Kissing the Killer: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (Barone Crime Family)

by Hamel, B. B.

  Suddenly, he sat bolt upright, eyes glued to the binoculars.

  “Another false alarm?” I asked.

  “Not this time.”

  I tried to see what he was watching, but there was too much traffic in the area. He stared out the window, slowly tracking someone or something across the street.

  “What is it?” I asked him.

  “Our target, flying the coop.”

  “Are we following him?”

  “Not this time. Just wait.”

  Another minute of silence. He handed me the binoculars and started the engine. We pulled back out into traffic and crossed the street, doing a U-turn in front of the apartment building. We parked and he climbed out.

  “Camera in the glove,” he said.

  I opened it and found a professional-looking camera, though it wasn’t very large. I opened the door and climbed out, holding it up.

  “This one?” I asked.

  “That’s my girl.” He reached for it, but I held it out of his reach.

  “Tell me what we’re doing here,” I said.

  He smirked. “You want to play this game?” he asked.

  I wasn’t backing down. “Tell me.”

  Suddenly he lunged forward, pressing against my body, pushing my back against the car. I gasped as his body crushed mine, his muscles moving against my breasts. He pinned my one arm against the car and plucked the camera out of my other hand.

  His face was inches from mine, and I was breathing hard, shocked at how quickly he had moved. I couldn’t believe he was touching me as if it weren’t completely inappropriate. He was my boss and also my stepbrother. He shouldn’t be pushing me against the car.

  “Don’t play games,” he said softly. “This is serious shit.”

  “I just want to know what’s going on,” I replied.

  “We’re staking out the landlord,” he said, moving away from me. I took a deep breath, steadying myself.

  “Okay. Why?”

  “I was approached by one of the tenements, Mrs. Suarez. She says he hasn’t been doing his jobs, been leaving things broken, trash out, shit like that.”

  “What are we going to do about that?”

  He hefted the camera. “Document it and then shake him down.”

  I stared at him for a second. “Shake him down?”

  “Yeah. I’ll show him the pictures, threaten legal action unless he starts being less of a fucking twat.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  He shrugged. “Easier than actually hiring a lawyer. They’re fucking expensive.” He began walking toward the building. “And I’m fucking cheap,” he said softly.

  I hurried to keep up as we walked the perimeter of the building. Nothing seemed out of place, no garbage left out, no broken windows, nothing. Finally, we stopped at the front of the building again and stood out near the front door.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “Just wait.”

  I stood there trying not to be annoyed as we watched people walk by on the sidewalk. Eventually, someone went to go into the building, and Easton quickly moved to follow. He gave the guy a disarming smile, but the man barely noticed as he opened the doors and let us through.

  He paused near the stairwell. “Easy,” he said.

  “I can’t believe that guy just let us in.”

  “You’d be surprised how much you can get away with if you’re confident enough.”

  “If you’re working for someone that lives here, why not just get them to let you in?”

  He grinned hugely. “Because that’s not fun.” He turned and walked up the staircase, causing me to chase after him yet again.

  For the next half hour, we wandered around the building. Easton didn’t say much, just kept taking pictures of various things. He photographed some stains in the halls, water-damaged ceilings, broken washers and dryers, dirty trash chutes, and more. That was just the stuff in the main areas, too. Who knew what was happening inside each apartment.

  Finally, we made it to the top floor. He jostled the door that opened out onto the roof, but it wouldn’t open.

  “Hold this,” he said, handing me the camera.

  I watched as he took out a small black case and slipped out two shiny silver tools. He inserted them into the lock and began to careful jiggle the one tool while slowly turning with the other.

  “Are you picking that lock?” I asked, incredulous. “Isn’t this illegal?”

  “Shah,” he said.

  Finally, the door clicked and swung open. He didn’t even pause. He just slipped the tools back into his pocket and walked out onto the roof.

  “Did they teach you that in the FBI?” I asked.

  “Yeah, actually,” he said, distracted.

  The roof looked pretty normal. There were industrial-sized heaters and coolers up there, but nothing unusual. He walked around to the right and then stopped in his tracks.

  “Pay dirt,” he said.

  Up ahead was a large pile of black trash bags. I took a step closer, but the smell was almost overwhelming.

  “What the hell?” I said.

  “Take pictures.”

  I brought the camera up to my eye and began to snap away.

  “Get closer,” he said.

  “No way,” I said, shaking my head. “It stinks.”

  He sighed and grabbed the camera and walked right up to the pile. He took pictures the whole time, and eventually he even ripped one open, exposing disgusting, putrid garbage.

  “Why is this up here?” I asked.

  “Landlord is probably too cheap to pay for pickup.”

  “Doesn’t the county just do that?”

  “Not for industrial-sized loads like this, they don’t. He’s supposed to take care of it himself.”

  “He just leaves it up here?”

  “Probably has guys come and grab it once a month to save money.”

  Just as I went to reply, I caught sight of the biggest rat I had ever seen in my life nuzzling its way through the trash pile. I kept myself from screaming by turning and walking away as fast as I could.

