1. Knox

CHAPTER 1

Knox

T here is nothing about the way I look that says I design watches. I'm not just any designer, I'm Knox "The Sandman" Sanders. It was cool when I was 19 and apprenticing for one of the most notable jewelers at that time. Now?

"Mr. Sanders." A scrawny-looking guy wearing Gold Royale Luxury Transport's signature black slacks and black button-up shirt with gold pinstripes flags me down. The doors open automatically as I exit JFK Airport in New York City. Every New Yorker has a love-hate relationship with this place. As soon as I step out of the terminal, the foul-mouth tirades of cab drivers arguing with NYPD officers determined to keep cars moving through the Arrivals lane echo through the air.

Thunder crashes and lightning flashes after I settle into the back seat of a private car service. I use the same service every time I fly into the city because they're quick, discreet, and understand the importance of getting me from Point A to Point B in a reasonable amount of time. That's the problem when you find a routine that works. Once it works for you, it tends to work for anyone tracking your movements.

There's something different about this driver's route to my home in Brooklyn that's making me fidget. My eyes scan the back seat for his medallion or TLC license. The postcard-sized picture matches the guy driving, so nothing's wrong there. Still, I'm uncertain of where he's heading.

"Hey, Paulie, is it? You should have stayed on the Belt, man. Taking side streets is gonna take forever with the lights," I tell him, checking the watch on my wrist. It's plain, but still a piece of art. Simplistic luxury is my style and I take pride in making watches the same way.

"It's cool, Mr. Sanders. Storm's coming in and they got the Belt all tied up with a flood warning. I figure this way we can get around it and hop back on once we get away from Queens." The driver's laughter mixing with his words doesn't calm my suspicions.

In fact, it irritates me.

"It's fine. Just pull over. I'll call my buddy to come get me. This isn't what I signed up for when I ordered the service."

"No, we're so close, Mr. Sanders. I swear this will get you right where you need to be."

I groan, letting the driver take me through the underbelly of Queens to get to Brooklyn. When he fails to get closer to any expressway, the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as we pull to a stop at a red light.

It all happens in the blink of an eye. The driver's side window shatters under the butt of some guy's gun. The familiar sound of bullets cocked in the chamber of an automatic weapon gets my adrenaline pumping.

"Out of the car," the jacker yells.

Fuck.

Paulie's not moving fast enough as the carjacker reaches in and yanks him out of the seat, right through the window. There's another masked asshole with his gun pointing at the back door for me to get out. I'm in no mood to catch a bullet and obey the order.

The suitcase is in my hand when one guy motions for me to toss it back into the car. My grip tightens before the man with the gun points it at me.

"Don't be a hero, my guy. Just toss the merch back in that bitch and back up," he says, gesturing with the gun.

I toss it in the back seat and the gunman tells me to move toward the trunk, where it opens. I'm not getting in the trunk, and thankfully, neither tries to force me inside. Instead, one punches Paulie in the face several times before shoving his 120-pound frame inside the compartment. The other gunman rifles through my pockets, snatching my phone and tossing it into the back seat. Thankfully, he misses my wallet I keep strapped around my torso.

"Alright, GQ. Kiss the pavement." The jacker motions with his gun again for me to lie on the ground.

Every motion angers me further as I hear the gunmen laughing. Tires screech against the asphalt when they drive away. A dozen scenarios play out in my mind while I'm forced to lie on the concrete in a random neighborhood somewhere in Brooklyn. Shit, it might be Queens. That asshole Paulie has to have something to do with this.

After counting to twenty, I look up to see if the car is gone. Once it's out of sight and I'm back on my feet, I lift my shirt to take off the wallet I keep strapped around my waist. It's a godsend when I travel abroad. My passport, important credit cards, and my keys. I still need a phone to get back home since I have no idea where the fuck I am. The nearest intersection looks busy enough and puts me close to a store that's still open.

A wall of thick plastic covers any access to the cashier, which tells me everything I need to know about the neighborhood. He looks apprehensive scrolling through his phone as I approach him.

