by Brandy Ayers
“If the Central Park Suite isn’t available, that is fine. I don’t mind one facing Midtown.” Honestly, any place away from this situation is fine.
“You misunderstand, Miss Falluci. I can’t give you any room. The financial information on file has come back as denied.” The woman says that last word like it tastes bad.
I don’t blame her. It sounds dirty. Like shit. I’ve never been denied anything in my life. “That can’t be right. Check it again.”
“No need. Maybe you should try a less luxurious hotel.” The woman doesn’t wait for a response, simply hangs up.
Holy shit. Is this what it felt like to be Julia Roberts in that old hooker movie when she got dissed by the shop workers?
Because it sucks.
Jaw on the floor and stomach in my throat, I search for the name of my bank and dial the number, punching in the extension number for my personal account specialist, Tracey. Yeah being rich has its perks, like having one person you always talk to at the bank.
“Everything okay, Lacy?” Scott comes up behind me, a little too close for comfort if the heat radiating off his body was any indication.
Waving him away, I focus back in to the matter at hand. “Yes, hi, Tracey. This is Lacy Falluci. I seem to be having an issue with my cards.”
Tracey, a woman I’ve talked with several times about maximizing where I am putting my money and how to split it between different funds, clears her throat. I can almost picture her squirming in her seat. “Yes, Miss Falluci. I am sorry to inform you that your accounts have been temporarily frozen by the FBI. This means you cannot take any money from any of your accounts until they release it. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but there is nothing I can do.”
“This can’t be happening.” My body loses the ability to hold itself up, and I slump against the kitchen counter. I haven’t cried since my Dad dropped me off at boarding school when I was eight. The current situation doesn’t feel all that much different, though, like my whole world is coming apart at the seams. My free hand covers my face, hot tears welling behind my eyes.
The banker begins to apologize once again, but I just don’t have the patience for it now. Dropping the phone on the counter, I then make my way toward the huge fridge and heave it open. Leftover take-out. The entire fucking thing is filled with take-out containers. No wine. No beer. Checking the freezer, I see he doesn’t even have a spare bottle of vodka chilling.
“Where the hell is all the booze? I need to get wildly drunk immediately.”
Scott laughs, rubbing the back of his too long hair with his palm as he looks at the floor. “You picked the wrong guy to room with then, eight years sober. You’re not going to find anything harder than orange juice in there.”
I don’t know why, but the injustice of not even being able to get blitzed is what pushes me over the edge. I slump on the ground and let me head fall into my hands. Which is a mistake, because the heel of my palm hits the big goose egg left over from the attack last night. A hiss sprays from my mouth. I sound like a pissed off cat, and I can’t even bring myself to care. Or to care that I’m sitting on unfinished wood floors in a men’s button-up shirt and nothing else. God only knows the kind of show my squatter hero is getting at the moment.
Gingerly, he walks over and plops right down on the floor next to me. “What’s going on? Other than getting attacked, being stranded with a stranger, and finding out your dad is possibly a criminal? That is all totally normal.”
Laughing is the last thing I want to do, but somehow, this guy pulls it out of me. “You forgot the part where all of my assets have been frozen by the government pending a criminal investigation. I’m going to make a horrible poor person. I can’t sleep on anything less than five-thousand-thread-count sheets, let alone a cardboard refrigerator box.”
His big, warm hand squeezes my knee once before returning to his lap. I’m weak enough right now to wish he would have left it on my leg. Once I get my sass back, I’ll go back to wanting him far, far away.
“I won’t let you sleep on the streets. You have any other family? Friends?”
I shake my head. For the first time in my life, I feel truly alone. Father is the only family I’ve ever known. Friends came and went, never sticking around unless I had something to offer them. Except Marci. She’s always been there, never taking anything except my time, which I wanted to share with her. But even she’s lost her patience for my antics.
Scott points to the loft bedroom I slept in last night. “You take the master bedroom. I have a spare twin bed in the storage room. I’ll pull that into the unfinished bedroom and sleep there for the time being.”
