by Lara Adrian
With one arm raised to shield his face, he peered out at the yard and driveway.
Ned’s truck was already halfway to the desert road, bouncing over potholes and kicking up clouds of yellow dust as Naomi made her escape under the cover of broad daylight.
CHAPTER 6
“Holy shit, Nay, what the hell happened to you? I’ve been blowing up your phone for the past twelve hours.”
Michael rolled his wheelchair back to make room for her to enter the small 1950s bungalow located in a residential neighborhood northeast of the Strip. As she stepped inside, he peered around her, frowning when he spotted the unfamiliar pickup truck in the short driveway.
“Where’d you get the jalopy? Or do I even want to know?”
“Probably not.” She closed the door behind her and unzipped her hoodie as she walked past him, peeling away the bulk of her ill-fitting clothes until all she wore was a black tank top and baggy jeans. The house was quiet for eleven A.M., especially considering there were five kids currently living there at last count. “Everyone still asleep?”
“Yeah.” Michael gave her his typical mother-hen look. “We all had a long night, mainly because I was rattling around until sometime after four o’clock. You know they can sense when something’s wrong or either of us is upset.”
She bent and dropped a chaste kiss to the top of his sandy blond hair. “I know. I’m sorry I made you worry.”
Michael’s small home had been an unofficial safe house for street kids since he’d bought it five years ago, using the bulk of the insurance settlement he was awarded two years after being hit by a drunk driver who’d plowed through a crosswalk on Flamingo Road. The depression he’d suffered over his inability to ever walk again had taken him to some dark places. It hadn’t helped that his long-term boyfriend had abruptly decided Michael’s months-long hospitalization was a good time for them to “take a break and see other people”.
Naomi’s friend had lost so much so suddenly, but it was the dream of helping other kids like him—kids like Naomi and him both—who’d been dealt shitty hands in the life lottery and had no family of their own that pulled Michael through and gave him new purpose.
It had given her purpose too. Seeing him through the year of intense therapies, all of the ups and downs that followed his accident and the long road to recovery, had galvanized their friendship and their commitment to the kids they wanted to help.
They’d been roomies ever since. In addition to the bedroom with its pair of twin beds that she and Michael shared like brother and sister, two other rooms had been outfitted with bunkbeds and space for six kids each, eight if they had to make do for the short-term. One room was reserved for boys, the other for girls.
The house wasn’t a palace by any stretch, but it was comfortable and it was home. And when the city’s shelters and flophouses were full, it meant a safe place for any kid under eighteen to lay their heads and get three squares with no fear of judgment or payback.
Anything was better than ending up a ward of the state. Naomi knew that firsthand. A system that expected kids who’d already had their trust dragged over broken glass a thousand times before to put that same trust in a bunch of bureaucrats who didn’t know them, and didn’t give a shit about them, aside from checking off their little forms and passing the buck to the next person in line? It wasn’t any wonder most kids slipped through the cracks or became so desperate for a sense of normalcy they’d accept even the most dubious offer of kindness from anyone who gave them a second glance.
If she and Michael had anything to say about it, no kid would ever feel they had nowhere to go or no one to trust.
This dream of theirs, as humble as it was, meant everything to her. More than that, it was the one good thing she’d done with her life that she knew would have made her mother proud.
But there was no question she’d pushed the limits last night and it almost cost her life.
It would have, if not for Asher.
God. Asher.
Talk about dubious offers of kindness. His had come with strings attached, too, evidently. Or, rather, a locked cage.
She flopped down on the living room sectional and let out a groan, clutching her skull.
“Good lord, look at you.” Michael parked his wheelchair in front of her. Although his round face was pinched with worry, even anger, he kept his voice at nearly a whisper. “You’ve got bruises all over you, Nay. What the fuck happened last night after you texted that you were in the clear and on your way home?”
