Instead, I stepped to the side, gazed at him with wide eyes, and muttered a half-hearted apology as I passed. “Sorry,” I squeaked.
His hand gripped my shoulder lightly. “Wait.”
Oh God.
My legs began to shake. I turned around.
“Yeah?”
“You’re single, adventurous, and have no problem keeping a secret,” he said flatly. I couldn’t help but notice that his teeth seemed as white as the winter snow, but it was his beard that commanded my attention.
I stared back at it – and him – in disbelief.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Am I right?”
My eyes were still fixed on his beard. I nodded. “Uh huh.”
He reached for my hand, turned toward the back door, and paused. “You’re going to come with me.”
I would have followed him to the fiery depths of hell, but I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly. “Huh?”
He met my gaze. “Can I trust you?”
“I uhhm…I’m…You,” I stammered. I swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes.”
“One hundred percent?”
I nodded again. “Yes.”
He tugged against my hand. “Come with me, then.”
I stumbled toward him, half-drunk and slightly confused. For the last three years, I’d lived a life filled with the rules, regulations, and restrictive requirements of a manipulative boyfriend, and following a man I didn’t know toward the back door of the bar was in complete contrast to what I was accustomed to.
“Okay,” I said with a smile.
He reached the door, which was clearly marked “FIRE EXIT ONLY”. He glanced over each shoulder, and then studied the sensor at the top of the door. After searching in his pocket, he reached for the sensor, messed with it for a second, and shoved the door open.
I waited for the alarm to sound, but nothing came.
“What did you do?” I asked as I followed him up the steps. “To the alarm?”
“Disabled it.”
When we reached the top of the stairs, I had a moment, albeit brief, of clarity. “What are we doing?”
“You said I could trust you, right?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, but—”
He stopped, then turned to face me. “But what? Can I trust you?”
“Sure. It’s just—”
“Just what?”
“I have a friend back at the bar.”
“Shari?”
I nodded. “Yeah, how’d—”
He shook his head. “I told her you’d be leaving with me.”
“Seriously?”
He sighed. “Seriously.”
He turned around and began briskly walking down the sidewalk. Needless to say, I followed. After a few hundred feet, he stopped and turned toward me. We were standing beside a black sedan. Behind it sat another car, one I immediately recognized.
A 1967 Shelby GT 500KR.
“Can you drive a stick shift?” he asked.
My Volkswagen was a stick shift, and I was quite versed on driving one, even with a worn-out clutch.
“Yes,” I responded proudly.
“I’ll drive this one.” He pointed toward the sedan. “Follow me in that one.”
I glanced at the Shelby. I couldn’t believe I was even considering getting in a car I didn’t own and following a man I didn’t know to an unknown place. I shifted my eyes toward him.
His beard stared back at me.
No one in their right mind would have agreed to what he was asking, considering the circumstances. Saying no to him was quite possible, saying no to his awesome beard, however, would be difficult.
Forfeiting a chance to drive the car of my dreams wasn’t an option.
“Okay,” I said. “But how’d you get them here? Both of them?”
“I drove the red one. And, I stole this one.” He handed me a set of keys. “You sure you’re alright driving a stick shift?”
I didn’t bat an eye at the stolen car remark. At least, I guessed, I wasn’t driving it. “Positive.”
“It’ll just be a few miles.”
“Okay.”
When I wasn’t gazing into his amazing green and brown speckled eyes, my focus was his beard. Standing only a few feet in front of him, I became lost in his handsome qualities. He cleared his throat.
I blinked.
“You’re going to follow me,” he said. “I’ll park along the street. After I park, drive past me, turn right, and park around the corner, out of sight of where I park my car. Make sure wherever you park has ample room for me to pull in behind you and park without having to take time to parallel park. Lastly, leave the car running in neutral with the brake set, and get into the passenger seat. Okay?”
It seemed mysterious and sketchy.
I loved it.
“Okay.”
“Now,” he said. “Tell me what we’re going to do.”
“I’m going to follow you for a few miles. You’ll park along the street. I’ll drive past, turn right, and park around the corner at the curb out of sight of your car. Leave room for you to pull in behind me. Car running, in neutral, me in passenger seat.”
He smiled.
I smiled in return.
“Follow me,” he said.
“Wait,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“It’s best you don’t know.”
“Listen. You caught me at the right time, on the right day, and in the right mood. This deal is sketchy as fuck. Tell me your name, or no deal.”
He sighed. “Bradley.”
“Nice to meet you, Bradley. I’m Jessie.”
He nodded and turned away.
5:58 p.m. Saturday
Bradley had parked in front of the First National Bank, further feeding my suspicions of the entire event being illicit. Thoughts of him robbing the bank and us escaping Bonny and Clyde style ran through my mind.
As I sat in the passenger seat, the sound of the exhaust rumbled from behind the car. I appreciated cars since my childhood, primarily a result of my father – who I idolized. He was a collector of fine autos, and taught me everything he knew about cars. One of his favorites was the Shelby GT 500KR, but finding one that suited him proved all but impossible.
