A moment later, she heard a car start, and then she saw headlights as it backed from its space below. The driver peeled off, their anger still clearly intact, but at least she could make out that it was a sports car of some sort—dark, flashy, expensive.
Her brows knit together. What kind of person with that much money would be hanging around a dive like this?
“See anything worth telling?”
Repo’s sandpaper voice scared the bejesus out of her, making Ginger nearly leap out of her skin. Whirling around, she clutched the cross pendant that hung from her neck. “Don’t sneak up on a person like that! You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Stony expression firmly in place, Garrick moved up beside her and drew the curtains open, those frosty blue eyes scanning the parking lot. “That sort of thing happen often?”
“What, a heart attack? No, but if you keep sneaking around like a ninja, it might.”
“I meant the fighting.” Dropping the curtains, he turned to face her, eyes assessing. “Your neighbor struck me as off earlier.”
So he had noticed, had he? Granted, it was hard to miss. Turning away, Ginger headed for her bedroom, feeling the heaviness of sleep pressing down on her. It was no surprise when Garrick followed, and she just didn’t have the energy to strike up another argument, so she answered him instead. “I think he’s a shut-in. It was probably a family member checking in on him or something. I can imagine how frustrating that would be to deal with, can’t you, dealing with mental illness?”
Uncaring if he was watching or not because let’s face it, he was, and it was nothing he hadn’t seen before, Ginger laid her nightgown out on the bed and started to undress.
Keeping her back to him, she unhooked her bra and let it fall down her arms onto the bed. She couldn’t see his expression, but his silence said enough.
“The only thing I know right now is you’re playing with fire.”
“Nobody said you had to stand around and watch.”
“Was that an invitation?”
She smirked and turned her head to look over her shoulder at him. “To leave, yes.”
Those shrewd eyes of his narrowed on her, and her skin instantly pebbled. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was an invitation after all.
“As much as you would like that, I’ll be spending the night tonight.”
Despite the way her teeth clenched, Ginger’s nipples tingled and swelled, telling an altogether different story.
Hearing Garrick’s boots hit the floor, she realized he was serious. Pulling the nightgown on, she finished removing the rest of her clothing and climbed into bed.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she asked when she saw him approaching the bed.
Garrick’s feathery brows knit together. “To sleep.”
“Not in here you’re not.” Taking the spare pillow, she tossed it at him. He grabbed it mid-air, his eyes never leaving her. “If you insist on staying here, you get the couch.”
Lips thinning, Garrick regarded her. “So, it’s like that, is it?”
She lifted her chin. “It’s like that.”
“All right, babe. You can have your way…tonight.”
Ginger’s lips parted on a reply, but he was already gone. Was that a threat or a promise he’d just issued? Sinking down, Ginger stared at the ceiling…and lost a whole lot of sleep while attempting to figure that out.
***
It was the commotion that woke Ginger up. More specifically, the voices. All of them were male, and the only words she could make out clearly were clever insults and colorful curses.
It didn’t take her long to recognize who they belonged to. The question was, why were they in her home?
Groggy, Ginger threw back the duvet and slid off the bed until her bare feet hit the cold faux wood flooring. With every step, the stiffness in her healing soles loosening, she woke up a little more, so by the time she reached the living room, she was able to fully process the scene.
“What’s going on in here?”
Her living room and kitchen were full of leather clad bikers. All of them were Spartans. All of them held a beer in their hand. All except the ones in her kitchen—the source of all the cussing.
“Fucking piece of shit. Do they even still make these?” That was from Country.
“Shoulda been outlawed thirty years ago. How hasn’t she blown herself to kingdom come yet?” That from Taco. “Hand me that wrench.”
Garrick selected the one he needed and passed it off. “She says the landlord won’t do shit about it.” He sounded irritated.
Hell, so was she. Ignoring the other men, who hadn’t even noticed her, Ginger walked up to the counter and stood between two of the three barstools. She stared holes into the side of Garrick’s head, waiting patiently for him to notice her.
“You should have a word with him,” Country responded, his tone equally low and pissed off.
“Doesn’t want me to.”
“Just say the word. We’ll take care of it then,” Taco offered. “There.” He stood up and stepped to the side, then each of them went in and grabbed a corner and wrenched her stove out of its space like they had something personal against it.
“Hey, hey,” Ginger said with alarm, her hands out in front of her, “what are you doing with that?”
All three men’s heads snapped up as if they were children who’d been caught doing something naughty, but then their eyes scanned her body, and that look was replaced with something else entirely.
Appreciation, Ginger thought. And that’s when she realized she was still in her nightgown, which was, by definition, a negligee, since it was white silk, cut low between her breasts, and barely hit the tops of her thighs.
In a poor attempt at modesty, Ginger folded her arms across her chest.
“You can’t take my stove. I need it to cook,” she informed them.
“You can’t cook on this ancient hunk of metal, sweetheart,” Country drawled. “It’s a wonder you aren’t dead from gas poisoning already.”
“It’s not that bad.”
