Chapter 6

6

Nola

Sunlight hits my face, and I squint against the invading brightness, slapping the back of my hand across my eyes to shield it out. With a groan, I turn over in bed, the red digital letters on my clock slowly coming into view.

9:50.

“Oh shit!” I scramble over the edge, knocking my elbow on the nightstand, and hobble to the bathroom. Even in a half-daze, my reflection is a ridiculous mess of a woman who clearly didn’t get enough sleep. My hair looks like birds played in it all night, so I nab a couple bobby pins to tame it. A quick dab of concealer hides the dark circles, and I squirt toothpaste onto my toothbrush, relieving myself as I scour my teeth.

A chime from downstairs skates down my spine, as I spit foamy toothpaste into the sink. “One second!” Yelling from upstairs is futile, though. This house is like a fortress with its insulated walls, so thick I could probably die and decompose in here before someone ever found me.

Racing back to the bedroom, I throw on a pair of jeans and nab the first top I see from the armoire, only realizing it’s Oliver’s Star Wars T-shirt once it’s over my head and my arm is halfway through the sleeve.

“Fuck!” I cross my arms to yank it off, but I can’t get my elbow back through the hole, leaving my arm dangling above my head. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Another ring of the bell is really just obnoxious at this point, and my mood flips from panicked to frustrated, as I wrangle my other arm into its sleeve. The tearing sound mirrors my slowly unraveling calm, and I tug the shirt as far over my exposed navel as I can, then pause, wondering if I should grab my knife. “What are you gonna do, stab the guy you invited over?” I mutter, jogging down the staircase.

One more ring of the bell grates at my nerves, and I throw back the door. “I’m coming, goddammit!”

Standing on my front porch is a man over six feet tall, in a sleek black suit. Two of me could span the width of him, and above his crisp black collar sits a snake tattoo that winds up his neck. With dark hair, and cold, gray eyes that sweep down over my outfit, he’s both handsome and intimidating, but the scar across his face adds an edge of menace, sending up red flags.

He doesn’t look like a potential tenant. He looks like danger, wrapped in a nice suit.

Not happening. I’ve already decided this deal is off.

“I’m here about the apartment. We spoke yesterday.” His eyes trail down again and back, and I suddenly remember I’m wearing an eleven-year-old’s favorite T-shirt.

“Yeah. I’m … Nola.” Yes, I was named after the city where my mom and dad apparently got it on in their forties, resulting in an oops baby. My miraculous conception to a mother who was shitfaced and horny. Reaching out a hand, I give one more yank at the hem of the T-shirt and flinch at another tear. “Forgive me, I was …” I don’t even have huge boobs, but they look monstrous in this T-shirt, pressing against the fabric like they’re trying to make a break for it.

“Firm,” he says in a velvet voice, returning the handshake.

“Excuse me?”

“Your grip.” Twisting our clutched hands, he seems to examine them clasped together, his big palm swallowing mine. “Strong.”

Clearing my throat, I slip my hand from his and give the too-small T-shirt one more tug. I can’t have this guy roaming around my property. The neighbors are going to think I’ve taken up with the mafia.

“Look, you’re a few minutes late. I actually rented out the apartment about an hour ago to a … person who made an appointment before you did.”

“I’ll pay double what the other person paid. I’m guessing a woman.”

This guy is relentless. And even if his offer has leaped into the realm of ridiculous, he’s starting to piss me off.

“Why do you presume I’m sexist?” I rest my hands on my hips, frowning back up at him.

“I can only imagine what you’re presuming right now.” His eyes take another dip south and linger on the return trip. “Can I at least see what I’m missing out on?”

“What’s the point? It belongs to someone else.”

“Does it?”

I can’t tell if he’s talking about the apartment, or me. He should shack up with Harv and Bethany and start a university of sexual puns.

“Fine. I’ll let you check it out.” Hell, maybe when he sees it, he’ll lose interest. Surely, this guy wouldn’t be happy living in a tiny in-law suite that barely has cable. “I’ve got nothing else to accomplish today.” I usher him inside, taking in the size of him as he passes me in the doorway. This dude could crumple me into a ball and toss me out the window, if he was feeling ambitious enough.

“Straight out the back,” I say, guiding him down the corridor to the mudroom. The kitchen passes us on the left where the breezeway stands open, and I catch his quick glance toward it.

“You don’t strike me as a Star Wars fan,” he says over his shoulder, as he comes to a stop in front of the door leading out to the back yard.

“Who’s passing judgment now?” I wait for him to open the door and step out onto the deck.