“Everything kind of went to hell at that point,” she admitted, then relayed the highlights of how she’d been intercepted by Casino Moda security and knocked out cold for a ride down the I-15 to the middle of the Mojave. “They dragged me out of the car and walked me out onto the sand at gunpoint.”
Michael sucked in a breath. “Sweet Jesus, Joseph, and Mary.” Slapping a hand to his chest, he closed his eyes for a long moment, then exhaled slowly. When he looked at her again, his hazel gaze was filled with a mix of horror and relief. “Okay. You’re obviously alive, so chalk one up to your uncanny ability to land on your feet no matter the predicament. But dammit, Naomi. This shit is getting serious. You know Leo Slater doesn’t mess around.”
“I know.” She knew that better than most people. And last night she’d gotten a pretty hefty reminder. “But like you said, I’m obviously alive.”
He frowned. “Right. And how exactly did you manage that?”
“I had some . . . help.”
“Unless you’re going to tell me that a unit of Special Forces soldiers dropped from the sky to save you from three of Slater’s henchmen—three heavily armed henchmen—then I can’t even imagine what kind of help it took to get you out of this fix, Nay. And that doesn’t do anything to explain the rusted-out heap that’s parked in the driveway.”
She smirked in spite of the gravity of what happened to her—both last night in the desert and this morning at Asher’s house. Michael always had the ability to diffuse even the worst situation and make her feel that everything was going to be all right.
“It wasn’t a Special Forces unit, and nobody dropped from the sky to save me.” She glanced at him, knowing he was going to find the actual truth even harder to swallow. “It was a massive Breed male. He drove up in that old pickup truck and calmly took out all three of Slater’s goons in about a minute flat.”
“A Breed male?” Michael gaped at her. “Please don’t tell me you ended up being a vampire’s midnight snack on top of everything else last night.”
She shook her head, then winced at the dull throb of her temples. “Asher didn’t bite me. He said he was going to bring me to the hospital, but instead, after I passed out from a concussion, he took me home with him and looked after me all night. It wasn’t until this morning when I woke up that things really got weird, ending with me locked in his bedroom.”
Michael choked on his gasp. “That’s when things started to get weird? Go on, then. I’m all ears.”
“He saw my birthmark.”
“You mean your Breedmate mark,” her friend corrected helpfully.
She scowled. “Don’t call me that. It’s only a birthmark, unless I wake up one day and decide I want to have little vampire babies or something. Which I won’t, and I don’t.”
Michael shrugged. “That mark is also the only reason you managed to escape from inside a locked room, am I right? That handy little Breedmate talent of yours for manipulating metal gears and magnetics. That same one you’ve been using to finesse jackpots out of casino slots and roulette wheels for about as long as I’ve known you.” He chuckled. “Is that how you hijacked your Good Samaritan’s truck out there too?”
“I didn’t finesse the truck,” she muttered. “I didn’t have to, because I found the keys left on the kitchen table.”
Which didn’t excuse the fact that she stole Asher’s truck. Stealing money from Leo Slater was one thing she’d never apologize for, but she couldn’t deny the pang of guil
t she carried knowing she’d taken something from Asher when all he’d done was help her.
“As for being a Good Samaritan,” she added, “I wouldn’t go that far, Michael. Good Samaritans return lost wallets without taking any of the cash. Good Samaritans walk old ladies across busy streets, and volunteer at food banks. They don’t murder three gangsters in cold blood over a woman they don’t even know. They don’t insist that they’re honor-bound to protect someone just because of some silly birthmark, then proceed to make arrangements to ship said person off to a vampire safe house God knows where like I’m a piece of furniture or a prized sow.”
“He did all that?”
She nodded tightly. “He told the Order about me, for fuck’s sake. If I hadn’t split, later tonight I’d be dealing with not only Asher but any number of Order warriors intent on guarding my life because of some antiquated moral code.”
“Your badass Breed hero knows the Order?”
