by Laura Kaye
Becca squeaked but caught the yellow rubber ducky in her hands. She laughed. They didn’t have time to play around, but the thirty seconds it took to distract her from the horror that was her house was worth it. “Actually, Shiloh might like this. She doesn’t have any toys.”
He grimaced. “That’s not a dog name. She’s a guard dog. She needs a strong name.” Under his feet, the glass crunched again as he made his way out. He dropped the backpack at the top of the steps.
“I know. I just need five concentrated minutes to really think about it,” she said, stepping into her bedroom doorway. “Oh, God.” She hit the overhead light switch and went utterly still as her gaze scanned over the room. The sudden gasp and sob ran ice down Rixey’s spine. Becca bolted over the wreckage, her feet slipping.
“Becca?”
“No. No, no, no.” She scrabbled on hands and knees over her bed and clutched at the fretboard of the destroyed guitar lying on the far side. She hugged it to her chest, shoulders shaking and gasping around suppressed sobs, and the wires dragged still-connected pieces of the guitar’s bridge and body into her lap. She caved in over it, her back trembling and tense. “No, no,” she rasped, tears choking off her voice.
Nick’s throat went tight and he was beside her in an instant, wrapping himself around her and whispering soft shushes. “It’s okay, sunshine. It’s okay.” The words felt like crushed glass in his mouth because, whatever this was, it wasn’t in the same fucking zip code as okay.
“Is not . . . was . . . Sc-Scott’s,” she managed around hitches of breath. “Was all . . . all . . . I had . . . l-left.”
Sinking onto the edge of the mattress, he pulled her whole body into his lap, settled her face into the crook of his neck, and held her close. Her hand fisted so tight into his shirt that it would probably never fit the same, but he didn’t care. He’d bear anything if she didn’t have to be going through this right now. She shook against him and held her breath in an effort to restrain the overflow of emotion, and Nick just rubbed her back and kissed her sweaty forehead and vowed on his dead parents’ graves he would find the animals responsible for hurting her. Then he’d take those motherfuckers down.
Slowly, the shuddering became less severe and her breathing calmed. Rixey was acutely aware that they’d been at the house longer than they should, but he also didn’t want to further upset her.
She slipped her hand between their bodies and wiped at her face.
He tugged up the bottom of his shirt and held it out. “Here. Use me.”
A single sad, choked laugh escaped her, but she took him up on her offer, burying her face into his chest as she dried her eyes on the hem of his shirt. When she let it go, it was damp against his skin.
Still in his lap, she eased upright. “Do you . . . h-have . . . a knife?”
Holding her, he leaned over and retrieved the blade from his ankle sheath. “What do you need?”
“Will it cut these wires fr-free?” She blew out a breath, trying to calm herself. “Stupid, but I want to take this.” Her knuckles were nearly white from gripping the fretboard so hard.
The blade made quick work of slicing through the metal wires. “It’s not stupid at all.” He returned the knife to its hiding place, then cupped her face in his hand. Eyes puffy, face red, damp hair sticking to the sides of her cheeks, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. “I know it’s not fair for me to rush you, but we—”
“I know.” She pushed off his chest.
He held her tight another moment. When her sad blue eyes flipped up to his face, he leaned in slowly and kissed her on the lips. No pressure. No heat. Just a tender press of flesh on flesh to let her know he was there. “Whoever did this, Becca, I’m going to make them pay.” He helped her to her feet.
When she got down, she moved quickly, almost mechanically, retrieving some clothing here, loose pictures there, and a handful of jewelry she was able to fish out of the mess on the floor. “My bracelet,” she gasped, pulling a strand of silver charms out from under a pile of crushed seashells. “It was from my dad.” She clipped it to her wrist.
“Careful, Becca,” he said as she picked through the debris. Shattered glass and sharp-edged shells were everywhere.
“I will. This is my mom’s jewelry box. Where the locket was.” She lifted the wooden box, now mostly empty. “I wonder . . .” Pulling out the bottom drawer, she reached her hand in. Something clicked, and a drawer popped out on the back. A small sheet of paper sat within. She gasped.