The back of the property is probably the most appealing part of the house. My father wanted to create a sanctuary for my mother, so he planted trees that provided enough privacy from the neighbors and shaded the many gardens I’ve done a piss-poor job of keeping maintained in recent years.

“For your information, it’s my son’s shirt. If you hadn’t been doorbell happy this morning, I might’ve had time to grab a shirt that fits.” Realizing I offered information I didn’t care to divulge, about my son, I bite my cheek and inwardly kick myself.

“Do you always wear your son’s clothes?”

“No. But if I did, that’s none of your business.”

The in-law suite sits above the three-car, detached garage behind the house, with a narrow deck that spans the width of it, and a staircase at the far right of the structure. At the foot of the stairs, I take the lead, certain the guy is staring at my ass as we ascend toward the door of the apartment.

“I have to say, the view in the back is incredible.”

Swinging around, I frown down at him, nearly losing my balance when I see he’s waited at the bottom of the staircase and is staring out over the yard. “Oh. Yeah, my father was better at keeping it maintained.”

“Your mom didn’t keep up the yard?”

“No. That was my father’s job.”

“How sexist.”

Huffing my frustration, I damn near slam through the door to the in-law apartment, and I stand in the center of it, arms crossed, waiting for him to enter. Once inside, his eyes scan over everything. And I do mean everything, as he opens the cupboards, the closets, and ventures into the bedroom.

“Nice. I’m sorry I didn’t claim it first.”

“Well, better luck next time.”

“You did disclose that you have a massive water leak, right?”

“What?”

He points above me, toward where an enormous brown spot discolors the once stark-white ceiling. “That’s going to be a problem later. Expensive one. You also have seal failure going on in the windows. That’s why there’s condensation inside the panes. The insulation out here feels a little thin, as well. No renter is going to want to deal with a potential disaster. I’m guessing he, or she is aware and doesn’t have an issue with all these things, though.”

Shit. I haven’t spent any significant time out here, aside from a quick cleaning I did before posting the ad for a renter, and I guess I failed to notice the maintenance it needed. Doesn’t help that my husband didn’t do shit for home repairs, when he was alive.

“Thanks. I’d have taken it, in spite of all that, but I suppose that ship has passed. Nice meeting you, Star Wars.”

Star Wars. Indignation needles me in the gut, as I watch him exit the apartment, my mind rapidly contemplating my options. If I don’t rent it out, Oliver’s going to get whatever is left after bills every month for Christmas presents, which is little more than zero. I could use the two hundred Jonah and Diane gave me, but that’ll leave us eating ramen noodles, when the gas bill comes due at the end of the month.

Which means I could rent it out to someone who’ll probably swindle me down, once they see all the shit that needs repair.

Or I could let Mafia Man pay me four times the rent and skate comfortably into the New Year.

Goddamn it, Nola.

“Wait.”

He’s already halfway down the stairs, when I hustle toward the door to catch him.

“Wait.” With a contemplative huff, I scratch the back of my head. “What’s the suit all about? What do you do?”

“I work in securities.”

“Like a mall cop?”

“Like stocks and bonds.”

“Oh! Right. Those kind of securities.” Not that I’d know the first thing about that. “And the tattoos are … not gang related?”

“No.”

Whatever piss poor interview I’m conducting right now, he’s at least humoring me with decent answers.

“What does a businessman like yourself want with some old, rundown, in-law apartment with a leaky roof? It doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t you be living it up at the Ritz-Carlton downtown?”

“I’m a man who values his privacy, above all else. My stay in the Chicago area is temporary. I’m hoping to concentrate on work without the distraction of the city.”

“And you’re not some creep who keeps bottles of Jergens to put the lotion on it’s skin.”

“Do you have something against Jergens?”

“What I have is a son. And I’ve really struggled to hold my faith in humanity over the last few years. Please don’t make me regret changing my mind and letting you take the apartment. You’re still willing to pay double?”

“Triple, if I can occupy the space in the next hour.”

Jesus Christ. Triple would let me take Christmas week off work—something I haven’t done since Oliver was a baby.

“I can’t. At this point, I’d just be taking advantage of you.”

“I guilt-tripped you into renting your apartment to me, so I guess that makes us even.”

I scratch the back of my head again, trying not to let the lure of money talk me into something stupid, but the lure of money is definitely talking me into something stupid. “Right. So … um. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Everyone calls me Voss.”

“Well, what does the DMV call you, because I need to run a quick background check before we do this.”

“Rhett Voss.”

