by Avery Flynn
Dead air.
Finally, Essie let out a loud breath. "Shit."
She winced at the word. "Don't use that language." Not because she thought it was out of bounds but because her sister Amelia had always been so proper and restrained. She'd never cursed, not even when she'd been diagnosed with late-stage ovarian cancer. The least Tamara could do is keep her niece from sounding like a longshoreman. "And yes, shit."
"So I guess you weren't being overly cautious when you went back to Texas instead of staying here with me in Colorado."
That had hurt, like gnawing-off-your-own-limb pain, but Jarrod's only tie to Essie's location was Tamara and she couldn't be the weak link. Not again. This time she was taking her sister's advice. "Layers. It's important to have layers of safety."
"Okay, I get it."
The sad note in Essie's voice gutted Tamara. She'd give anything in the world to change it, but the truth was she couldn't. She didn't have the money to fight Jarrod in court even if he didn't have the local judges in his pocket. If only she'd put away some of her gold-digging profits instead of spending them on stupid shit like her hot pink overnighter. She kicked the bag hard enough that it slid under her desk.
"Es, we should be okay, but be on the lookout."
"Always. I'm like an owl on Ritalin."
Tamara stifled her chuckle at the image. "Don't let down your guard."
"You worry too much."
"That's not even possible." She stopped in front of the picture on her desk showing Amelia holding baby Essie with the sun streaming down on both of them. It was the only personal memento in her office or the tiny house on Philbert Street. "Love you Essie. Stay safe and give Albert my love."
"Ditto, Aunt T."
She hung up and tossed the burner phone onto the couch that would be her bed for the next few days. It was lumpy and too short for her, but it was better than the alternative. A few nights of crappy sleep was more than worth avoiding the bounty hunter or one of Jarrod's paid henchmen. No matter what it took or what she had to do, she would make sure Jarrod never got his hands on Essie again.
Chapter 3
Isaac
The next day, Isaac scanned the Devil's Dip Gym looking for anyone or anything that seemed shady. Considering this was a functioning boxing gym and the fighters training in the ring and pounding the heavy bags weren't weekend warriors but the real deal, that meant there were plenty of shady characters around, from the wanna-be managers to the less than ethical promoters.
This was going to be like hunting black cats at midnight on a moonless night. Either Wolczyk was shooting darts blindfolded and was following up at Tamara's ex-husband's place because he really didn't know she was in Fort Worth, or someone here had tipped off the piss-poor bounty hunter. God knew there were plenty of Chatty Cathys around the gym. Old ladies at a coffee klatch had nothing on fighters when it came to gossiping.
"This is fucking ridiculous," he grumbled to Lash Finch as the other man handed him a mug of coffee strong enough to put fur on one of those ugly-ass hairless cats.
"What?" Lash asked with a shit-eating grin. "Your hard-on for Tamara or the amount of product in your hair to give it that girly shine you love."
Let a buddy crash at your place one time after a drunken week of booze and blondes in Cabo—not to mention a pair of beautiful brunettes—and deal with shit for a lifetime.
Isaac flipped him off. "The fact that Taz still has this gym open to anyone who strolls in."
"You got something against boxing all of a sudden?"
"With everything that's going on upstairs? Yeah, I do." Any one of these fools could endanger Tamara with a single mention to the wrong person—and a sexy woman like her got noticed and talked about.
"The B-Squad floors are secure and Taz likes keeping this place open to up-and-coming fighters. It reminds him of Freddie." Lash's jaw hardened. "Shit, it reminds all of us of him."
Seventeen years ago, Freddie Atlas had caught Lash, Marko and Taz along with the rest of their boyhood crew and current B-Squad team members, Duke and Keir, breaking into the Devil's Dip Gym. Instead of turning the band of juvenile delinquents in to the cops, he'd taken them under his wing and trained them to be fighters. Taz had gone pro, making it all the way to the championship match. The other four had joined the military. After Freddie had died, the five of them made their way back to Fort Worth and the Devil's Dip Gym they all called home now. Isaac understood the connection and the meaning behind the gym even if he still thought it was crazy.