Naomi shot him a flat stare. “You don’t have to act so impressed with him, you know.”
“He saved your life, darling. Of course, I’m impressed. And I’m damned grateful to him.”
Naomi smiled at her friend, warmed by his affection.
And she supposed if she slowed herself down and gave her outrage a minute to cool, there was a part of her that couldn’t help being more than a little intrigued with Asher too. She had so many questions about him. So much she wanted to know, like how he’d met his friend Ned and what he’d been doing with his life before that time.
She had seen a hauntedness in his deep blue eyes. A pain she could not name. Maybe all she saw was the wounds of his unique gift—his curse to experience all the anguish and distress of whomever he touched. What must that be like for him, day in and day out? How did he cope with a lifetime full of such memories? She wanted to know, wanted to ask him all of these things and so much more.
Not the least of which being why, if he was so willing to protect her life, did he not already have a Breedmate of his own?
Michael reached over and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “If I ever see this Asher of yours, I mean to thank him for saving my best friend.”
“Asher’s not my anything,” she grumbled, getting up from the sofa. “And if I’m lucky I’ll never have to see him again.”
Michael’s brows lifted. “Oh, sweet sister from another mister. He’s a hottie with a body, isn’t he?”
She wanted to laugh, but she was too busy fighting off a sudden wash of heat. She could literally feel the blood rushing to her cheeks as an unwanted image of Asher’s muscled bulk and ruggedly handsome face took form in her mind’s eye.
He was more than hot. He was unearthly masculine and easily the most arousing man she’d ever seen. Breed, she corrected herself. She wasn’t quite prepared to think of him as simply a man, let alone one she could be attracted to. Especially after he pulled that caveman routine on her this morning. Regardless of how noble his intentions might have been.
“I think the word you’re looking for is psychotic,” she said, and headed into the kitchen, desperate for some water—or maybe a stiff drink. “And anyway, it doesn’t matter what I think about Asher. I’ve got bigger things to think about—namely my next move with Leo Slater.”
Michael rolled into the room after her. All of his humor and teasing faded at the mention of Slater. “What are you talking about, your next move? Naomi, siphoning off some of Casino Moda’s profits might have seemed like a hoot and a half when you first started this game of yours, but shit got serious last night. You almost got killed.”
She filled a glass of water from the tap and downed it, then shrugged. “I landed on my feet.”
“Barely. Have you seen yourself? You’re full of scrapes and bruises.” He hissed a quiet curse, shaking his head. “If not for the mercy of a stranger—a Breed male who by your own description could have just as easily turned on you last night—odds are you’d be lying under a pile of dirt somewhere in the Mojave right now.”
“It’s not about me. It’s about justice, Michael. It’s about making sure no kid who comes through our door ever has to be turned away because we’re out of beds or out of food. It’s about taking something from a powerful, corrupt asshole like Leo Slater and giving it to someone who really needs it. Someone who deserves it.”
Michael let out a slow sigh. “No, Naomi. It’s about your mother. It’s about what Slater did to her. I know you want to do right for these kids, but this is about vengeance for you. And if you’re not careful, you’re going to end up just like your mom. Missing and presumed dead at Slater’s hands.”
It hurt, hearing him say that. Not because he was wrong, but because he knew her better than anyone ever had. As much as she wanted to provide for the kids growing up on the streets abandoned and terrified as she had after her mother’s disappearance, she was also out for blood.
Leo Slater’s blood.
Her plan had always been to milk him dry through a series of increasingly humiliating, unsolved heists. She already had a dozen wins under her belt, never mind last night’s blunder. And now she had her eye on an even bigger prize—a combined jackpot that had been accumulating for months at Moda.
Naomi wanted to walk off with it all. She wanted Slater to be made a fool in front of his investors and high-roller clientele for his lack of security. Eventually, she wanted to destroy him.
Then, someday, once he was reduced to squalor and shame, all of his power stripped from him because of her, she wanted to confront him face-to-face and tell him it was she who took away everything he had—just as he had done to her.