The place has potential. Behind the plastic sheets and bare walls. Not my taste, but still, not the worst either. “Ugh, I guess I can put up with living in a construction zone until this gets straightened out. But so help me, if we get arrested for squatting, I am kicking your ass.”
“Not a squatter.” Scott laughs and shakes his head. “How about I order dinner, and you try calling that investigator. Maybe he can get your accounts turned back on.”
I pull the card from the shirt pocket where I had tucked it earlier. As you’d expect a government employee’s business card to be, it is a plain white card stock with the FBI logo and Agent James Rose’s contact information listed.
A deep sense of foreboding sweeps through me just looking at that plain card. Just like fear, doubt has never been an affliction that plagued me. I don't like it. I don’t like any of this. And I’ll be damned if I take it sitting on the floor of this hell hole.
My cheeks burn as a single tear tracks down my cheek. I hate crying. Crying is for people who don’t know how to get what they want. Crying for my father to let me stay with him didn’t do a damn thing when he dropped me off at Mary Teresa’s School for Young Ladies. And it won’t do a damn thing now.
Plus, this strange man witnessing my top five most embarrassing and pathetic moments in the span of twelve hours pisses me off to no extent.
Scott slings his arm around my shoulders and pulls be into his side. “I promise, we’ll figure this out.”
I close my eyes and allow myself exactly five seconds to enjoy his warmth. The spicy scent of his cologne and natural masculine pheromones. The restrained strength evident in the press of his fingers into my biceps. I indulge in the sweet burn of arousal that zaps between my legs. For exactly five seconds, I give into every forbidden thought I’ve had about this man so far below my status. I let them fill me up, entertain giving into them.
After those five seconds pass, I steal my spine, climb to my feet, and do what I’ve done my entire life. No matter how much I want to lean into the safety he naturally provides, I have to rely on myself and block his misplaced hero complex with a snarky comment.
It would be so easy to ignore the red flags my mind is throwing up left and right. To just let him past the walls. But going down that path leads to nothing but disappointment and smudged eyeliner. “Thanks, I’ll let you know if I need a jar opened or tips on how to buy second hand. Leave the planning and negotiating to me.”
Scott’s disappointment in me is a living beast stalking me back up the spiral staircase to the loft. I ignore it and the spike of pain stabbing me in the chest as I sit on the edge of the bed. Phone in hand, I make one of what turns out to be many calls to fucking Agent Rose.
Chapter Four
Scott
My brain spins the entire cab ride back to Scott’s apartment. How could my Dad be involved in any of this? It’s not that I hold him to some higher standard than other people. I don’t idolize him or anything like that. We’re not even that close.
I had nannies and chauffeurs to take care of me growing up. Then boarding school and college. We saw each other on holidays and vacations. But even then, he was always busy. Hell, so was I. I’ve always had a busy social life. Hanging out with my Dad was never a priority. Though, at one time in my life, I may have wanted more than the absolute bare minimum from him.
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br /> But human trafficking?
That’s like literally lower than low. That’s worse than assholes making knockoff Chanel bags with child labor in third world countries. I can’t picture my image obsessed Dad stooping to something so despicable.
“We’re here, Lacy.” That deep growly voice which always sounds half a second from pissed off interrupts my thoughts. Looking around, I see we are indeed back in front of his place. The brick box of a building not giving even a hint that someone lives inside.
“Why would you want to live in an old warehouse? Do you even have a landlord? I mean who owns a place like this? The rent must be reasonable at least. Do you pay rent?” I spin back to face him, a thought so horrifically embarrassing I can’t believe it hasn’t occurred to me before now. “Oh god, are you a squatter?”
Scott’s lip quirks up a little, but he schools it back into his default expression of almost-scowl. “Not a squatter. The rent’s a steal. Landlord’s an asshole.” He swings the door open and surprises me by reaching in and delicately taking my hand to help me from the car.