  I heard the sound of his laughter and of his camera as I waited for him in the stairwell.

  Five minutes later, he was ready to go.

  “No big deal,” he said.

  “Now what?” I asked as we walked back downstairs.

  “Now, we develop these.”

  “Think it’ll work? Threatening him, I mean.”

  “Probably. Those trash bags up there are a huge health code violation. It could shut him down completely.”

  As we made our way down the steps, we moved over to one side as two older Hispanic women began to climb up. Easton suddenly stopped talking and looked uncomfortable.

  One of the two women noticed him and smiled hugely.

  “Mister Wright!” she exclaimed.

  “Easton,” he mumbled.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Working your case,” he said.

  She replied in Spanish, and he frowned, glancing at me.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said.

  “Please, I insist.” She turned to me. “Mister Easton is a good man. He’s helping us for very little. The least I can do is offer you lunch.”

  I glanced at him, surprised. He looked incredibly uncomfortable with the whole encounter, but I didn’t know why.

  What surprised me even more was that he was apparently working for cheap. Easton didn’t seem like the charity kind of guy, let alone the type to help old Hispanic ladies with their problems.

  “That’s very nice of you, Mrs. Suarez, but we have to get going,” he said.

  “Please, stay. Take something with you, at least.”

  He sighed. “Okay. Quickly, though,” He said something else in Spanish, and the two women laughed, glancing at me.

  We followed the two women up the steps. The one woman turned left and we turned right, following Mrs. Suarez. She chattered away, talking about her children and her grandc
hildren, but I couldn’t help but glance at Easton. He seemed to be listening, and he even answered in Spanish from time to time.

  Finally, we got to her apartment. She sat us down in her tiny kitchen. She busied herself making small tortillas for us, wrapping them in tin foil and filling them with meat and cheese.

  “You know, Mister Easton has very good reputation. He help a lot of people,” she said to me, winking. “He’s a good boss.”

  I nodded, completely dumbfounded. “Very good.”

  “Are you single?” she asked me.

  “Okay,” Easton said quickly. “That’s enough.”

  “I am,” I said.

  “Good, good. Marry him, if you can. Make him give you lots of kind-hearted babies.”

  I laughed, looking at Easton, who only frowned at the two of us. “Thanks for this, but we have to get going before your landlord comes back.”

  He grabbed me by the arm and practically dragged me toward the door.

  “But I want to talk more about having your babies with Mrs. Suarez,” I said.

  “Cut it out,” he growled.

  “Thank you again!” Mrs. Suarez called out as we left, tortillas in hand.

  We walked back downstairs and out toward the car.

  He stopped before we got in.

  “I’m not doing this for free,” he said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Helping. She paid me. I’m not doing this for free.”

  I nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  “Good. You can’t do shit for free and expect to survive.” He unwrapped his food and took a bite. “Delicious.”

  I climbed into the car and he got into the driver’s seat.

  “Why are you helping then? It can’t just be for the money.”

  He was silent for a second.

  “For the same reason I joined the bureau.” He started the engine of the car. “I don’t like assholes.”

  We pulled out into traffic and I bit my bottom lip.

  So far, Easton Wright was an absolute enigma. One second he was surly and rude, the next he was helping out old Hispanic ladies. He was absolutely gorgeous, but he was also my stepbrother.

  The whole day had been weird as hell. As we drove back toward his office in silence, I couldn’t help but wonder if every day with him was going to be like this.

  Part of me hoped so.

  4

  Easton

  I left Laney out in the main room to man the phones as I locked myself in the bathroom to develop the photos.

  There was nothing for her to do out there, but I needed some alone time. I hadn’t worked with someone in a long time, and so I wasn’t used to having another person around at all times.

  Especially another person like Laney.

  She was bright, like Susan had said, but soft. She could barely get near the trash, even though that disgusting pile had been key to the case. With the pictures of the rat and the garbage, I felt pretty good about making an approach the following day.

  But if it were up to Laney, we’d have nothing. That softness was the first thing that had to go if she wanted to do something serious in law enforcement.

  I flicked on the red light and slowly began the process of developing the film. I could have used a digital camera like pretty much everyone else, but there was something about doing it all myself that appealed to me. Besides, the prints came out so much better that way.

  As I worked, my mind began to roam over the last few hours. I had been distracted part of the time as we’d combed through the apartment building, distracted by the way she had looked at me. It was part scorn and part fascination, and I couldn’t help but return the feeling. There was something about her full lips, about her body and the way she carried herself that drew me to her.

  It was true that Suarez had embarrassed me in front of her. I didn’t want Laney to think that I was just some pathetic loser doing charity cases for every single sob story that came to my door. Mrs. Suarez had paid, and although it wasn’t really my full rate, it was still enough.

  And I wasn’t exactly in the position to turn away cash.

  Finally, I finished my work and tacked up the developed film to dry. I could tell that the pictures were definitely going to pay off, though I couldn’t get full-sized prints until later.

