like everybody,” Lottie reminded him.
“I don’t like you right now,” he retorted.
She smiled at him. “Big, softhearted liar. You want them all to be happy. You’re just gonna miss her. Admit it.”
“I’ll come and visit,” I called.
“You will?” Hattie asked hopefully.
“Totally,” I told her. “And I’ll arrange a…a game night at Danny and my place. We’ll play Dungeons and Dragons.”
Lottie, Ryn, Pepper, Hattie, nor Roxie, Shirleen, or Sadie (who was also hanging out in the seating area, another Rock Chick, this one married to Hector) looked fired up about D&D.
Smithie turned on me. “You movin’ in with him?”
“We already live together, Smithie.”
“Because you were in danger of being kidnapped,” he returned. “That’s how it goes. Bitch is in distress, man moves her in, covers her ass—”
“Then keeps her there, marries her an
d fills her with babies. You’ve been through this nine times, Smithie,” Lottie told him. “It’s time to get with the program.”
“Eight,” he fired back. “I wasn’t around for Indy. And all but one of the other ones, that one being you, didn’t dance for me,” he shot back.
“Well, you know, it’s next gen. Go with the flow,” she advised.
The bell over the door rang at this juncture, and when it did, Gert said, “Oh Lord,” and Shirleen said, “You got that right, sister.”
I looked to the door.
And understood immediately what they were talking about.
Mag was standing there, all the guys fanned out behind him.
I didn’t take in any of the boys.
Because Mag’s eyes were on me.
Nope.
Scratch that.
His eyes shooting electric-blue gamma rays were pinning me to the spot, the heat from them so hot, it felt like the soles of my Chucks were on fire.
“We’re leaving now,” he announced, in a growly, hot, scary voice.
I didn’t take this as an indication I’d get news about what went down at Glazed & Confused with him, the guys, my dad and Brett/Cisco.
I took this as Mag being pissed.
For some reason at me.
Oh boy.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Danny
Evie
The first thing I noticed as Mag opened the passenger-side door of his truck was that my purse was sitting on the seat.
As was my Nordstrom bag.
I looked up at him.
“How did you—?”
“Get in the truck, Evan.”
Okay, we were on uncertain ground here.
Frightening uncertain ground.
And in order not to escalate that feeling, wordlessly, I reached out, grabbed both bags and climbed into his truck.
By the time he angled in beside me, I had the Nordstrom bag on the floor at the side of my feet, my purse in my lap and my seatbelt on.
He said nothing as he engaged the ignition, scanned his mirrors and pulled out.
I also said nothing as he did this, for it was dawning on me I might have made a terrible mistake.
He had anger issues. He was very open about that. They were such, they concerned him.
But honest to God, until that moment, they didn’t concern me.
I thought, even if I didn’t have the tools to help him handle them, I’d have the patience where I could handle them.
Now, considering I didn’t do anything for him to be angry about, but it was not only clear he was angry with me, it had been hours since we’d been set free and I had no idea what had happened at Glazed & Confused with my own father—something I felt should be reported to me with all due haste—but everyone was alive, well and safe, I didn’t know why he was mad at me…or anybody.
And bottom line, I’d had a really bad day.
A really bad day.
My friends and I had been kidnapped, some of them shot at.
My dad was a big jerk.
Some bad guy was into me.
And maybe, I thought, with all of that, a little gentleness and understanding would not go amiss.
Thus, truth be told, I was a little hurt that I had Angry Mag and not my normal Sweet Affectionate Mag.
This was not cause to throw in the towel on our relationship.
It wasn’t even cause to be angry myself.
What it was, was an indication that perhaps I’d been hasty in agreeing to fast-track a relationship with a man who had a life, a past, his own issues, and I did not have a lot of experience or understanding of any of that.
Truthfully, he seemed perfect.
And that was too much weight to put on anybody.
Even someone as strong as Mag.
He’d turned off Broadway to Lincoln and then onto Speer, heading north, when I began, “Danny—”
“You do not call me Mag.”
I shut my mouth because that wasn’t what I was expecting.
“You never call me Mag,” he went on.
Okay, his voice was tight, a little rough, he was pissed, but not out of control.
I could work with this.
“But, I was trying to—”
“I know what you were trying to do,” he bit out. “But you had my attention, Evan. You always have my attention. But after you’re taken by Denver’s most wanted lunatic, you absolutely fucking have my attention. So you do not ever call me Mag. I’m Danny to you.”
One could say I was significantly confused as to why this had such great meaning to him, but I was sensing I should broach that subject at a later date.
And for now, say what I said.
“All right, Danny.”
He let that settle for a beat before he spoke again.
