This feels less like impulse, and more like raw intuition telling me I’m here for a reason.
And I think Miss Felicity could use a little help.
There’s a battered old station wagon in the parking lot—her beater I’ve seen around town.
Next to it, there’s this tall, slick, shiny SUV that looks like it just rolled off the assembly line yesterday after being tricked out to the nines.
My gut churns.
I get the briefest glimpse of a woman, petite and blond in the back seat, before tinted windows roll up. It’s the big guys tumbling themselves into the front and back that worry me.
I know the militant, focused way they move.
I know that type.
Roughnecks.
The kind of dudes where you take one glance and know they’re up to no good.
What the hell do they want with The Nest? With Felicity?
Especially when they’re carrying what looks like zippered bank bags.
Especially especially with the way they go tearing out of the lot, fishtailing it so fast they manage to tear up dust on dry concrete and leave skids of stinking, hot-smelling rubber in arcs on the pavement.
Shit.
I don’t think they even noticed me, stalled in the street just before the café and with my brights turned off so my vehicle blends into the darkness.
Still, I don’t move till they’re gone, weighing my options.
I’m worried about Felicity.
I’ve got a son to care for, too.
Eli’s a smart boy—the second he saw those guys, he ducked down in the seat, shrinking himself small and holding still, staring up at the dash with wide eyes.
Eyes narrowed, I watch their taillights retreat in glaring red dots, then glance at Eli.
“It’s okay, polecat.”
He scrunches his nose at me.
He’s gone pale as a little moon in the shadows, his eyes still too wide. “Dad! I’m too old for you to call me that.”
“Never too old.” Especially not when I can tell he’s freaked out. I reach over and grip his knee, squeezing. “It’s okay. They’re gone. We’re just gonna check in on Miss Felicity and make sure she’s all right.”
He swallows, his mouth turning down and crimping at the corners, his brow wrinkling.
“Do you think they hurt her?” he asks in a small voice.
“They’d better hope not,” I answer grimly. The razor-edge in my voice surprises me, but suddenly there’s a wary tingling on the back of my neck, an urgency building in my blood.
Felicity’s fine, I tell myself.
Even so, I won’t be satisfied until I see for myself.
I kick the engine into gear again, turning in slowly so the noise won’t startle Felicity, making sure to flash my lights as a bit of a warning that I’m coming.
Just in case, though, as I park I murmur, “Stay in the car. Don’t unfasten your seat belt. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to come in. If you see them coming back, get under the back seat and text me. Don’t come out no matter what you hear, if that happens.”
“Okay, Dad,” Eli whispers.
His face is still pale, but he’s steady and listening attentively.
He’s a good kid.
If anything goes wrong, I know he’ll do what’s right.
Clapping his shoulder one more time, I step out of the SUV, slam the door shut, and lock it before approaching The Nest slowly.
One glance makes my stomach twist like a stripped screw.
I can already see the mess inside, a tangle of chaos in the smoky golden light spilling through the tall windows out front.
Looks like the place was tossed, a whirlwind of papers and disposable cups and coffee grounds flung everywhere. The confections in the display case are ruined, right down to the grubby fingerprints gouged through a cake, leaving furrows through the icing.
My eyes search frantically and I double my steps, reaching for the door.
That’s when I see something worse.
Right there in the middle of the bedlam.
Kneeling on the floor.
Felicity Randall.
She’s got her face buried in her hands, her hair tumbled over her face in mahogany ribbons, her slim shoulders heaving as she sobs and sobs and sobs.
Fuck.
3
Black Gold (Felicity)
A Few Hours Ago
Seriously.
I’d like to know just once who and what I pissed off in a past life.
A witch? A djinn? A particularly cantankerous old herbalist, maybe?
I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure somebody cursed my soul for the next thousand years, and even now they’re punishing me for a past crime from beyond the grave.
That’s the only reason I could possibly be walking out of Mitch’s garage with a little black book in my hand filled with Dad’s handwriting.
Before everything went digital, most men kept little black books of women’s phone numbers. One-night stands, regular hookups, whatever.
I wish that was as far as Dad’s dirty little secrets went.
What’s actually there in the crabbed handwriting that goes on for pages and pages?
Trouble, guaranteed, and not the sexy scorned lover kind.
I only flicked through it for less than a minute and I already know it. Even if I’m not quite sure just what sort of trouble’s lurking there yet.