"I need a phone, man. Can you make two calls for me? My cab just got jacked," I tell him in as calm a tone as I can muster. It's not this guy's fault.

"You want me to make the call?" he asks with a questioning glare.

"Yeah. I know a lot of people don't like handing their phones to random strangers. Can you just dial the number for me? I need to call the cops. My other call? It will only take a minute. But, once my buddy gets here, I'll be out of your hair."

The clerk reluctantly agrees to help me. There's a sense of pride being one of the few people left to remember phone numbers, and even more knowing there's people who'll answer calls from an unknown number. The clerk gets a hold of the police who sends an officer out that isn't much help. They take my information and give me a card to get the report in a few days. After I finish with the police, the clerk dials the number that takes a few rings before my associate answers.

"What do ya need?" a gruff voice answers loudly from the phone's speaker. Clive always answers, no matter what because any call can mean money made or money lost.

"Clive, it's Sand. I need a ride."

Clive groans on the other end as it's clear he needs to move from wherever he is, but he's the only person I moderately trust to help me right now. He doesn't ask questions as the clerk rattles off the address. Twenty minutes later, Clive pulls up to the storefront for me to slip into the car.

"What the fuck happened?" he asks. The speckles of gray and black hair poking through his face age him. The gray hair's not an indication of his age, but more of the stressful life he lives.

"I was set up. Flew into JFK tonight and the car service I use, I think the driver's been paying attention to me. I got too comfortable."

"Shit, what they take?" He glances at me but keeps his eyes vigilant for any repeat performances of my night.

I give him the short version of the story. "Some custom watches I made for Slim. The driver was taking me on the scenic route when we got jumped at a stop light. They tossed him into the trunk and left me stranded."

"Called the cops?" he asks, looking into the rearview mirror. My eyes glance to the passenger side mirror as well, wondering if merely mentioning NYPD summons them to pull you over.

"Yeah," I admit. "I need a police report for the insurance claim of the watches. I didn't tell them about the asshole in the trunk because something's telling me he's in on it. Whatever happens to him is what it is, and I just hope they leave enough of him left for me. Which is one of the reasons I called you. I need the basement, Clive."

There are some grumbles of frustration before he reaches into his pocket and tosses me a set of keys. The basement isn't an actual place in someone's home but a studio apartment on a piece of abandoned property just outside of the city.

A relic from my old life. It's the perfect place to get the information I need to find people or things that I want. I've been leasing it to Clive for the past few years, leaving him no choice but to help me.

"I thought you were out, man." He sighs, shaking his head. "If you start kicking up dust, you're going to set off a lot of alarms."

"I'm still out of that life and have no intention of going back. But, what I won't tolerate is the gall to set me up for a robbery when I'm a law-abiding citizen these days. This driver is going to pay, and when I find him, I'm going to make sure his buddies pay me in a pound of flesh too. Just drop some food off for me in about an hour or so. I have a feeling I'm going to be working all night."

"Alright." He shrugs and drives through the night until he brings me to a street a few blocks away from my actual address. Clive doesn't know my home address. I prefer it that way, but he knows the area and lets me out of the car at a train station.

Once I walk to my house, I'm grateful to still have my wallet and keys. My watches, however, my work for the past few weeks is all in that briefcase they snatched. Frustration and anger bubble inside of me, and I need a release. I need to hold someone responsible for this right now.

The safe in my bedroom holds dupes of everything I own since I travel often. After pulling out a spare phone and texting Clive from the new number, I grab the keys to my car to make a beeline to the Gold Royale Luxury Transport office. I wish I have time to relax, but money is on the line.

The minute I step inside the office, I'm drawn to the beauty behind the desk. The place is small and bare in every sense. Two plastic chairs give the appearance of a waiting area with a large glass window overlooking the quiet streets of a block in Midtown Manhattan.

