Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

JAKE

I'm so bored, I've been reduced to counting the flecks of peanut shells on the bar top, wondering what would happen if my brother or someone else with a peanut allergy walked into this dump without knowing it was the place that might murder them. We're just outside of Asheville, so you think they'd have some sort of ordinance about peanuts, but this place is probably intentionally giving the middle finger to tourists and anyone who might give a fuck about trying not to poison people. Maybe I should send the bartender an anonymous EpiPen. Use in case of balloon face.

Then again, my brother Ryan is an idiot, and it's his fault that I'm here, listening to Anthony Rosings Smith drone on—his ability to complain seemingly as deep as the Mariana Trench—so maybe I'll invite Ryan out for a drink as soon as Roark lets him go.

"You okay, Jake?" Anthony asks, pausing with his beer halfway to his mouth. His brow is furrowed. The look he's giving me would probably be called patrician. Everything about him, from his expensive hair cut to his houndstooth jacket—which has patches on the elbows—makes him look out of place here. He's a sore thumb, a hundred dollar bill in a dirty tip jar, and I wonder if he always feels fingers reaching for him.

I fist my hand under the bar, letting my nails bite into my palm as a reset. I can't let my mask slip again. That was one of the first rules Roark taught us: Never let your mask slip, usually followed by "dumbass."

I grin at Anthony, then slap him on the back like he's my best buddy old pal. "Never better, my friend, never better. You were telling me about your mother?"

Anthony runs a hand over his face. "Jesus, when you say it like that… It's just…you're easy to talk to, but I didn't mean to spend the last half hour venting."

Yes, he did.

"Not at all!" I say, lifting my hands, palms out. "My mother's a pain in the ass too. Always complaining about…"

Shit, what would a mother always complain about…?

"She tries to control your love life too?" he asks with understanding.

I snap my fingers. "Yes, always. Like, find yourself a girlfriend if you feel so strongly about it. She really hated my last girlfriend. Told me I was a fool for choosing her."

He smiles, and I feel a smooth certainty slip in—like a fine wine. This is it. It's time. I've built the framework, and now it's time to slap up the house.

"You know what, my friend," I say, nudging his arm. "I'm good at getting to the bottom of problems."

"Because you're a therapist," he says knowingly.

I nod, accepting the lie as truth. "Exactly. You said your mom's having an engagement party for you and your fiancée next Saturday."

"She only agreed to it to make a point," he says darkly. "She's always trying to make a point about something. And Nina only wants to go because she's trying to make a point. God only knows what any of it is really about."

Man, this guy's really got the whole poor little rich kid thing going on. I wonder if he'd be making this same argument if he knew my mother took off when Ryan and I were just four, and the only thing I remember about her other than that is the fact that she named us Jake and Ryan after the dumbass main character of Sixteen Candles . Or that the only parental figure who stuck around for more than a year or two is the man who's currently holding my brother hostage for trying to steal from him.

I sneak a sidelong glance at Anthony, who probably got a pony for his fourth birthday. Yeah, I'm guessing he'd still complain if he knew. Makes me feel better about playing him at least. That's rule four or maybe five. Demonize your mark. It helps you strengthen your defenses against them.

I grin at Anthony like I could honestly think of nothing I'd like more than to sweet-talk another grown man's mother.

"Sure, sure," I say. "Why don't I come along, see if I can get her to communicate what's really going on? Wouldn't that be something?"

My pulse kicks up. I've been working up to this moment for two weeks. If he says no, I'll be wasting all the groundwork I put in, from running his wallet over to him—after I pickpocketed it—outside the gym to saying I'd only accept a drink as a reward. Not this drink, mind you. No one likes someone who acts too eager, even if they mean it. And if they don't…well, a person can tell. Maybe not the person sitting next to me, but when I commit to doing a job, I commit to doing it well.

So this is the third time I've had a drink with Anthony Smith. He's primed…he's ready…I think.

A slow grin spreads across Anthony's face, and I feel a thump of excitement in my chest. I'm in. Success is always a good feeling—like when your number comes up in a game of roulette or four cherries in a row. The bad feelings come later, creeping in at night or on the edges of an otherwise good experience, but this time I'm being an asshole for my brother's sake. Maybe there won't be any bad feelings.

"You'd really do that?" Anthony asks, as if I just offered him a platter of those fish eggs rich people pretend they enjoy.

"It would be my pleasure to help you and your lovely bride. Besides, I'd like to meet your mother."