He passed away in prison when I was in high school. Serving time on an auto theft charge that I wasn’t sure he even committed, he died after a long bout with pneumonia. Later in life, I blamed my penchant for bad boys to his love of fast cars and his untimely death in prison.
It hadn’t been long, but it seemed the alcohol I had consumed was beginning to wear off. Second guessing my decision to assist Bradley altogether, I pulled my phone from my purse and sent Shari a text. While I waited for her to respond, I checked my makeup in the rearview mirror.
Just as I finished adjusting my lipstick, Bradley came around the corner at a rather aggressive pace. His car came to a stop immediately behind the Shelby.
The door swung open.
He tossed an oversized duffel bag into the back seat, jumped in the driver’s seat, and pushed in the clutch.
“You buckled?” he asked.
I glanced at the bag, turned toward him, and calmly nodded.
He shifted the car into gear, pressed the throttle, and released the clutch. While sirens wailed in the distance, we pulled away from the curb as if we were driving to dinner.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Three million bucks, give or take, why?”
“Just wondering.”
“We didn’t meet by chance,” he said.
I shot him a look. “What do you mean?”
“I’m Rocky Larucci’s son. Your father’s cellmate from prison.”
My heart skipped a beat. “Really?”
He chuckled. “I’d have found you earlier, but I just got out of the joint three days ago. Did a four-year bit for auto theft.”
“You robbed that bank, didn’t you?”
I knew the answer, but I wanted to hear it from his mouth.
�
��I did. But. Half of that is yours. Your father insisted on it.”
Other than my irregularly beating heart, I felt remarkably calm. “So, you just got out of prison?”
He turned another corner and shifted gears. “Few days ago, yeah.”
“Grow that awesome beard in there?”
He laughed. “Yeah, didn’t shave the entire time I was in. Thought it’d be a good disguise.”
“I like it,” I said. “A lot.”
He rolled to a stop at a traffic light. “Maybe I’ll keep it.”
While we sat at the light, my mind tried to digest all of what he had said. While processing who he was, and his odd ties to my father, the sound of a police siren grew closer.
“Shit,” he said. “Cop coming up behind us.”
I turned around. The officer was coming straight for us, with lights blinking and sirens wailing.
Before the signal turned green, he revved the engine, released the clutch, and shot through the light.
In seconds, we were flying down the sparsely filled street at 130 miles an hour. Excited, scared, and fearing capture, I clutched my purse and prayed. Within a matter of thirty more seconds, we were a block ahead of the cops and quickly gaining distance.
I’m going to take this corner pretty fast,” he said. “And about half-way up the next block, I’m going to stop. As soon as I come to a complete stop, get out and lay in the street.”
I glanced over my shoulder. The closest car was a block and a half away. “You’re outrunning them, you can’t stop.”
“They’ll stop pick you up. Tell ‘em you were walking by and I grabbed you. It’ll buy me some time.”
“How will you find me?”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I found you once, didn’t I?”
He had a good point. I nodded. “Okay.”
He took the next corner at 80 miles an hour, and then hammered the gas. Half-way up the block, he came to an abrupt stop.
“Get out,” he shouted.
He revved the engine and waited.
Reluctantly, I opened the door, got out, and did as he asked.
Sprawled out in the street with my purse spilled at my side, I waited. A few seconds later, the sound of the approaching cop car screeching around the corner caused me to divert my eyes toward the intersection.
The car came to a stop twenty feet from me. Two officers jumped out and pulled their guns.
“Don’t fucking move,” one officer shouted. “Or I’ll shoot.”
I remained motionless and glanced up the street in the other direction.
And Bradley was nowhere to be found.
7:03 p.m. Wednesday.
I walked down the stoop and stepped onto the sidewalk. I really didn’t know where I was going, but I felt the need to go for a walk. And, I was hungry.
I hoped the late evening stroll would clear my mind.
The last four days had been filled with thought of my father, Bradley, and coming to terms with the fact my father was more than likely the criminal the courts portrayed him to be.
Two blocks away from my home, and across the street from my favorite pizzeria, I stood and waited for the signal to cross the street.
The unmistakable sound of a muscle car shifting gears rang out through the otherwise silent night. I glanced in the direction of the sound.
Round headlights, round fog lights…
My heart raced.
The car came to a stop in front of me.
“Need a ride?”
I bent down and peered inside. “Oh wow. I was beginning to wonder.”
“Get in,” he said.
“Do you like pizza?” I asked.
“Do I like pizza?” he chuckled. “My name’s Larucci. What do you think?”
“Want to get a slice?”
He nodded, and then pulled the car to the curb.
That night, we shared a slice of pizza, had a few glasses of wine, and talked of our fathers. When we finally reached a point that we were comfortable, we simply drove off into the night.
I never returned to the city. Not. Even. Once.
Some claimed I was kidnapped.
I knew better. I wasn’t kidnapped.
But I was forced.
Well, kind of.
In short, the beard made me do it.
About Scott Hildreth
Born in San Diego, California, Scott now calls Naples, Florida home. Residing along the gulf of Mexico with his wife and children, he somehow finds twelve hours a day to work on his writing. A hybrid author who has published more than two-dozen romance and erotica novels, his three book Mafia Made series through Harlequin is due to start release with the first book in summer 2016.