Nick crouched beside her.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “Charlie used to love to play with this when we were kids. He was absolutely fascinated with the hidden compartment. My mom would leave dollar bills in it for him to find.” She unfolded the small, square sheet. It read, “WCE 754374329 United Bank of Singapore 12M.” What in the world? “Those are the same letters and numbers as in the locket. It’s a bank account?”
“Looks that way. Good job, Becca. This could be a real lead.” And not just for Charlie. If that 12M stood for what he thought, it was a dollar amount. The kind one could make, say, from having a longtime hand in the heroin trade in Afghanistan. Determination settled in his gut, and a little hope, too. “We’ll get Marz on this. See what he can make of it.”
She nodded, then crossed to her closet, where she retrieved a big tote bag and dropped her treasures in, including the rubber duck. Rooting around in the loose clothes on the floor, she finally yanked a navy blue sweatshirt from the pile. She shook it and held it up. “Wonder if Jeremy would get it,” she said, turning it toward him. It read, “There are 10 types of people in the world, those who understand binary, and those who don’t.”
“I don’t get it,” Nick said.
She gave a small smile. “It’s a nerd joke. Charlie gave it to me.” After adding it to the bag, she knelt and repacked a box of what looked like mostly papers and photos that had been dumped out. “I want to take these,” she said, pushing the box and tote toward him as she rose. “One more thing.” She rolled open the drawer to her nightstand. “Fuck.”
“What?” he said, a murderous storm brewing in his gut on her behalf.
“They stole my goddamned gun. I should’ve taken it that first night, but I thought I’d be back . . .” Nick peered into the mostly empty drawer just before she slammed it shut on a growl. “I am so fucking . . . mad.”
He didn’t blame her in the least. He was seething, and this hadn’t even happened to him. “I’m sorry. I’ve got a piece at home that might be good for you.”
“I don’t want your gun, I want my gun,” she said, tugging her fingers through the length of her hair. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bite your head off. But I am . . .” Her hands clenched into fists, and she leaned her forehead against them. “I just wanna kill someone right now. Which is . . . a really fucking bad thing for a nurse to want to do.”
Rixey bit back the kernel of humor her words unleashed. Truth be told, he admired her rage. She was hurt, she was overwhelmed, and she was no doubt scared out of her mind, but she wasn’t letting it break her. Anger was good. Anger helped you fight. And, Jesus, but she was fierce and sexy when she was enraged.
He never thought he’d say it, but he had to give Frank Merritt credit for this one thing—he’d raised a strong, courageous daughter who could handle herself when the shit was hitting the fan. If Charlie was anything like her, they had a better-than-average shot at him being alive and making it out of this fubar.
She huffed and threw out her hands in a gesture of Enough, her bracelet jingling in emphasis. “There’s only one thing I want from the office, and then I’m done. Promise.” Retrieving the box and tote, he followed her into the hallway, reaching back in to douse the ceiling light. She made her way to the front room, then groaned and cursed and kicked paper around for a minute before returning with a stuffed bear in an Army uniform, complete with ID tags. “This stuff is all I have left of them, you know?”
“I get it. You don’t
have to justify it to me, Becca. Anything else you can think of, quick?”
She tucked the bear into the bag and shook her head. “No, I’m done. Let’s get out of here before something else happens. Besides, this place is pissing me off.”
RIXEY PREPARED TO get his head torn off as they stepped into his building’s back door. In the midst of the scene at Becca’s house, he’d forgotten the appointment with his tattoo client. Jeremy had called as they were leaving her place, but Rixey had let it go to voice mail, wanting to keep his focus on her and making sure they weren’t being watched or tailed. He’d sent Jer a text message saying he was en route, but without question, Jeremy was going to skin him alive. It wasn’t undeserved. He was almost fifteen minutes late.
Her keepsakes filling his hands, he turned to Becca and apologized. “I forgot I have this tattoo to do. It’s gonna take an hour. Maybe two. Go ’head up with the guys and grab some dinner. I’ll be up later.”
