Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 132892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132892 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 664(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
“He’s my handyman,” I said absently. “He moved into the building about a month ago.”
“Your handyman?”
“Yeah,” I said. “You know, the guy you call when something breaks? He does maintenance around the building. Huge help.”
“And who is he, exactly? How do you know you can trust him? I really wish you’d had me do a background check before you—”
What a smug, self-righteous asshole. The anger and frustration and grief and rage I’d suffered over the past year and a half boiled out and I turned on him.
“Shut the fuck up, Brandon,” I snarled. “Jesus, how fucking stupid are you? I’m not your wife anymore, and I haven’t been for a long time. Our daughter died and you didn’t even bother to show up. Once you pull something like that, it’s all over. You can’t argue with me, you can’t bully me, you can’t do anything, because we aren’t a couple anymore. You don’t exist in my world, got it?”
Brandon gaped at me, and for once he didn’t have a damned thing to say. The phone buzzed again, and I looked down to find another message.
COOPER: I need Darrens number
Fucking men. Always making demands.
“Are you cheating on me with him?” Brandon asked, scowling. I blinked at him. Shit, maybe he really was high.
“Yes, Brandon,” I replied. “I have mad, passionate sex with him every night. Him and all his motorcycle club friends. Until recently I was limiting myself to male strippers, but all that body oil gets messy after a while, don’t you think?”
“We’re still legally married,” he said stiffly, and I burst out laughing.
“Get out.”
“Tinker—”
“It’s time to leave now,” I said. “I’ll be here until the end of the week. Don’t feel like you need to change your schedule—it’s not like I want to see you. And think about those financial papers, because if you don’t start cooperating, I might just lose my shit and do something crazy. Now get out of my kitchen.”
He opened his mouth to reply. I turned around, opening a drawer to pull out a chef’s knife. It wasn’t my favorite, but it’d do. Spinning back toward him, I raised it, as if studying the blade.
“I’ve got a lot to do here, Brandon,” I said, testing the blade’s sharpness with my finger. “It’s been a long day and I’m feeling a little hormonal. Isn’t that what you always said about me? That I let my hormones do all the thinking? You wanna find out what they’re suggesting I do right now?”
Silence fell between us, his eyes glued to the knife.
“Are you threatening me?” he asked slowly. “Because that’s a very serious—”
I slammed the knife down on the island, then offered him my sweetest smile.
“I never make threats.”
He stood and slowly backed away, eyes wide. “We aren’t finish—”
“Good night, Brandon,” I said. “Sleep tight and lock your door, sweetheart.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Oh, you have no idea.” I laughed as he walked away, because even if he was right, I didn’t care. It’d been a big day, and I’d learned an important lesson.
Talia wasn’t the only one who could use a knife.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GAGE
Tinker texted me Darren’s phone number the next morning, along with instructions to contact him—not her—if something went wrong with the building. Whole fuckin’ situation pissed me off, but it was probably for the best . . . Until I finished things with Talia, there wasn’t much to discuss. I’d figure things with Tinker out later, because Picnic had been right about one thing—I couldn’t afford to lose focus on this run. If things fell to shit, I could find myself in prison or even dead.
Strangely, the trip itself was anticlimactic.
I mean, I knew it was supposed to be easy, but Marsh wasn’t exactly trustworthy. I reached Bellingham without drama, pulling off for a sandwich at a truck stop while a couple of the local Reapers went through the truck. Most of what they found matched the manifest—scrap metal and recyclables. Well, scrap metal, recyclables, and about four kilos of cocaine. If I’d had any illusions up to that point that Marsh was a criminal mastermind, him sending that much product with an unknown like myself was enough to kill them. So much for his promise that everything would be totally legal.
That was strike one against him.
The drugs were well hidden, I had to give him that. Throw in the fact that my cover was clean as a whistle, and I’d felt perfectly safe crossing the border. The shipment was just another nail in Marsh’s grave, though. If he wanted to move product through the Reapers’ territory, we expected him to pay the appropriate taxes. Clearly, that wasn’t happening.
Strike two.
I off-loaded the stuff in Vancouver, playing my part perfectly. Transportation only, no questions asked. Then I moved on to Penticton, picking up a load of fruit-processing machinery, of all things. I searched it myself before crossing the border back into the States, just in case they were setting me up. If Marsh’s people were smuggling something back down, damned if I was able to find it.