Two desks sit side by side, but it's clear that only one is in use. The other desk seems to be a large perch for the sign telling customers the only bathroom on the premises is for employees. A single door about a yard away from them has the word ‘Management' etched into the smoky glass. However, my focus is on the blazing beauty behind the only desk in use.

Tits and the most beautiful pair of green eyes I've ever seen stare at me with shock and borderline fear.

"Good evening, sir. We're actually sold out of reservations for tonight. However, I can schedule you for a future pickup." Her voice is familiar, but I've never actually seen the woman on the phone from the times I make my reservations.

"Evening, I'm Knox Sanders. I need to speak to management. I'm looking for a particular car and driver I rode in tonight," I tell her. She could be in on it, too. The surprise in her eyes can be from not expecting anyone at all or from not expecting me. I have to feel her out.

"Oh, okay, was there something wrong with our service this evening, Mr. Sanders?" She busies herself with everything on the desk, shifting keys around and making notes in a calendar while speaking to me.

"Yes. Have you spoken to the police?" I ask her.

"Uh, no?" My question forces her to stop moving to focus on me, confusion covering her face.

"My car, well, your car , was high-jacked a few hours ago—" I begin but she cuts me off.

"Oh shit, are you alright?" She gets up from her desk, rounding it to stand in front of me. There's genuine concern in those eyes, but no matter how beautiful she is, she won't distract me from the rage burning inside.

"I'll be fine as soon as I'm compensated for the items taken from me that your driver lost." I don't want to take my anger out on her, but someone needs to pay for the bullshit that I went through tonight.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Sanders. I'm still trying to get a hold of our driver. He was actually due back in over an hour ago. Our other reservations are backing up."

It's insane, but it makes me feel good that the asshole driver is still potentially in the fucking trunk of that car. I grin as I tell her, "As soon as you find your car, he's probably in the trunk."

Her eyes widen. "He's in the trunk? How? Why?"

"The thieves thought it would be best to take him with them. They left me stranded somewhere in Far Rockaway."

There's panic coming over her as she rambles, "We should call the police. No, you asked me if I spoke to the police, which means you called them already. Good call, Mr. Knox, I mean, Sanders. Shit. Wait. If he's in the trunk, how is he responsible for the items you lost?"

"Because that jackass drove me around fucking Queens instead of taking the Belt or the BQE to Bay Ridge like any fucking normal hack from JFK. He knew where he was going. He drove us to the stickup point," I growl and jab a finger onto the top of the desk.

"Why don't we wait to hear from the police? When I'm sure my driver is okay, we'll go through the necessary protocols to file an insurance claim for your missing items. Do you have an estimate for the value of the stolen items? A police report?" She reaches over the desk and bends that tight little ass over in her black pencil skirt.

The two buttons at the top of her blouse are undone, giving me the perfect sightline to her perky breasts. Fuck me. I want to slam my cock so deep inside of her I'm forgetting that I'm supposed to be upset.

"I'll have a police report in a week or two. I don't know how helpful they'll be if they don't have the car or footage from the area. But, I still have my ticket from customs validating the value of the items in my luggage." I fish out the papers and hand them to the woman. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

"It's Gemma, not sweetheart," she says, eyeing the pages. Her brows scrunch together before her eyes dart around the room. She focuses on me and shakes her head. "Listen, Mr. Sanders, I'm going to do my best to help you. However, you should be aware that our insurance for customer items isn't going to cover the full cost of these items. There's no way three watches cost thirty thousand dollars."

I take a look around the office. A reminder that the place is bare bones, with two desks, an office, and a seating area. It's clear they put every dime into their fleet. I lean in so close I catch a whiff of her scent. She smells like summer and I wish I weren't so pissed, or else I'd bury my face in every valley of her body until I'm bathing in her aroma.

Still, I keep my temper in check as I tell her, "I don't care what you believe about my work, my talent, or the cost of my time. The fact is, I was robbed while in one of your cars due to the stupidity or the culpability of your fucking driver. You have twenty-four hours to straighten it out or I'll squeeze every penny out of this place until you beg for mercy."