His eyebrows lifted, and yeah, she had no argument beyond that. It was a death trap. Still, she didn’t have money to replace it, and her landlord already made it clear he wasn’t going to, so she had little recourse.
“Babe,” Garrick’s hardened voice spoke, “go get some clothes on.” His blue eyes cut to the men behind her, and suddenly Ginger felt even more on display, like a slab of meat in a butcher shop window.
But she wasn’t going to let him tell her what to do. He wasn’t her ol’ man, her boss, or anything else.
Looking to Country and Taco, she said, “Unless you plan to buy me a new stove, you’re going to have to put that back.”
“Already take care of,” someone behind her said.
Spinning around, Ginger’s jaw dropped when she saw Moose and a couple other Spartan brothers hauling a shiny new oven through the front door.
Her hands went to her mouth. “Oh my God,” she whispered. As Country and Taco moved past her carrying the old stove out, Moose and the brothers navigated around them to bring the new one in.
Feeling Garrick step up alongside her, Ginger muttered, “It has all its knobs.”
“Yep,” he said with a rare smile in his voice, “and all the burners work too. Told ya I take care of what’s mine.”
Yeah, and she wondered how long it would take him to decide she needed to move out of this dump and into his house. Just then, she didn’t really care. She had a new stove!
It was the work of a few minutes for the men to install the new stove, and then they moved out of the way, clearing out of the kitchen. Ginger couldn’t resist. She had to touch it.
The stove was so clean and shiny, it cast her reflection. Running her hand over the top and across the oven handle, she dreamed of all the things she would cook on and in it—cookies and casseroles and French fries.
Garrick’s warm hands found her hips and his lips touched the back of her neck. “You like it?
”
He was a man who kept his promises. Ginger’s eyes misted at that realization, and her words got stuck in her throat. She nodded several times, moved to the point of being unable to speak.
So, she did the next best thing.
Turning around, Ginger grabbed hold of Garrick’s bearded face and yanked his mouth down to hers.
SEVENTEEN
“The place is crawling with them. They know I’m here,” he hissed into the phone. He always knew it’d be a problem living next door to the bitch. Anyone associated with the Spartans was a threat. But that was the point, wasn’t it.
The bartender. Surrogate mother of the Spartan brotherhood. The redhead was his biggest threat. And they were taunting him.
“Calm down, pendejo. They don’t know shit.”
“How do you know. You’re not here. The place is crawling with them.” He peeled back the corner of the heavy, harvest gold drapes with a finger.
Yep, they were everywhere. Bikers. He couldn’t get away from them.
He hadn’t signed up for this level of stress.
“You looking out that window again?” Manuel barked. “Jesus fucking Christ, cabrón! That’s what’s going to get you noticed. Get out the fucking window!” He issued a slew of Spanish that was probably a load of insults.
“Look, you have to get me out of here.” He couldn’t take it anymore. Being cooped up in that apartment day in and day out was driving him insane.
Manuel sighed. “Not yet.”
“When?” he demanded.
“Soon.”
That’s what he always said. It wasn’t good enough. Ever since he’d gotten in deep with the former leader, Ricky Cruiz, his life had steadily declined. Empty promises and buckets of lies, it was nothing they’d said it’d be. Being on the run from the government and spying on a gang of bikers was not how he’d envisioned his life at forty. No, he was supposed to be lying on a sunny beach in the Riviera with a Corona in one hand, a pair of tits in the other, and his pockets lined with cash.
Instead, he was holed up in a shit apartment with no money, no car, and his every move monitored. And not by the cops. He would be relieved if that were his only problem. But he had the focus of the cartel on him, making demands and issuing threats if he didn’t deliver, and where was his payoff? When did he get what was due him?
“You promised. You said it would all be taken care of.”
“And it will be,” Manuel drawled with that lazy fucking accent that was starting to grate on his nerves. “You just have to be patient.”
“I’ve been plenty patient!” he snarled. “I want out of here. I want what’s mine.” He’d done enough for the cartel, as far as he was concerned. It was time they delivered for once.
There was a long pause in which he wondered if he’d finally pushed Manuel too hard, and that made him nervous. Manuel acted as the go-between, bringing him food and supplies. He was his only source of communication with the outside world, and he was the one who dealt directly with the new leader of the cartel because when you cut the head off the snake, there was always another ready to take its place.
It hadn’t taken more than a few days after Cruiz’s untimely demise before his operation was under new command and running as fluid as water again.
“What have I told you about taking that tone with me.”
Shit, he’d fucked up again. Heart pounding, he said, “I—”
“Fuck your excuses! You ever speak to me like that again, I’ll cut your fucking tongue out of your head and feed it to my dogs. Now you listen up. You’re gonna sit pretty like you were told, and you’re going to keep your fucking mouth shut. Watch that bitch and her boys, and then you report back to me. And for fuck’s sake, keep that ugly ass mug out of the goddamn window. You’re not a fucking dog waiting for the mailman.”
