Hard Case (Hard as Nails #2) (3 page)

“Anybody home?” he calls out.

There’s no sound.

It’s the kind of silence that exists in the vacuum that lingers when someone leaves. Or, in this case, when someone dies.

The house is a disaster. The coat rack just inside the door is on the floor. We go to the left, checking out the main part of the house first. Couch cushions are all over the living room. A few of them have been cut open, and the stuffing is spread out like snow. Magazines, newspapers, mail, our photos – everything is everywhere.

We step through the house room by room, as quietly as possible, the debris making noise with each step as we survey the mess.

“Who the hell would have done this?” I ask Slate. “I was only gone for a few days.”

He doesn’t speak for a few minutes, until we’ve checked every room. Except my bedroom.

In the hallway outside the open bedroom door, I hesitate. I don’t smell blood, not the way I did the night I shot Josh, but my stomach roils anyway. “I can’t go in there,” I say. “I can’t see…”

“Let me check it out,” he says, leaving me in the hallway.

I hear him moving around in my bedroom, then he calls, “I’ve covered…things, Rose.” I know he means he’s covered the bloody carpet where Josh died. My stomach clenches and heaves, and I cover my mouth, certain I’m going to throw up. I killed Josh. He died in our bedroom.

The spot where he died is no more than twenty feet in front of me, out of sight but not out of mind. My head starts to spin and I shakily place a hand on the hallway wall, trying to keep myself upright. Vaguely, I hear Slate talking again.

“You obviously can’t stay here. I’ll grab some of your things.”

The idea of him going through my stuff snaps me from my looming hysteria. With all that’s happened, I can’t have a stranger touching my personal belongings.

“Wait!” I call. I take a couple of deep breaths, then slowly walk into my bedroom. Immediately, my gaze lands on the pile of blankets he’s stripped from my bed and used to cover the spot on the floor where Josh had fallen. But there’s other stuff on the floor. My panties are strewn everywhere, having been dumped out of the dresser.

It seems such a silly, petty thing to be embarrassed about given all that has happened, but even so, I feel my face flush, realizing the beautiful, dangerous man with me can see all of my unmentionables. There are even a few of my . . . personal items . . . lying on the floor. I grab my toys and toss them into the open closet, out of sight. Luckily, Slate at least acts like he doesn’t see them.

He’s no longer holding his gun. “You okay?” he asks, watching me carefully.

“Y—yes. I just…I’ll grab some things to take with me.”

He nods. “You have no idea who could have done this.”

It’s a statement more than a question, but still I answer. “No.”

“You had a restraining order filed against your husband. You’d filed for legal separation. The papers indicated he was acting strangely. How?”

I glance once again at the spot on the floor where Josh had landed after I shot him. In desperation, I move to the closet, grab my overnight bag, and start throwing clothes into it. “He became paranoid. Feared for his safety and mine.”

I talk about how Josh had been talking like someone was following him. I talk about the voicemail messages and the things Josh had said when he came into the house that night.

“Did he ever tell you who was chasing him? Who was supposed to be coming after him?” Slate asks.

I shake my head. “I thought he was paranoid because of drugs or whatever. You should have seen him. He looked rough. He’d gone from being this sweet, handsome man to looking like a stereotypical junkie. And his eyes...”

“He looked wild, didn’t he? You didn’t know if he was high or afraid, or maybe a little bit of both.” He walks into the adjoining vanity area where I’d been tossing in toiletries as fast as I could. Once again, I vaguely register that he seems to be telling me how things were rather than asking me.

I can’t say anything. I can hear Josh’s frantic voice telling me he’s going to protect me and keep them from finding me. I’m shaking, and tears are welling up in my eyes. I put my hands over my face. I don’t want to do this now. I don’t want to break down in front of this stranger who walked into my life today.

His arm is around my shoulders, and he’s pulling me into his broad chest. He feels solid.

Strong.

Warm.

Safe.

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “Don’t fight it, Rose. Regardless of what was going on, you need to grieve.”

His voice is hypnotic and comforting. I feel myself being pulled in, but I can’t, I tell myself. The comfort and security I feel in his arms doesn’t make any sense. I dry my eyes with my hands. “No,” I tell him. “No, I can’t do this now. I can’t stay here, and I can’t expect you to offer me your shoulder like this just after we’ve met. No.”

Underneath my frantic voice, I can still hear Josh telling me he’s going to protect me and keep me safe from
them
. Who the hell were
they
?

“Who was after him?” I ask Slate. “Can you tell me?”

“I don’t know, Rose. All I know is he might not have been as crazy as you thought he was. It certainly looks like someone was after him, or at least something they thought he might have had.”

I look around the room. He’s right. This isn’t the result of vandalism. The house was ransacked by someone looking for something.

“That would make perfect sense with your suspicions of drug use,” he tells me. “No matter what it was, he was obviously mixed in with the wrong people. Are you done packing?”

I nod.

“Then let’s go. I’ll make sure you have a place to stay.”

I narrow my eyes at him in suspicion. Once again, he’s offering me more than I want to accept. “You don’t have to,” I tell him, even as I push past him, bag in hand, and practically run to the front door. When I’m standing outside, I gulp in huge breaths of air.

Slate is beside me, watching me again. “I know how hard this must be for you. Let me help you,” he insists.

I don’t know if I should. I try to decline again. “No, it’s fine. I’ll have to come back later.” The tears are threatening to flood again at the horrible thought. “Look at all this work I have to do.”

“It’ll be here when you’re ready to come back. In fact, you can come back a little at a time this way, instead of diving in head first. You see the car out there?” he asks.