“You should know, I was pissed. Out of my mind pissed. After it was all said and done, that’s why it took so long to get to you. The boys saw it and they made me have a sit-down with them to talk it out. That was how pissed I was. I’m still pissed, but this is a discussion. I’m not gonna lose it.”
“Okay,” I whispered. “But can I, uh, ask, well…why you were so pissed?”
A very heavy vibe settled in the cab before he asked, “Why I was so pissed?”
I looked to him, saw how hard his jaw was, the tenseness around his eyes.
I nevertheless persevered.
“Yes, honey, I’m okay. The girls are okay. I’d like to know what’s going on with Dad, but—”
“Evan, you do not handle a guy like Cisco. You do not make deals with him. You do not work things out with him. You do not do shit to circumvent what people who know what they’re fucking doing are planning in order to get you and your friends safe. It doesn’t matter. You’re never gonna be in that position again. But, God fucking forbid, if you are, sit tight, shut up and wait for the people who know what they’re goddamn doing to sort shit out for you.”
Okay.
Now it was time for me to get pissed.
“All right, Danny, next time you get kidnapped, after you’re safe, I’ll weigh in on how you should have handled it. That work for you?” I asked sharply.
“Evan,” he growled, “you are not hearing me.”
“I heard every word you said,” I snapped. “And really, as lame as this is, how fucking dare you.”
He shut his mouth.
“He had that place wired to blow,” I informed him. “The guys are my friends. I wasn’t big on them being blown to pieces. You mean the world to me, so obviously, I didn’t want that in your future. And by the by, if someone had perchance talked to me or any of the girls about what we saw and heard, we could not only tell you where that place is, we could tell you that Brett informed us there’s a tailor on Evans who deals in explosives behind his shop.”
“Brett?”
“Yes,” I bit out. “Brett.”
“You know, baby,” he said in a smooth, velvety voice that nevertheless gave me a chill, “I got a call, personally, from Brett, informing me where we could go to find your girls’ bags.”
Oh shit.
Mag must have felt my changing vibe because he purred, “Oh yeah. He was all about making sure he returned what he confiscated from you when he fucking abducted you.”
Yikes.
“He also,” Mag went on, “shared, if I didn’t treat you right, he’d cut off my balls and shove them down my throat.”
Eek!
“So,” he continued, “you wanna talk to me again about how you should have handled that sitch?”
I was understanding now why he was pissed.
It wasn’t jealousy, per se.
It also maybe kinda was.
“He’s creepy,” I said.
“I know he’s fucking creepy!” Mag exploded. “Jesus Christ, Evan, could you not be you long enough you didn’t give some crazy-ass felon the hots for you?”
It was highly inappropriate at that juncture, but I had the desperate desire to giggle.
I must have made a noise because Mag grunted, “Nothin’ about this is fucking funny.”
He was wrong.
I didn’t share that.
“It’s over, honey,” I reminded him quietly.
“Yeah, you wanna know how over it is?” he asked, and the way he asked it, I knew I didn’t want to know.
I still said, “Okay.”
“It’s very fucking over because Brett assured me not only that you no longer had to harbor any concerns that he might cause you or your friends any harm, you could rest in the knowledge that no one would cause you or your girls any harm or he’d intervene.”
“Oh my God,” I breathed, not wanting a cop killer at my back, and also wishing he weren’t a cop killer because evidence was suggesting this guy could be redeemed, if he hadn’t done something entirely irredeemable.
“Right,” Mag clipped. “So, you got yourself a champion, baby. Though not sure how he’ll keep his finger on that pulse, seeing as he’s particles. Cops have that gun. He knows the cops got that gun. So, it’s just a hunch, but I’d bet big money on the fact that Cisco is nowhere near Denver right now and has no plans of coming back.”
That’d be my hunch too.
He was creepy, but he didn’t give any indication he was stupid.
Mag continued speaking.
“They also have your dad. Eddie and Hank, Slim and Mitch want me to share the gratitude of the entire DPD that you sorted that for them. Though, as I mentioned, who they don’t have is Cisco, seeing as he’s got a sixth sense when it comes to the preservation of his own ass and he never showed at Glazed and Confused. My guess, he thinks your dad screwed him and is in the dark that it was you who tipped who had that gun, or he wouldn’t throw down for you.”
I homed in on one part of that.
“The cops have Dad?” I asked.
“Accomplice after the fact,” Mag answered. “I put two and two together, and his fingerprints found at your pad and on your car that they previously put down to him being your dad, now he’s being charged with vandalism and burglary. And a search of his home found that dope stash, which was too hot to move, but he was clearly willing to wait it out, so he kept it. This means they also got him on possession with intent to distribute. Considering he was found in possession of a weapon that killed a cop, even if it wasn’t his, he didn’t turn it in, the police are motivated to make something stick. So I’d brace, Evie, because he’s going down, one way or another.”
Dream Maker Page 35