Rhett Voss sounds like something out of a romance novel. “Are you from here originally, Voss?”

“New York. Star Wars.”

My eye twitches at that, and I roll my shoulders, tugging the hem one more time. Of course he’s from New York. Fancy city to match his fancy suit and his fancy car. And here I’m standing in jeans, with no shoes, and an eleven year-old’s Star Wars shirt. “Can you come back in about a half hour?”

“Sure. Only if you promise to answer the door.”

“Of course.”

Instead, the guy waits in his car—a fancy black Audi parked at the curb, which I’ll have to inform him is jack-bait in this neighborhood. Not that this part of the city is all that bad, but his car doesn’t scream drug dealer, it screams stock trader, so it’s basically fair game around here.

I call Jonah, who has one of his buddies run the guy’s name and plates.

Turns out, he actually is from New York. Actually, a stock trader. And, more surprising than all of that, doesn’t have a criminal history whatsoever. In fact, his record is as polished as the goddamn paint job on that car.

“Are you sure, Jonah?” I ask, staring down at all my notes. “Not even a speeding ticket, parking ticket, nothing?”

“Squeaky clean, according to Tanner.”

Which means I have no reason not to trust this guy. Damn it. The lure is growing stronger by the minute.

“How’s Oliver?”

“Great! He and Diane went out for some takeout sushi for his last night here.”

“Awesome. He used to love sushi.” Sometimes, I wonder what Oli would turn out like if I just let him live with my brother and his wife, instead of his spending so much time by himself. I wonder if living with me is going to fuck him up for the rest of his life. Turn him into one of those kids who guns down his classmates, because no one knew how lonely he was. “Thanks for taking him, Jonah. You guys are the best.”

“Ah, this is all Diane’s doing. She’s been planning this weekend for weeks now.”

Well, that’s a relief. It’s somewhat comforting to know the things that were once just everyday life for Jonah and me take weeks to plan for someone else. “Okay, I guess I need to tell this guy he’s good to move in.”

“Don’t feel like you have to do this … letting some stranger into the home. You have choices, Nola. Diane and I are—”

“Nope. I’m not going to keep relying on someone else for everything. I want to do this. I need things to loosen up around here, and … maybe it’ll be good to have a guy around Oliver again.”

“You don’t have to recruit some Wall Street Wolf to do that. I’m happy to take him up to dad’s cabin sometime.”

“You’re busy, Jonah. And soon you’re going to have your own child.”

“Maybe so. But that doesn’t mean I won’t be here for you and Oliver.”

“I know. I’m going to let you go, okay? This guy’s been sitting in his car, waiting for an answer. I don’t want to be the one who mars his squeaky clean record with his first kill.”

After clicking the phone off, I head out to the curb, and his window rolls down as I approach. Big surprise, the car interior is black leather, and the technology looks like something straight out of a cockpit. The scent from inside wafts passed me: leather and cologne, and that new car smell beneath it all.

“Looks like you’re set to move in. Your background checks out.”

“Fantastic.”

“So … I guess I’ll let you get to it. Can I get you something to drink?” I glance down at the fancy Fiji bottle sitting in his drink holder.

“No, thank you.” Climbing out of the vehicle, he takes a moment to adjust his suit, and pops the trunk of his car. Tucked inside are two large, shiny black Tumi cases that he removes with ease.

“Looks like you don’t have much to carry, so I’ll let you get settled on your own.”

“Perfect.”

“Right.”

“Do I get a set of keys?”

“Oh!” I stuff my hand into my pocket, where I put them before calling Jonah, and hand him a set. “There’s room in the garage for your car. I don’t use it, but … my car is nowhere near as fancy as yours. Um … no parties, no … drug deals, or prostitutes in and out of here.”

Face screwed up into an amused sort of smirk, he slams the trunk shut.

“I’m serious. I got enough shit going on. I don’t need my son asking those questions.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about. As I said, I keep to myself.”

“Good. Because as much as you value your privacy, I value my peace and quiet.”

“Good. Sounds like we’re a match made in heaven. I’ll let you get to your peace and quiet, while I settle into my privacy now.”

Perhaps it’s his matter-of-fact attitude that has me feeling frustrated in all of this. From the moment I talked to the guy, his voice resonated the kind of arrogance and confidence I loathe in men. Probably wouldn’t bother me near as much, if he weren’t good looking on top of it, in a rugged, career criminal sort of way.

I trail my gaze after him as he strolls off toward the backyard, carrying his suitcases that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe is worth. A glance down at the Star Wars shirt shows a chocolate stain just above the nipple, and I groan.