The slide of my fingers into his palm sends a static charge up my arm and straight down between my legs. I immediately tell that blast of arousal to fuck right off, because I will not be attracted to some perpetually grumpy goth guy. Okay, not goth, but not normal either. He wears way more black than is strictly necessary.
It seriously took up three-quarters of his closet. The white shirt I’m currently wearing was the only one in his closet. It didn’t escape my notice that it is Brooks Brothers either. He must have gotten it at a thrift shop or something. It was the only thing in there worth anything and he probably has no clue. I’ve never seen that much black in my entire life. Or worn cotton. Or denim. Or motorcycle boots. There was exactly one suit, and it had literal dust on it.
The line of gift bags along one wall did take me by surprise though. All addressed to different people in his family. Aunt Martha, Uncle Enrique, Mom, Dad. All the cards had little notes about why he got that present and where he got it from. Some were pricey gifts. Some not so much. I can’t figure this guy out. His entire wardrobe couldn’t cost over ten dollars. But he bought a scarf worth several hundred dollars for his aunt because the green reminded him of the leaves on some tree in her backyard.
“Actually, come to think of it, you’re the squatter here.” Scott’s lips try to curl up into that not quite smile again, but they must get tired after a hot second, because they fall back into his grumpy cat expression. “Don’t worry. You can keep the master bedroom.”
“What are you talking about? I am not staying here.”
“You got a friend you can stay with instead? I’d be happy to get you there.”
I almost snort at this guy saying he’d be happy to do anything. I don’t think he knows the meaning of the word. But then his words hit me, right in the stomach. The truth is, I don't have any friends I can stay with. Marci made it abundantly clear last night that she wanted nothing to do with me. Besides she’s probably banging big-foot lumberjack right now.
All my other friends, well they aren’t the type that you go to when you need help. They are the type who are only there for what you can do for them. They probably won’t touch me with a ten-foot pole after seeing the news about Dad.
I avoid Scott’s eyes, not wanting him to see the truth behind them. The neighborhood’s not half bad, actually. Well lit, a few businesses lining the street. A couple doors down is a big glass window with some clothes on mannequins. The pieces look cute. I’ll have to head down there to check it out once I figure out where I’m going after this. Maybe I’ll discover someone new to wear. My usual designers are getting stale. Plus, all my clothes are apparently on lock down by the FBI.
“I’ll just check into the Four Seasons for a while. Pamper myself with room service and massages.” I turn, padding into Scott’s building. The rough cement floors of his lobby abrade my bare feet. Scott had offered me some flip flops he had in the back of his closet, but I’ll be damned if I’m seen out with those pieces of junk on my feet. I’d rather be barefoot.
Scott’s big motorcycle boots clomp on the stairs behind me as we make the way up to his third-floor loft. His place is the only one I’ve seen so far, and I haven’t heard any neighbors yet. But it was insanely early when we left, so I’m not surprised. Still, I’m not totally convinced yet that he isn’t squatting. His place looked like it could still be under construction.
“Do you have a phone I can use?”
He pulls out an iPhone about three generations old from his back pocket and hands it over. It has a huge crack down the middle of the screen. “Does this thing even work anymore? I’m probably going to get splinters just from using it.” I take it from him, doing my best to grip the edges and not touch the screen. One of the side effects of getting weekly manicures is super soft skin. It wouldn’t take much to get a sliver of glass in my finger.
“It works fine. Never saw the need to replace something that worked but didn’t look quite as pretty.”
The words shouldn’t matter. We’re talking about a stupid phone. But something about them causes a fluttering in my chest.
Which I ignore.
Turning from Scott’s dark eyes that see too much, I look up the number for the Four Seasons and hit dial. The welcoming voice of a reservations specialist soothes my tired soul. Is there anything as comforting as speaking with someone who will give you whatever you want provided you have enough money?