The front doors opened and Marko strolled in, looking like he could clean the floor with even the largest guy in the ring without breaking a sweat. Big didn't cover it. Snarly attitude didn't cover it. He looked like he kicked ass for a living and picked his teeth with the bones of his enemies. The fact that he glowered more than talked only enhanced the image.
"Morning, Mr. Chatty."
Marko jerked his chin in acknowledgement.
"What's the latest on Wolczyk?" Isaac asked.
"Sitting on his brains out front," Marko responded.
The urge to punch the mere idea of Tamara out of the bounty hunter's head had him fisting his hands. "Are you shitting me?" Isaac turned toward the door, but two heavy hands clamped down on his shoulders in mid-spin.
When he stopped moving he was almost nose to nose with one of his oldest friends and the best guy he could ever have next to him in a foxhole.
"Stop leading with your dick and your ego," Lash said, all the normal easy-going bullshitting charm draining right out of his voice. "You're not a one-man super show. We got this."
He thrust his forearms up and broke the other man's old. "How's that?"
"We'll let Wolczyk stew out front with his crappy cup of overpriced coffee and his talk radio, then go feed him some bullshit about Tamara's location," he said. "He can pass that news onto his client and then return to his normal routine of following cheating spouses."
Even through the misty red haze, he had to admit it wasn't a bad plan, but they were forgetting one thing. He shot a hard look at Marko. "Wolczyk's gotta still be pissed at you after his trip and fall at the club yesterday. He'll disregard any info you give him. I'll do it."
"You're not B-Squad, as you're so fond of telling us all the damn time," Lash said. "Why do you care so much?"
It was a question he didn't want to answer. "I don't care."
Marko snorted. "I think he has feelings. The kind that go straight to his sad excuse of a dick."
"Your mom doesn't complain," Isaac quipped.
Lash gave him a shove toward the door before Marko could deliver a harder one of his own. For such a bear of a man, Marko was a total softie when it came to his mom, which meant Isaac could never resist a good Yo Mama barb.
The perfectly delivered insult evened his nerves out and Isaac pushed his way through the front door and out into the bright Texas sunshine. It only took him a second to identify Wolczyk's car. In the land of pickup trucks, the bounty hunter drove a Prius. It was enough to make the great state of Texas weep. He hustled across the street and tapped on the driver's side window.
The other man didn't bother to glance his way as he rolled down the window. The smell of patchouli and sound of New Age music wafted out of the car.
"Camacho."
"Heard you're looking for Taz's ex-wife."
"Yeah." His gaze bounced from the gym's front door to Isaac.
"What makes you think she's in Fort Worth?"
The bounty hunter shrugged. "I don't."
"Why not?" Isaac played along. He may not be Elisa, but he knew how to run a simple con. "Who wouldn't want to be in Texas?"
"This chick. She's all high-maintenance and gold digging. She's probably on the hunt for her next marital conquest, poor rich bastard."
Isaac let Wolczyk's last words hang in the air between them. The man was a talker. He'd break down. His type always did.
He didn't have to wait long.
"So this guy in Idaho who employ
ed me has hired investigators all over the country—anywhere this Tamara woman had ties. There's no rhyme or reason to it beyond that if you ask me. The guy is grasping at straws. In the meantime my ass is growing an ass while I keep surveillance on this place."
"I can help there. While I was inside, Taz got a call from someone named Tamara in Connecticut."
"Really? Why share that with me?"
"Because it's no skin off my nose and Taz doesn't give two shits about his ex. But if you'd rather spend the next few days watching the Devil's Dip Gym building in hopes of seeing someone who's not there, be my guest."
"Fuck that." Wolczyk turned the key in the ignition that didn't even make a single purr. "I owe you one, Camacho."