  I opened the door and shut it quickly again, walking back out into the main room. I stopped short as I saw Laney rooting through my filing cabinet.

  Fear gripped my chest. I quickly crossed the room and slammed the cabinet shut, startling her.

  “Shit, Easton. What the hell?” she said. “You scared me.”

  I stared at her. “I didn’t tell you to touch that.”

  “The phones aren’t ringing,” she said. “I thought I’d organize your files, help you out.”

  “I didn’t ask you to do that.”

  “Okay. I was just trying to be useful.”

  “Let’s call it a day.”

  She stared back at me defiantly. “Fine. Whatever you say.”

  “Have a good night, sis,” I said.

  She walked over to the door. “Same time tomorrow?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

  She gave me one last look, a look that I couldn’t read, and then opened the door and was gone.

  She was pissed, but I didn’t care. I let out a breath and tore opened the drawer again, rooting through it. The file wasn’t in there, thankfully. She hadn’t seen it.

  I opened the other drawer and found it, the file on Lester Seeds, and pulled it out. I dropped it on the desk and sat down in my chair, staring at it.

  Memories came swirling back to me in fragments. Hours spent pouring over evidence. The girl, her fingers cut off, her body lifeless. Lester laughing. The phone call.

  Mitch and the wound across his throat.

  I tossed the file back into another drawer and walked into the back room. I poured myself a whisky and dropped down onto the couch, turning the television on loud. I wanted it to drown out the memories as I drank.

  One last memory came to me: Lester’s voice saying, Come now, Easton, aren’t you some kind of professional?

  I slugged back my whisky and poured another.

  It felt like the buzzing was drilling through my skull directly into my brain.

  I rolled over on the couch. My mouth tasted like whisky. The TV was still on.

  And the doorbell was ringing like crazy.

  I climbed off the couch, steading myself for a minute as my hangover washed over me. I’d drunk too much the night before, as usual. Ever since I’d come back to Mishawaka, the dreams had been awful, gut-wrenching and destructive nightmares, and the only way to outrun the memories was by drowning them in alcohol.

  I stood up slowly, glancing at the clock. It was a little bit past ten in the morning.

  I’m going to kill that girl, I thought as I pulled on a pair of pants, not bothering with the shirt. I stumbled into the main room and pulled open the door.

  Laney stood there, smiling at me sweetly.

  “Morning, Easton,” she said. “You look like shit.”

  “Go away,” I grunted, and tried to close the door.

  Laney shoved her foot out, catching it before it shut, and pushed it open. She hustled past me, and I was too hungover to stop her.

  She was carrying a drink tray with two large coffees on it and had a brown paper bag in the other hand.

  “I figured you’d be like this,” she said.

  “Why?” I grunted at her.

  “Based on yesterday.” She paused and stared at me for a second as I walked closer to her. I could tell there was something going on in that cute little brain of hers, but I couldn’t tell what. I was way too hungover to read her.

  She quickly gathered herself. “Anyway, bagels and coffee.” She gestured at the bag.

  I grabbed my cup. “Thanks.”

  “Get dressed.” She sat down at the desk, dropping her bag on the floor. She slipped a laptop from it
and opened it up on the desk. “Do you have Wi-Fi?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Router’s over there.” I sipped the scalding hot coffee.

  “Good. Did you know that you don’t have a website?”

  “Hadn’t occurred to me.”

  “You need one.”

  “Why?”

  “So that people can find you online.”

  I stared at her for a second. “I don’t want to be found.”

  “You want work, don’t you?”

  “Sure.” More or less.

  “Then you need a website. How do you not know this?”

  “Ever consider that I don’t want to announce this gig to every person in the world?”

  “Nope.” She was tapping away happily.

  “No website,” I said as I moved toward the back room.

  “You’re getting a website.”

  I grunted something but didn’t have the strength to fight.

  I was surprised she had shown up again. I’d expected her to run away and never look back, especially after yesterday’s shit show. It hadn’t exactly gone down the way I had planned, even though I had gotten what I needed.

  Instead, she appeared with her laptop and started talking about getting me a website. Maybe the girl was going to be more trouble than I had realized.

  Plus, there was the matter of her work attire. Her blouse was sheer, and underneath it she wore a low-cut tank top. I couldn’t quite see her breasts, but their hint was right there, practically pressing up to the surface. Her jeans were tight and fitted, and her ass looked impeccable.

  The blood rushed right from my head as soon as she walked into the room. Or maybe it was just the hangover still playing its tricks.

  I stripped off my pants and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around my waist. I picked up my little shower caddy and walked back out into the main room.

  “That’s the opposite of getting dressed,” Laney said, staring over her computer.

  “Need a shower.”

  “Don’t you ever go home?”

  I laughed and grinned at her. “Sis, this is home.”

  I pushed open the door and left before she could respond.

  The communal bathroom was just down the hall. Inside and toward the back was a small shower, probably meant for people that commuted to work or wanted to work out during their break. I turned the water on and waited for it to heat up.