That part's not entirely untrue. I've heard so much about Mrs. Rosings over the last couple of weeks that it'll be like coming face to face with a celebrity.

"Well, okay," Anthony says with a grin. "It starts at seven o'clock at Smith House. Are you free?"

Five days from now, because it's Tuesday evening—the only night Nina could "spare" Anthony this week.

Saturday's party will be the beginning of the end, thank fuck, because I am beyond done with this situation.

I make a show of checking my calendar on my phone, then nod. "Yeah, I should be able to swing it."

"Thanks so much, man."

His phone buzzes from its place on the bar, set out because he probably knew he was going to get summoned. He picks it up, frowning when he sees the screen. "Duty calls."

I'm tempted to ask him which of the women who controls him sent the text—his fiancée or his mother—but instead I say,

"And a true man always answers that call." I'm laying it on a little thick, but from the look of him, he doesn't mind.

He gives me one final clap on the back, then slaps some money down and leaves. He's the one who chose this dump of a bar, and I have to wonder if he picked it because he didn't want to be seen by anyone he knows. Maybe he wanted free rein to complain about his mother and his fiancée without being overheard. I can't deny the man has his own gilded problems. Sounds to me like he's having serious second thoughts about going through with his wedding to his controlling, gold-digging fiancée but would rather die than admit his mother is right. Although I've never come close to getting married—no woman in her right mind would want to marry me—I understand the sentiment. I don't like giving any ground to Roark either. In fact, I've done my damn best to break free of him and go legit—working on designing websites freelance—but my brother has unintentionally reeled me back in.

Sighing, I lean back in my chair and press out a text to Roark:

I've got an in on Saturday.

A second passes before a follow-up text comes through. It's a photo of Ryan sitting on his couch, watching TV. He's acting like he's on vacation, not being held hostage, but that's Ryan for you. If he were careful, he wouldn't be in this mess. I know Roark enough to understand the threat is still very real—sure, he's the closest thing we have to a father, but I believe he'll still hurt Ryan if I don't come through. " You can do whatever you like, sure ," he used to say, " but there are always consequences ."

He's made it clear what the consequences will be this time: steal from me, lose a hand.

It hasn't happened yet. But I have no doubt it will if I don't come through. Sure, Ryan's bulkier than I am, and he could physically best Roark in hand-to-hand combat, no problem. But Roark has a few very discreet, very unemotional people who work for him, people who aren't afraid of a little violence. People who have guns.

I'm pissed at my brother, and before all of this went down, I hadn't talked to him for almost a year, but I'd prefer for him to keep all of his body parts. Besides, I can't overlook that he was trying to mend our relationship, even if he unintentionally made everything worse.

I leave the bar and drive to the Airbnb apartment I've been renting under my assumed name, ready for a celebratory beer and some down time. I feel myself sighing as I head inside. It looks like a home…someone else's home. I'd sure as fuck never frame "home sweet home" needlework and hang it up next to the door.

Still, it's not a bad place. Too quiet, though. At home, I can hear so much of my neighbors' bickering that a few weeks ago I knocked on the wall and confirmed that Mick really had said that yesterday—and agreed with his girlfriend that it was uncool of him to have lied about it. Obviously, Mick didn't find that nearly as amusing as I did, but you can't please everyone.

Here, there's crickets.

Obviously, it's better to keep a low profile if you've gone somewhere to steal something, but I'm someone who craves noise, bustle, and conversation—even if it's light and meaningless. Maybe especially if it's light and meaningless. Because people can't be trusted, but they can be fun.

Asheville's busy enough, but I've kept in character. I don't want to be seen in the wrong places, talking to the wrong people.

Still…there's only so much quiet a guy can take. I've made some mistakes since arriving in town, including one really bad one, but I won't be making more of them. As much of a dumbass as my brother is, he's the only person I've allowed to mean anything to me.

I've collected a beer from the fridge and am sitting down with my sketch book and pencils when I hear a knock on the door. My back goes rigid, but I have no reason to worry about anyone coming after me, so I make my way to the door without pocketing my knife.

When I look out of the peephole, I see a perfect stranger. I know she's a stranger, because she's the type of woman a man doesn't forget—short, wavy black hair, eyes the color of a glass of fine whiskey, and a curvy figure showcased in a red sweater and a pair of shorts so short it looks like they're about to quit and move to Florida.