I nod, confused. What does his car have to do with where I sleep tonight?

“That car means I know what I’m saying. If I didn’t know what I was talking about, I wouldn’t make enough money to afford something that nice. Am I right?”

“I don’t know. I guess.”

“I’m right,” he insists. He grabs my bag and walks with me to his car. He puts my bag in the trunk just as a car creeps down my street.

Something’s wrong.

Time freezes.

I watch as Slate reaches for his gun. Without being told, I duck down on the passenger side of his car. Somehow I know the guys slowly riding by have something to do with the state my house is in and the shape my husband was in before I killed him.

I hear a couple of shots fire, and my mind threatens to take me back into the bedroom with a revolver in my hand.

Instead, time speeds up.

“Get in,” Slate barks as the other car races off.

We get in the car and take off at a breakneck pace.

“You’re coming to my house,” he orders, sounding as though it’s a fact set in stone.

“What?”

“Look, whoever was after your husband is after you, too. I can make sure you’re safe. You’re staying with me.”

Chapter Four

Slate

Getting shot at isn’t what I signed up for. Of course, I can’t say I’m completely shocked it happened either. Not with the type of men I associate with. Like the man who sent me to bail out Rose in the first place.

A man who took on the role of my father when my real one was taken away. A man whose entire existence is lawlessness.

A man who owns me.

No matter how many times I want to tell King this will be the last job, there’s always another job lined up behind it. Granted, this one’s a little different than the others, but it’s just one more “favor” for the man who once said he understood my desire to go straight. But that was before me and the guys called in a favor to save our friend Street. I’d do it again, no doubt about it. But God, I hope someday soon our debt will be paid. That I’ll be free.

Really
free. Not being hauled off to jail myself or ending up dead in a ditch somewhere.

The question foremost in my mind right now, however, is who shot at us. Despite him being an asshole of the highest order, I doubt the men were sent by King. After all, I can hardly get him the assurances he’s looking for if I’m dead. On the other hand, it’s possible he lost patience and decided the best way to ensure Rose wasn’t a threat was to eliminate her, and if that meant taking me out in the process, fine. But I don’t believe that either.

I’ve known King since I was twelve years old. He’s a thief and a manipulative fuck-wad, one who doesn’t shy away from intimidation and assault on occasion, but as far as I know, he’s not a murderer. Plus, he’s always looked at me and the other guys as the sons he never had. Sons he was free to manipulate to do his bidding, sure, but there was no reason for me to think King would allow me to be killed in cold blood.

Shit.

I take a quick glance at Rose, who’s pale and wide-eyed, wearing the same dazed expression she’d worn when I’d first met her in the jail.

I’m confident she doesn’t know anything about what her husband had been involved with, including his ties to King. She may be the only innocent person I’ve ever had to represent.

I’m glad. I’m hopeful I’ll be able to convince King, and I’ll be able to defend her in court exactly as she expects me to. But based on what happened at her house, getting us to that point seems like it will be more difficult than I thought.

I continue to speed away from her house, checking my mirrors for anyone following us. When I’m confident we’re not being tailed, I ease off the gas and listen as the engine relaxes.

I turn us in the direction of my house, bracing for what’s next. It’s only a matter of time before the question hanging in the air between us forms itself on her full, tender lips. I wouldn’t say she’s naïve, but it’s obvious to me that all of this is entirely new to her.

“Does this sort of thing happen often?” she asks, relaxing her death grip on the sides of her seat for the first time since we left her house.

“Not often, but not unheard of. It’s to be expected after serving many clients who find themselves mixed up with the wrong people.” I don’t tell her I was once one of those
wrong people
. That I still am one.

No matter how straight and narrow the path I try to walk, I will always be one of them. But she doesn’t need to know that. I need her to trust me.

“I guess that means Josh was mixed up with those people,” she says, and the defeat in her tone is hard to resist. Deep down, I think every man wants to be a hero, and when the opportunity presents itself, we all feel the urge to fill that role. Only the last thing I can be is her hero. Hell, I might be her ultimate downfall. And that’s something I’d truly regret.

“Look, let’s focus on keeping you safe for now. We can worry about what was going on with your husband later.”

* * *

Rose

Slate drives like a man who is used to being on the wrong side of the law, not like a man charged with upholding and protecting the law in court. Then again, this is the first time I’ve dealt with a lawyer other than my divorce attorney. Maybe they all drive like racecar drivers.

It occurs to me to keep track of the turns we take and the roads we use, but I get lost trying to follow where we’re going. We pass row after row of houses in middle-class neighborhoods, and it really feels like he’s driving me in circles. Soon, the houses, yards, and driveways grow, and I know we’re in a different part of town.

I have so many questions buzzing around in my head. I want to know what kind of trouble my husband was in. Were the men at my house the people he kept saying were coming after us? I wonder if the slick-haired, smooth-talking man sitting next to me is someone I can actually trust. So far, there are no answers. Whatever was going on with Josh, my life is in danger because of it. I don’t have a choice but to trust Slate until I have a better option.

We stop in front of a large wrought iron gate that swings open slowly, revealing a driveway as wide as the road, and I know we have finally arrived at Slate’s house.

The sprawling Mediterranean-style home at the end of the driveway is like a palace with arches, tall windows, stucco, and red-tiled roof. Slate pulls past the three-car garage and parks in front of the recessed entryway underneath one of two balconies overlooking the front of the property.

He puts the car in park and gets out without a single word. He pulls out my bag and carries it to the front door as I’m still climbing out of the car and staring in shock at the sprawling mansion in front of me. He doesn’t wait for me before he opens the front door. The dark wood and arched shape add to the palace-like feel of the place.