“Yes, I’d like to reserve a room. Preferably the Central Park Suite. You should have my card on file. The name is Lacy Falluci.” I lean against the marble countertop of the island separating the kitchen from the main living space.
Fancy kitchen for a guy like Scott. Another glance around the space tells me the appliances are top of the line. Viking. The cabinets don’t have doors, but they look sturdy. Not like that fake wood composite stuff you see in cheap places. There is plastic sheeting on parts of the walls and some in doorways leading to other rooms I haven’t explored yet.
Definitely squatting.
“I’m sorry, Miss Falluci, but I don’t think I’ll be able to help you.” The woman on the other side of the line taps away at her keyboard, the sharp clack grating on my already frayed nerves.
“If the Central Park Suite isn’t available, that is fine. I don’t mind one facing Midtown.” Honestly, any place away from this situation is fine.
“You misunderstand, Miss Falluci. I can’t give you any room. The financial information on file has come back as denied.” The woman says that last word like it tastes bad.
I don’t blame her. It sounds dirty. Like shit. I’ve never been denied anything in my life. “That can’t be right. Check it again.”
“No need. Maybe you should try a less luxurious hotel.” The woman doesn’t wait for a response, simply hangs up.
Holy shit. Is this what it felt like to be Julia Roberts in that old hooker movie when she got dissed by the shop workers?
Because it sucks.
Jaw on the floor and stomach in my throat, I search for the name of my bank and dial the number, punching in the extension number for my personal account specialist, Tracey. Yeah being rich has its perks, like having one person you always talk to at the bank.
“Everything okay, Lacy?” Scott comes up behind me, a little too close for comfort if the heat radiating off his body was any indication.
Waving him away, I focus back in to the matter at hand. “Yes, hi, Tracey. This is Lacy Falluci. I seem to be having an issue with my cards.”
Tracey, a woman I’ve talked with several times about maximizing where I am putting my money and how to split it between different funds, clears her throat. I can almost picture her squirming in her seat. “Yes, Miss Falluci. I am sorry to inform you that your accounts have been temporarily frozen by the FBI. This means you cannot take any money from any of your accounts until they release it. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but there is nothing I can do.”
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br /> “This can’t be happening.” My body loses the ability to hold itself up, and I slump against the kitchen counter. I haven’t cried since my Dad dropped me off at boarding school when I was eight. The current situation doesn’t feel all that much different, though, like my whole world is coming apart at the seams. My free hand covers my face, hot tears welling behind my eyes.
The banker begins to apologize once again, but I just don’t have the patience for it now. Dropping the phone on the counter, I then make my way toward the huge fridge and heave it open. Leftover take-out. The entire fucking thing is filled with take-out containers. No wine. No beer. Checking the freezer, I see he doesn’t even have a spare bottle of vodka chilling.
“Where the hell is all the booze? I need to get wildly drunk immediately.”
Scott laughs, rubbing the back of his too long hair with his palm as he looks at the floor. “You picked the wrong guy to room with then, eight years sober. You’re not going to find anything harder than orange juice in there.”
I don’t know why, but the injustice of not even being able to get blitzed is what pushes me over the edge. I slump on the ground and let me head fall into my hands. Which is a mistake, because the heel of my palm hits the big goose egg left over from the attack last night. A hiss sprays from my mouth. I sound like a pissed off cat, and I can’t even bring myself to care. Or to care that I’m sitting on unfinished wood floors in a men’s button-up shirt and nothing else. God only knows the kind of show my squatter hero is getting at the moment.
Gingerly, he walks over and plops right down on the floor next to me. “What’s going on? Other than getting attacked, being stranded with a stranger, and finding out your dad is possibly a criminal? That is all totally normal.”
Laughing is the last thing I want to do, but somehow, this guy pulls it out of me. “You forgot the part where all of my assets have been frozen by the government pending a criminal investigation. I’m going to make a horrible poor person. I can’t sleep on anything less than five-thousand-thread-count sheets, let alone a cardboard refrigerator box.”