Don't be stupid, I remind myself. I don't know if this woman's here to preach to me about the second coming in an outfit that looks like sin, or if she's selling chocolate bars or magazine subscriptions no one wants, but I have to send her on her sexy way—even if my natural inclination is to invite her in for a drink.

I open the door slightly, nod to her.

"Hi," she says, giving me a look that lingers in a few places, sending a warm awareness through me. Then her hands worry at each other, and a little crease forms between her perfect black brows. "I'm sorry to bother you, sir , but I lost my cat, Professor X. I've been going up and down the hall looking for him."

I'm not even tempted to ask her if the cat is one of those hairless ones who bears a resemblance to Patrick Stewart. Hearing this woman call me sir from those red-painted lips is nearly a religious experience. "No, sorry," I say, then cock my head. "I thought no pets were allowed in these units."

Not that I give a shit, but it's always good to know who else is breaking the rules. Leverage isn't just a big word; it's a lifeline.

Her cheeks flush, but she doesn't look away, holding eye contact like it's a challenge. It just so happens that I like challenges. They fill my cup. "Are you a man who believes in following the rules?"

I lean against the door frame, enjoying myself now. "When it suits me."

She gives me another assessing look, that blush in her cheeks long gone, and I feel a prickle of something. Interest, sure. Attraction, hell yeah. But this is something else…something I can't put my finger on. Cocking her curvy hip, she plants a small hand on it—all sass and attitude—and I feel an unwanted appreciation, along with the thought that I'd like to wrap my hand around that hip and squeeze. "And does it suit you to help me look for him before I get into trouble?"

Don't do anything stupid. Don't do anything stupid.

"If it suits you to have a drink with me afterward," I say, because I've never been very good at listening to sound advice, even if it comes from my own damn brain. "What's your name, lawbreaker?"

"Elaine," she says, holding my gaze. "And yours?"

"Jake."

Jake's a common enough name that I usually only change my last name when I'm posing as someone else. It helps when you can respond without the kind of hesitation that could give a person away.

She nods, then lifts her brows. "No time like the present, Jake."

It hits me that she doesn't seem particularly torn up over this lost Professor X. I'm grateful for that, but at the same time, it feels a little off. A woman who'd bother getting a cat would probably care about it going missing.

I've learned to trust my gut, so I ask, "You don't seem too worried about Professor X."

"He has a wanderer's heart," she responds. "It wouldn't be the first time. I've been careful because this place—" She waves her hands, silently referencing the stringent no-pet policy. "But there's no keeping him contained. He always comes back, though. Always."

"What's he look like? I need to know so I don't collar an unsuspecting cat."

"He's all black."

My suspicion eases, and the need to not be alone with my thoughts right now is powerful enough that I decide I'm going to do it, consequences be damned.

"Just a second." I dip inside to grab my keys, then lock the door behind me while Elaine watches.

"Are you from a big city?" she asks, her voice a little low and throaty, like she should be singing in a lounge somewhere.

I pocket the keys. "It's not that," I say, sidestepping the question. "I just don't believe in asking for trouble. My buddy here told me the cops don't respond much to B&Es."

"Or lost cats who aren't supposed to exist," she says with another half-smile that would make Mona Lisa jealous.

I glance down the hall, taking stock. My apartment's the last on the left. "So have you already checked in with everyone, or do you have one apartment left?" I motion to the place across the hall. It's occupied by an elderly, half deaf man who tells me the same joke every time I see him. Where do pencils go on vacation? Pennsylvania. I figure he doesn't get many sympathy laughs in his day-to-day, so I always give him a good one and offer him a beer. He accepted one time, and we had a twenty minute bitch-fest about traffic that was more engaging than anything Anthony Rosings Smith has ever said to me.

If I said that to Ryan, he'd shake his head and tell me that I have a chip on my shoulder about rich people. He'd also tell me it's ridiculous to have it out for the kind of people I'd love to become. Fair point.

"I haven't stopped by that one yet," Elaine confirms, "and then I was going to check the stairwell, maybe, and look around outside the building."

I have a feeling she's not going to see this cat until he wants to be seen, but I'm not too fussed about finding him. I want the company. The enjoyment and distraction of being out with a beautiful woman instead of stowed away in my box for the night.

She's your neighbor, you idiot. Abort. Abort.

At the same time…I'm only going to have to be here for another week or so, right? What's the harm in having a little fun?

And, sure, maybe that attitude is exactly what got Ryan into trouble in the first place, but we're not brothers for nothing.