“You seriously do ink?” Shane asked, hiking Becca’s medic kit on his shoulder.
Rixey braced. Oh, goody, something else for him to ride me about. “Yeah, I seriously do. Occasionally.” He shrugged.
“You any good?”
“Bare some skin and find out.”
Shane grinned, his expression making it clear he enjoyed harassing Nick. “If you wanna get me out of my clothes, lovah boy, you gotta wine and dine me first.”
It was maybe the first smile Nick had cracked around Shane since the guy had arrived yesterday. And, damn, it felt good. Normal. Like before. “Asshole.”
“That’s southern fried asshole, to you.”
“Only you would want a more descriptive version of asshole, and then consider it a compliment.”
“We do everything bigger in the South.” Shane winked at Becca, whose face brightened with the bit of levity. It was miles better than the despair she’d worn the whole way from her house. And Nick wanted to buy Shane a barbeque dinner for cheering her up. Even if for only a minute.
“Here.” He jammed the box into Shane’s gut, enjoying the surprised “Oof” he earned, then dropped the tote bag on top of it. “Make yourself useful and carry this up for Becca, will ya?”
“Sonofabitch,” Shane said, half laughing. He and Beckett turned toward the steps, but paused for Becca to go first.
Holding the sketches, the booklet on the gang, and the remainder of the flyers tight against her chest, she glanced between the guys waiting to go upstairs and Nick, standing with his hand on Hard Ink’s doorknob. “Um,” she finally said. “Mind if I stay with you?”
The uncertainty in her voice slayed him. Like he might actually say no. Guilt parked itself on his chest again for being an angst-ridden asshole this morning, because that was probably why she’d wonder if he wanted her around. “Of course. Just, uh, give that gang profile and Charlie’s note to Beck to give to Marz. See what kind of sense he can make of those.”
Murda slipped them from her pile of papers. “Probably speed read it in about fifteen minutes,” he said, giving Becca what passed for a smile. “We’ll take care of your stuff. Don’t worry.” Neither of his teammates had been upstairs when Becca had broken down, but Rixey suspected they’d both heard it. He also suspected that accounted for the big guy’s gentleness with her now. There was a lot more beneath Beckett’s hard-ass surface than met the eye. He just didn’t like people to know it.
“Thanks,” she said.
“What’s this ‘we’ bullshit?” Shane said, starting up the steps. “I don’t see your ass schlepping anything.”
Beckett followed after, boots stomping out a rhythm on the concrete steps. “You that out of shape, McCallan?” The ribbing continued as they went up the stairs.
Becca smiled as she glanced at Nick. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
The words hauled him to her, and he leaned his forehead on hers. “I’d never mind having you with me. Come on. You get the fun of hearing Jeremy ream me out. Guard your eardrums.” He tugged open the door and held it for her.
“I’m sorry I made you late,” she said, twisting her lips. “I forgot about your appointment.”
“Not your fault. What we were doing was important.” Rixey entered the lounge with a mea culpa on his tongue. Whatever pile of pissed off he was about to step in, he totally deserved.
Jeremy leaned around the corner from the front desk, glared, and ducked back out. “Give us a few, Alek. We’ll be right with you,” Nick heard him say. Then his brother barreled down the hall toward him. “This might not be your thing. I get that. But it’s my business. My livelihood. My reputation. And I don’t appreciate you fucking with it.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” The anger he could deal with, but that look of disappointment in his brother’s eyes was a real kick in the ass.
Becca stepped in close, her arm touching Nick’s, providing a united front. “It was my fault, Jeremy. I’m sorry. We were looking for my brother.”
“No. My commitment, my fault.” Nick reached out and squeezed her shoulder in silent thanks.
Jer looked between them like he was at a tennis match. “Fine. Whatever. Got your head on straight?”
“Yeah. I’ll take good care of the guy. Alek’s his name?” Jeremy gave a tight nod. “I’ll go meet him and get set up.” Jeremy turned on his heel and stalked back toward the front. Rixey gave her a little smile. “Thanks for the help.”