Only then, after he knew what she’d done, she wanted to be the one to drive a knife into his heart.
“You don’t have to worry about me,” she insisted to Michael. “I know what I’m doing. And I am careful.”
“No, sweetheart. You’re not.” He shook his head soberly. “Not anymore, you aren’t. This vendetta you have against him is making you reckless. You need to quit, Nay. I mean now.”
“I can’t do that, Michael. Not until I make this last score.”
He was about to protest further, but the sound of shuffling feet on the linoleum in the hallway put an abrupt halt to their conversation. Twin boys, dark-haired and mocha-skinned, with lean bodies and rounded cherub faces that said they were barely into their teens, stepped cautiously into the kitchen. Naomi had never seen them before, and she saw their uncertainty when they caught sight of her too.
“Hi,” she said, offering a friendly smile.
Michael pivoted his wheelchair to face them. “Hey there, guys. Sleep okay?”
His irritation with her faded instantly now that the kids were in the room. The boys offered wary nods, but kept glancing at Naomi. The slightly taller one laid a protective arm around his brother. His sharp, dark eyes took in her appearance, lingering on the bruises shadowing her face and chin.
“Who’s she?”
They didn’t ask about her injuries. Most of the street kids had wounds and scars of their own, and there seemed to be an unwritten code that prohibited uncomfortable questions.
“I’m Naomi,” she said. “I hope we weren’t talking too loud out here and woke you?”
The kids gave vague shakes of their heads.
Michael touched her shoulder and smiled at the twins. “Naomi lives here too. She’s like a sister to me. Sometimes that means we argue like siblings.” That got a smile out of the shorter of the two boys. Michael glanced up at her. “Nay, this is Max and Billy. I’m hoping they’re going to stick around for some breakfast?” He raised a questioning brow toward Max, the taller one, who was clearly the boss.
The boy’s slight weight shifted from foot to foot as his brother glanced at him hopefully. “Yeah,” Max murmured. “I guess we could eat. Do you think we could take showers too? It’s been a few days and . . .”
He trailed off, looking down at his threadbare kicks, shame rolling off him in waves. Naomi wanted nothing more than to drag him in
to her arms and tell him he mattered. To promise him it wouldn’t always be this way. But she’d stood in those same tattered shoes and shaky trust enough times to know that nothing would send him running faster than a hug or a well-meaning lecture.
She folded her hands in front of her and gave the kids a warm, casual smile.
“You can use the shower in the master bathroom,” she told them. “End of the hall. Towels are in the linen closet, second door down on your right. Help yourselves, then when you’re done, be sure to squeegee the tile and hang your wet towels up to dry on the hook behind the door, all right?”
Strange as it seemed, while most middle-class teens rebelled against house rules and parental guidance, the kids that came through their makeshift shelter seemed to appreciate being given a few responsibilities. Maybe feeling that they were contributing something took away a bit of the embarrassment of needing—and accepting—someone’s help. It also reminded them, albeit subtly, about the importance of showing respect and having self-discipline.
They didn’t have a whole lot of rules here. Kids came and went of their own free will. And the promise not to pry or contact police, parents, or social services, kept more of them coming back—even, in some cases, staying until they were able to get on their feet.
In return, she and Michael had a strict “no violence, no drugs” rule, and each child was expected to clean up after themselves. They took anywhere from six to ten kids on a given day, which meant some nights there was a kid conked out on the sofa as well. If they had more space, they could not only provide longer term accommodations but also increase the number of kids they could help.
Which brought her thoughts right back to the huge jackpot ripe for the picking at Moda. One-point-three-million dollars and some change would not only mean land and a proper shelter for the kids, but would ensure the operation stayed viable for years to come. And besides, there was a lot of poetic justice in the notion of using Leo Slater’s money to fund a charity for orphaned and neglected children.