Scott has spent his entire life pushing boundaries, and his writing is no exception. His books are steamy, however, they always include an HEA, and have no cheating, no sex outside the relationship, and no OW OM drama.
Addicted to riding his Harley-Davidson, tattoos, and drinking coffee, he can generally be found in a tattoo shop, on his Harley, or in a local coffee house when not writing.
Loyal to the fans and faithful followers who allowed him to make writing a full-time career, Scott communicates with his followers on Facebook almost daily. He encourages his readers to follow him on Facebook and Twitter.
Twitter: @ScottDHildreth
Facebook “OFFICIAL”: www.facebook.com/ScottDHildreth
Facebook: www.facebook.com/sdhildreth
Goodreads: www.Goodreads.com/ScottHildreth
Website: www.scotthildreth.com
There are people in the world you don’t notice…until one moment you do. And then they are everywhere. At your favorite coffee shop. At your CrossFit gym. At your soccer league. Getting his haircuts and beard trims in your barbershop.
Only not with me.
“Hey, Roxy,” says the object of my attention in his usual black tank top as he strolls in the shop and towards Jerome’s chair. The gun show—all biceps and triceps and delts—is on full display.
“Bowie.” I give him a nod of my head and flex my own guns.
Though he comes here every Saturday, I never shave him.
Not that it bothers me.
“Did you see that crazy motherfucker with the shark fin beard walking out of here?” Jerome asks him as he preps him for a shave.
“What?” Bowie says, sitting up at attention, halting the prep process. “I missed it!”
“Man, it was amazing. Weird, but amazing,” Jerome replies.
“Just like Roxy,” Bowie says. He tries to catch my gaze in the mirror, but can’t cause I’m too busy rolling them. The clippers vibrate in my hand as I trim the neck of my client.
“Bow, my man, I hear you took a cheap shot at the Rox the other night.” I still my hands over Marvin as his drill sergeant voice booms over the noise of the shop: jazz trumpets, buzzing clippers, chattering men.
A snort of laughter escapes from under the hot towel covering Bowie’s face. “It was clean, man. She’s such a diver.”
“Shut your shit talk,” I say, almost making a dip in Marvin’s flattop. “You totally missed the ball.”
“Your revisionist history is lacking,” he says and his broad, cocky smile crinkles his eyes. “It was all ball, baby.”
I respond with a rub of a middle finger across the side of my nose and cough “bullshit” into my shoulder while brushing stray hairs from Marvin’s shoulders.
Marvin chuckles and says, “When you gonna let her take care of that beard, Bow. I mean, Jerome’s getting up there, a li’l shaky and this gal here is a master.” He rubs a hand over his freshly shaven chin. “You’d be fancy with a Batman goatee.”
Bowie’s ability to answer is negated by my boss’ razor scraping along his jugular region, demonstrating that his precision is not affected in any way. Jerome’s laugh comes from deep within, voice low and slow like James Earl Jones. “Probably not the best idea if he keeps trashing her on the pitch. Can’t have an accidental slip in the shop.�
��
“Plus, I’m more of a Wonder Woman kind of guy,” Bowie says as Jerome adjusts his head position.
This time he does catch my reflection in the mirror. He’s smiling that fucking smile—a full three dimple level with all the teeth. His charm is wasted on me. I’m still pissed about that game. And he knows how I feel about the Wonder Woman. I shaved the symbol on the side of my head at the last soccer tournament.
But sweet baby Jane—that smile—if he didn’t have a serious girlfriend and wasn’t such a pain in my ass, I’d be drinking what he’s servin’.
He does not need to know that information.
I pick up my razor and hold it up to the light as I shoot him a glare. One should always fear the girl with a straight blade. But his smile holds and is accompanied by a playful challenge in his eyes.
I’m busy cleaning my station. Bowie’s leaning back in Jerome’s chair, smiling and laughing and filling up the room with his charm. And that’s fine. I mean, normally its fine, it’s just that recently his presence takes up more space in my head. I don’t need him there. I need the space.
“Oh don’t mind her,” Jerome says. “She’s still moody from the break-up.”
Fuck me. This is why I need the space. So I can pay better attention to other’s conversations, especially when they are about me. “I am not moody.” The growl in my voice causes every dude in the room to look at me with the same you’re full of shit expression.
“Fine.” I say with a dry laugh. “But I’m not moody about the break-up. Christ, y’all are worse than my grandma’s book club.” Bunch of mother hens. I duck around to the back room to change my shirt for the gym.
“The break-up?” Bowie says while he pays Tommy at the front desk. “So that’s why the pretty princess doesn’t come around anymore.”
“That girl wouldn’t dare show her face here,” Tommy replies. “She is banned from all things Rox.”
I step out from the back room, pulling my tank top down over my abs. “Are you insinuating I’m not the pretty princess?” I level him with a direct gaze, raised eyebrows and all.
At first Bowie looks caught, eyes wide, no smile, just a parting of lips as he looks at my stomach then my eyes. I think I’ve got him. Finally shut him up.