“It’s the least I could do.” She shifted her feet and tilted her head. “So, I don’t suppose there’s any way I could watch you, is there? Probably violates some kind of confidentiality, or something.”
The thought of her being in the room with him stirred heat in his groin, both because she wanted to watch him work, and because it made him think of working on her. “It’s up to the client. I’ll ask.” He crossed to the closet in the corner where he hung his jacket and gun holster. It was probably on the wrong side of paranoid, but given the situation, he felt better remaining armed, so he slipped the piece into the back of his jeans and made sure his T-shirt covered it.
“Do you think that’s necessary?” she asked.
“What?” he said, turning. She gestured to his back. “Probably not. Have a seat for a few.”
“Okay.” She dropped her purse and the stack of papers onto one of the round tables and settled into the couch. The puppy loped over to her and hopped her front paws onto Becca’s lap.
Grabbing his sketch from the desk in the office, Nick made for the reception area.
“Awwwww, you’re in troubllllle,” Jess said in a gratingly annoying voice when he passed her room.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m aware.”
She snickered. Typical Jess. Good thing he liked her. Mostly. When she wasn’t busting his balls. Then again, when was that?
Sitting on the big green couch, his client was a man probably in his mid-thirties, dark hair, tall by the length of the legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Nick approached and extended his hand. “Really sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Nick Rixey.” For the next ten minutes, he talked to Alek about the tattoo, its placement, and his past experience getting inked, and he got permission for Becca to watch.
Nick grabbed his stencil from the office and leaned around the corner where Becca sat. “We’re a go if you’re still interested.”
Becca smiled up at him. “Really? Yeah.”
“You sure you wouldn’t rather go up and have some grub? Lunch was a long time ago.” If he hadn’t had to do this tat, he’d have been three slices into some leftover pizza himself.
“I’ll eat with you after.”
He crossed to the fridge in the corner and grabbed two bottles of water. “Well, at least have something to drink. Come on.” He led them into the rectangular tattoo room and gestured to the visitor chair often inhabited by a client’s friend.
She sat and watched him as he prepared his workspace and tools. “How did you first learn to do this, anyway?”
He scrubbed his hands and forearm
s at the sink. “Jeremy. He got an apprenticeship his freshman year at the College of Art here in town, and by his junior year he was working almost full-time for the guy and doing some fantastic work. Along the way he taught me what he’d learned. I enjoyed it enough that Jer bought me a basic set of my own machines for Christmas one year, and I practiced a lot because at that point I was trying to decide what the hell I wanted to do with myself. I was in college but felt restless as hell. I figured, why not.”
“How do you practice tattooing?”
Rixey chuckled. “Not on real people. They have this rubber practice skin you can use to get familiar with the tattoo machine, and some people practice on fruit and pig skin. Anyway, Jeremy wanted to drop out of college, but my parents had a shit fit.”
“So he didn’t?” she asked.
“No, he graduated. I was the one who dropped out.”
Her eyes went wide. “Why?”
“September eleventh. I finally knew what I was supposed to be doing. Was like a light switch flipped. Six weeks into my senior year, I took a leave of absence and enlisted in the Army. Never looked back.”
He cleaned his table and collected his ink, tools, and supplies.
“When I came home last year, I was still laid up with recovery for a few months, so Jer suggested I apprentice with him for real since I had the time to practice again. Once I was on my feet, I got the process service job to pay the bills, but I brushed up on my skills and then started doing clients in my off hours. Small pieces, mostly.”
She was watching him like she didn’t want to miss a step of what he was doing, and it made him slow down and remember the enjoyment he found in this art. “You okay?”
Becca grinned. “Yeah, this is fun.”
“If you say so. I’ll go get Alek.” Rixey made for the lobby. Within another fifteen minutes, he was ready to tattoo. “Keep your arm positioned on the armrest like that and just relax,” Rixey said, sliding on a mask and some eye protection.
Two hits of ink with the needle, he held the skin taut and outlined the bottom of the image first, the vibration of the machine familiar in his hand. He’d do a long line, then wipe away the excess ink the skin pushed back out. And repeat. “Doing okay, Alek?”