Thoroughly shamed, he scrubbed a hand through his ratty hair—he needed a cut so bad. Dropping his arm, he lowered his head on his shoulders and closed his eyes. “Okay, Manuel, I hear you. I’ll sit tight. But please, please tell your boss I need out of this place ASAP. I can’t be here much longer. I’d be more useful out in the field. I know people, I have connections. I can get whatever intel you need. I just need out of here,” he intoned, hoping to impress upon Manuel the importance of him getting the hell out of there.
“I hear you. I’ll put in a word, but I ain’t making any guarantees.”
A note of relief had his shoulders sagging. “Thanks, Manuel.”
The line went dead. Manual never was very good with goodbyes. Leaning against the wall between the window and door, he listened to the ruckus going on next door, and, out of habit, he reached for the curtains before remembering Manuel’s harshly spoken words.
Yanking his hand back, he forced himself to walk away instead. The television. If he was lucky, he might get a station to come in on the rabbit ears. If he was really lucky, maybe some scrambled porn. Having no visuals sucked, but at least he could hear what was going on, and that was good enough for his imagination to get things done.
***
“So, who’s your buddy?” Moose asked as he built a mammoth taco. There was zero chance in hell he’d ever get that tortilla to close.
After the brothers brought her a new stove and set it all up, Ginger saw no better way to thank them than to cook them a meal. Men were always hungry, and she didn’t mind taking care of her boys. The look of pure satisfaction as they shoveled food into their mouths, moaned their approval, and generally made a mess of her home was actually pretty damn great.
Wiping her hands on a napkin—the only one being used—Ginger glanced at the wall separating her from her neighbor.
“I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”
Moose’s brows popped up. “Never? Not even a hello in passing?”
She shrugged. “I don’t think he leaves much. We’ve never crossed paths.”
“Well,” Taco said as he tucked a piece of shredded lettuce back inside his tortilla then went back to staring at his phone, “that’s not strange at all.”
“He’s probably a psycho killer on the run from the law,” Country suggested ever so helpfully as he darted a curious glance at Taco. The man and that phone had been inseparable all day. Even Ginger was growing curious about who he was talking to.
Ginger glared at Country. “Thanks so much for that. I’m sure I’ll sleep just great tonight.”
“Just stating facts.” He shrugged. “Besides, I’m sure Mr. Claus wouldn’t mind letting Mrs. Claus sit on his lap all…night…long,” he drawled, a wicked gleam making his eyes shine.
Feeling Repo’s blue-eyed stare on her, Ginger glanced over at him then immediately away again.
Since she’d kissed him—voluntarily—she could feel that things were different between them. Maybe they’d never really changed. She just knew that she felt more connected to him than ever now, like she enjoyed having him around…which totally went against her whole I’ll-never-bow-down-to-him spiel. And she wouldn’t. Of course not. But it did kind of put a damper on all her arguments to date.
She looked over at him again. Found him staring again. When one side of his mouth turned up, she knew she was in trouble. I’ll never shake him now.
She wasn’t quite she sure wanted to either.
Gathering her empty plate, she stepped away from the counter they’d all been standing at and walked over to the sink to rinse it. “I’ve been living alone for a few years now. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Who said anything about babysitting?” Country asked. “I was talking about good old-fashioned—”
“Shut your mouth,” Repo interjected.
“Well, not that,” Country continued. “The mouth is actually a very important tool if you want to pleas—”
“Zip it, or I’ll happily knock every one of your pearly whites down your throat,” Repo growled, except Ginger could hear the smile lurking in his voice—the only kind he really wore.
“Whoa, old timer,” Country pla
cated, “no need to get testy. Assuming they haven’t shriveled up, am I right?” He chuckled, nudging Taco with his elbow.
Taco, smart enough to know better than to rile the grizzly, crammed the last of his taco into his mouth and muttered something intelligible as he left the counter to join Ginger. When he flared his eyes, she stifled a laugh.
If Country wasn’t careful, he was going to get his ass kicked.
“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today,” Repo told him as he brought his own empty plate over to the sink.
“You are?” Country asked in surprise. “How can you tell?”
Ginger moved out of Garrick’s way, but he placed a hand on her stomach, stopping her. Once his plate was in the sink, that hand turned into a hook and drew her back to his side. Leaning down, he kissed her temple…and it was the single, gentlest act he’d ever displayed that Ginger could only stand there, dumbfounded.
Taco and Country, along with a couple of the other guys who’d taken notice, had a similar reaction, their faces resembling a fly trap. Turning to face his friends, Repo took up a stand against the edge of the counter between her and Taco and slung his arm over her shoulders.
“Okay, so that’s what a good mood looks like.” Country nodded. “Good to know, except, and I can’t believe I’m saying this, please keep your good moods away from me. The only kisses I want are from my lady.”
Country’s gaze slid to Taco, who was holding up the counter as he fired off another text, his attention completely rapt on his phone. “Okay, who the fuck are you talking to?”
Repo and Ginger were watching too, equally interested.
Taco’s gaze flipped up and around, noticing that everyone was watching him now. “Huh? Oh, yeah. No one. Just a friend.”
Vigor: A Spartan Riders Novel Page 11
