Chapter 1

Bennett

Blonde hair, soft skin pressed against me, and the lingering scent of sex and perfume clinging to the sheets.

Mmm…it was my favorite way to wake up.

Beside me, Harlowe something-or-other was clinging to me like she knew, even in her sleep, that I was on my way out. It wasn't personal. We had a fun time. A nice outlet for the pent-up energy I'd been carting around the past few days. But if I played my cards right, big things were happening later tonight, and I wouldn't want to drag her into a shit storm.

My mama raised me better than that.

I breathed deeply, marinating for another minute in her faint floral scent and the memory of how she tasted last night when my face was planted between those gorgeous, mile-long legs of hers before I began a careful extraction process from her death grip around my waist. It was a move I'd practiced over the years.

If she woke up and found me leaving, it would make her upset. And I didn't want to do that. My goal was to fuck her hard—which I did—and then get out quick.

I slid my hand down her thigh, flexing my jaw at the soft skin and the heat it led to but forced myself to lift her leg up from my hips and gently push it back to her side of the bed. Everything was going fine until her baby blues fluttered open, and her rosy pout turned into a heart-stopper of a smile.

Harlowe apparently woke up with one thing on her mind.

Her hand started making a run south of the border, and her smile turned up, wicked and hot as sin. "Hey, handsome."

I moaned as her fingers curled around my dick. Damn! I knew this sleepover shit would end in disaster. Fuck!

"Morning, baby, but I'm gonna have to take a rain check on this." I stilled her hand. She whined and tried to get free of my grip and go in for the kill. I looped my finger and thumb around her wrist and held her steady. "Sorry, baby, but it's back to the grind."

I released her and slipped to the edge of the bed, ready to make a break for it. She tugged me back, her nails biting into my arm.

"If it's a grind you want…you should stay right here. I'll give you a really good grind," she purred, her voice thick and seductive. She wrapped her thigh back over my hips and rocked against me. My cock was more than willing to take her up on the offer. But luckily, my brain overrode that plan—just in time.

I chuckled and lifted her thigh from my hips for the second time. "What if I take you up on that offer later tonight?"

Harlowe laid back against the pillows, her blonde hair messy, the impression from her pillow still showing on her cheek. She tucked the sheet against her tits that had been bouncing freely just seconds before and scowled up at me, her full lips pursed into a pout. "You're really leaving me like this?"

"Like what?"

"Horny. Wet."

I chuckled. "Sorry, babe. Duty calls."

She sighed. "No red-blooded man turns down morning sex. So this only means one thing."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"You're not coming back."

Who said blondes were dumb? She'd managed to put the pieces together quite nicely. Now, to find a way out of her apartment without taking a toaster or hairdryer to the side of my head.

I got up from the bed. "I'm turning down morning sex ‘cause I have to get to work."

"Right. You're obviously the type of guy with an early morning office gig." She shook her head, a little throaty noise of disgust following it. "And here I actually believed you when we met at the bar, and you said you weren't that guy."

I winced. Had I really said that? Damn, I must have really been hard up. Of course, I was that guy. Every guy was. I located my boxer briefs and stepped into them. I wasn't going to have this argument bare-ass naked. No thanks. I found my t-shirt and pulled that on, too.

"Baby, I gotta work. How else will I buy you a nice steak dinner tonight?"

She lifted an eyebrow. "I don't eat red meat."

"Chicken? Seafood? Whatever the hell you wanna eat. It all costs money, doesn't it?"

A smile tugged at those candy lips. "I like shrimp."

"Perfect! We'll go eat some shrimp. And afterward," I lowered toward her and flashed a cocky grin, "I'll let you do all the grinding you want. But right now…"

"You gotta go."

"Exactly." I kissed her quick, needing another taste of those sweet lips before I pushed off the too-soft mattress and went to find my jeans. "I'll call you."

Harlowe was grinning now. My bullshit routine had worked flawlessly. Truth be told, she was hot enough. I probably would've called her again if the circumstances were different. I didn't keep a little black book. Wasn't my style. I preferred to find a nice piece of ass, have her as hard and often as I wanted, and when I got bored—or she got clingy—I moved on, never to darken her doorway again.