He tapped the roof of the Prius and took a step away before it silently drove down the block and turned at the corner. Wolczyk was gone—for the moment. The guy wasn't a great investigator, but he was just good enough to be a pain in the ass. Good thing Isaac excelled at distraction and protection—along with general badassery.
He pulled out his phone and hit the first contact on his list.
"What? Do you want me to massage your massive ego now?" Lash asked.
"Meet me at Tamara's." He crossed the street to his truck parked on the street. "Her security is about to get an upgrade."
The mother of all upgrades, to be more specific. No one was going to get within a block of Tamara's house without him knowing about it.
Chapter 4
Tamara
Two days later and all Tamara had to show for her amateur sleuthing debut was a permanent crick in her neck from her lumpy office couch and a whole lotta nothing on how Archie Wolczyk had stumbled upon her. After her research into the myriad of complaints against the bounty hunter at the Better Business Bureau, she was beyond convinced that that would be the only way he'd found her. The man bumbled more than a fat bee high on pollen.
Still, she wasn't doing much better, which was why she was pacing the main hallway of B-Squad HQ. Her office was awesome, but it was definitely getting that whole lived-in vibe and the walls were starting to close in on her. Playing it safe was starting to make her nuts. Well, that and the fact that Isaac Camacho kept popping up in her thoughts and in real life enough that everyone on the B-Squad was starting to make comments. The reminder of the evil that people could do was enough to drag her back to what mattered; not the pain in her neck or the cabin fever, but keeping Jarrod away from Essie. For that, she could endure whatever it took. Tolerating the danger wasn't enough though. She had to make sure that the bounty hunter was really as out of her life as it seemed before she could go home again and figure out whether Essie was safe in Colorado or if it was time to relocate.
Stopping in front of the wall of video screens in the hall outside her office, she scanned the twenty-three different views of the Devil's Dip Gym building, both inside and out. No Prius matching the one registered to Archie Wolczyk on the street. No bounty hunter hanging around. He'd driven off forty-eight hours ago after a car-side conference with Isaac—wouldn't she just love to know what that little tit for tat had been about—and hadn't been seen since.
"Isn't that sweet, you just couldn't wait for me to get here today could you?" Isaac's voice boomed across the empty space between the elevator and the monitors that she knew was anything but unobserved.
Oh no. Ever since she'd hightailed it out of Taz's and Bianca's engagement party, everyone in the office seemed to be keeping tabs on her and tracking just how much the freelance investigator had been appearing at the B-Squad's headquarters. She'd barely noticed, of course. Isaac Camacho and his overabundance of sex appeal was just another thing she didn't have time for.
So why is you belly doing that triple-flip thing as you watch that handsome hunk of hotness in tight jeans head straight toward you?
Stapling her inner hussy's lips shut, she forced her gaze back to the monitors. "I suppose you’re just in the neighborhood. Again."
"Something like that. I come bearing churros." He held up a brown paper bag, drawing her attention back where it had no business being. "They're still hot from my kitchen."
God save her thighs. Living a life of culinary denial for the past thirty years had given her a sweet tooth that couldn't be denied—just the kind of thing that called for friend dough rolled in cinnamon sugar.
Sure. Blame your fascination on the churros. Not Isaac's biceps and pecs shown off to perfection in a black T-shirt or his confident strut or his tempting mouth that you imagined all over you while you circled your clit until you came last night.
"You made them?" Yeah, more like someone angling for a second night over at Casa Camacho had whipped them up while probably naked except for a frilly pink apron.
Not liking the sizzle of jealousy that thought caused, she turned and headed back down the hall toward her office and away from the man who seemed determined to drag her off task.
"You doubt my prowess?" he asked, ignoring her brush off and following a few steps behind her.
"In the kitchen?" she scoffed.
"Trust me, darlin', I've got skills for every room in the house. Your kitchen, however, has shoes in the stove."
She jerked to a stop just inside her office and spun around to face him, heat beating at her cheeks. "What do you mean my kitchen? What were you doing in my house?"