I zipped my fly, pulled on my shoes, and grabbed my black ball cap from the bed post. "See ya later, baby."

"Seven o'clock?" she called after me.

"Sure!" I hollered back on my way through her apartment. The place was immaculate, and, as I wandered through, I wondered if she was the kind of chick who cleaned when she got pissed off. If so, she was about to scrub the grout right off the tiled floor when she realized I'd just fed her a bunch of lies and had no intention of calling her or going to a shrimp dinner with her.

Poor girl. I almost felt bad.

Almost.

I stepped out into the hallway of the controlled access building, pulled the front door closed, and headed for the elevators. The building was in a prime Santa Monica location. Whatever Harlowe did when she wasn't taking home random bar guys and sucking their dicks obviously paid well.

The lobby was brightly lit, classy all the way, and most of the people I passed on my way out were in business attire, ready to conquer the world. Or, at least, Los Angeles. Which was pretty much the world, according to Los Angelinos.

Personally, I was from a little farther east of the pristine beaches of Southern California. Though I'd been here for a while now, I still wasn't used to the noise and the hustle. It wasn't my scene, and everyone around me knew it. I preferred blue jeans and ball caps to beach attire or three-piece suits and shoes made from dead gators. But what the hell? To each their own.

If I played my cards right, I'd be leaving soon enough. I just had some business I had to take care of first.

I mergedinto a stampede of what seemed to be passengers from a tour bus on the sidewalk in front of Harlowe's building. None of them watching where they were going. They were all too busy taking selfies on their cell phones to be heard over the rush of traffic in the street a few feet away.

I shook my head to myself as I found my own path and kicked up the pace so I wouldn't get trampled. Not that I could. I was a pretty big guy as it was. Stood six feet two on a good day. I'd let my dark hair grow out longer than usual and sported a full beard, which was definitely not my norm. In fact, I was feeling kind of scruffy and wanted to get home to shower and clean up before my big night tonight.

As I started down the street, I glanced up at the front of Harlowe's apartment building and wondered if she was standing at the window, looking down at me as I walked away. Not to brag, but I had a way of leaving an impression. I knew if she was watching—or not—she was undoubtedly counting down the hours until she'd see me again.

If that was actually happening. Which it wasn't.

Like I said, it wasn't that I didn't want another ride with the blonde goddess in 318B. It just wasn't in the cards. I had a job to do, and it was dangerous as fuck. There wasn't any way I could forgive myself if someone got it into their head that they could use a girl like Harlowe as leverage against me in case shit went south.

Which it probably would, at least once before this whole damn thing was done.

I hoofed it a few blocks to a beachfront public lot where I'd left my truck. I hated driving in LA. The traffic was like a scene from an apocalyptic zombie movie where everyone is trying to get out of Dodge all at the same time, but here—it's all day, every day. But it was necessary for the time being.

This was big.

My job was a little unconventional and had me needing some new connections. Right now, I spend my days tailing the new head honcho of the Sanderson Syndicate, Richard "Richie" Dalton. Richie is one of two nephews vying to take over the syndicate and runs the day-to-day operations.

The other nephew, Albert Sanderson, hadn't been seen in recent weeks, leaving me to wonder if he was in hiding or got outplayed by his cousin Richie. The syndicate is based in the desert near Las Vegas but has branches of militias all over the western United States. They specialize in amassing large amounts of weaponry with dreams of someday taking over the country. Or at least put up one hell of a fight when the heat comes.

Every day, I follow the bastard as he goes about his day. I'd been following Richie for a few weeks, and by now, I knew his every move. I knew his friends, his family, and, more importantly, his enemies. I knew where he lived, where he worked, where he went when he was pissed off, or, conversely, when he was happy.

I knew how he liked his tacos from the truck, where he went to meet his side piece, and when he took a shit.

I'd probably gone a little overboard, taking my time to get to know him from afar, but it would all pay off in the end. I was nothing if not thorough.

Just ask Harlowe.

After three weeks of scoping him out, everything about Richie was etched into my brain. And tonight would be the first time I put that information to good use.

Tonight, I was going to Parkston's On the Hill.