The smug bastard didn't even have the smarts to look embarrassed. He looked pleased. And like everything else, it looked good on him. It wasn't fair.
"I was beefing up Lash's security measures." He leaned one broad shoulder against the doorjamb and crossed one booted foot over the other—the picture of a man at home no matter where he was. "It seems you weren't exactly honest with him about your needs in that department."
Pushing away any question of what it would be like to be that comfortable anywhere while buying herself some time to figure out what to say next, she walked to her desk and sat down. Her heart was still hammering, but she didn't have to worry about her shaking knees giving her away once she was settled in behind her desk. Sitting in the ergonomically adjusted chair, she opened her laptop with its alphabetically organized virtual folders and color-coded email notification system. Happiness was a perfectly organized desktop and brand new Manolos on her feet. She had one, if not the other, and she'd learned to accept that. Her life had taken a left turn from being all about getting what she wanted to doing what she needed the moment her sister expended her last breath on asking Tamara to keep Essie safe. It was the only thing that mattered.
She logged in to her laptop, but Isaac didn't go away. He just stood there sucking up all the oxygen in the room and making her pulse erratic. The stubborn jackass obviously wasn't going anywhere until he got the answer to his unasked question.
"I told Lash what he needed to know." She scrolled through her email, fighting the instinct to look up at Isaac and drink in every detail about him from the scuffed toe on his right boot to the way his jeans rode low on his hips to the smug grin on his lips that she wanted desperately to either slap off or kiss off—it was a toss-up which would eventually happen.
Isaac didn't take the unspoken but clearly telegraphed hint to skedaddle. He strolled deeper into her office, stopping in front of the photo of her sister with baby Essie, and picked it up. The way he looked at it made it seem as if he could see more than what was there in front of him in black and white—as if he wanted to get a peek at what was below the surface to whatever was real and raw and true. Maybe he could see the light in Amelia—her sister always had it—but he sure as hell wasn't going to get a good look at what was underneath Tamara's icy facade.
No one knew the importance of keeping up appearances better than Tamara. What was it her mother had always said? Oh yes. Don't let them see the ugly until you've already talked them out of a prenup and the ring's on your finger. It was the only way, her mother had warned again and again and again until it had been imprinted on Tamara's brain, to prepare for the inevitable day when her looks faded and her
rich husband realized there was nothing else to her but sagging tits and a fast-widening ass.
You've got exactly one thing going for you, Tamara Anne—and the clock started ticking on it the second you got your first period.
There was nothing quite like her mother's loving pep talks.
"For someone who hates being in the dark, you sure do tend to leave others playing guessing games." Isaac sat the photo down with a reverent gentleness and turned to her, something serious lurking in his gaze. "That'll catch up to you one of these days."
Shoving the rest of her mom's little gems of advice back into a deep, dark mental hole, she started typing an email composed of total gibberish. "Well, that's not something you ever have to worry about."
"But I do, because I spend hours just wondering about you." His large shadow fell across her keyboard. "So tell me, Tamara darlin', what other needs can I help you take care of?"
Her fingers faltered on the keyboard before speeding up. "You could help with my need for quiet by leaving."
"I'm wounded." He slapped his palm onto his muscular chest. "And after all I've done to make that messy little bungalow of yours safe enough so you could go home without worry."
Despite her best intentions, a sense of gratefulness settled in her belly like an unfamiliar snack. "I never asked you to."
"That's alright, you can thank me over dinner. What night this week are you free?"
No matter how tempting it was to follow up that kiss in the garage with a hard, slow, and thorough fuck, she didn't have that option. Like every other luxury in her life, the ability to let down her guard with anyone was a thing of the past.
"Let me see." She clicked on her calendar, picked a date and started typing. "Here we go."
Keeping her chin at the perfect haughty level and her gaze as uninterested as possible considering the circumstances, she turned her laptop around so he could read what she'd typed.
