Jailbait (3 page)

“I’m saying yes to this dress for you,” she says. “We both know I have better fashion sense.”
 

She does, which is why I don’t go shopping without her. Savannah Lenox has been my best friend for years and hasn’t let me down yet. I change out of the gown and get measurements taken. The dress needs to be taken in slightly on the sides, and will be delivered before the charity gala.
 

“How was your date with Olson?” Savannah asks as we leave the shop and emerge onto the busy street.
 

“Ugh, I don’t even want to talk about it.”

“That bad?” She peers over the rim of her aviator sunglasses, hazel eyes widening.

“Yes, that bad. He’s a pig…and I accidentally agreed to be his date tonight.”
 

Savannah’s eyebrows go up. “How the hell do you accidentally agree to that?”
 

I shake my head and roll my eyes at myself. “I wasn’t really paying attention to what he was saying and the next thing I know, I’m saying yes.” I let out a sigh. “But I’m going to be busy shaking hands and saying thank you to all who donated, so there is a chance I won’t have to be with him that much.”
 

“I’ll come to your rescue,” she promises. “We can use the code word.”
 

I laugh and shake my head. “It’s all right. I know you’re excited for your date.”

Savannah puts her hand to her heart and tosses her head back. “Oh my God, yes. This will be the first time we’ve seen each other since he went to Rome. My heart might stop when I see him again.”

“Try not to die until you can save me from my terrible date.”

“Want me to see if he has a friend to set you up with? As a director, Kristoff has lots of famous friends! I want you to be happy.”
 

I shake my head. “I’m done with being set up, and I am happy.” Savannah is one of those women who has to have a boyfriend in order to be happy, and it’s been an ongoing struggle since I’ve known her to prove I’m fine being single. I have a good life. It’s a little boring and predictable, but it’s safe and I have a lot to be grateful for.
 

“We’ve been talking about sailing in Europe and I’d
love
if you came with. I could always have Kristoff bring along some single friends…”
 

I cock an eyebrow. “Orlando Bloom?”

“He’s not single. God, Pepper, you need to pick up a magazine now and then.”

“I can’t argue with you on that,” I laugh, listening to Savannah tell me about her party ideas until we get to the salon. Savannah is chattering on about who to invite when I see it.
 

The black BMW.

I grab her arm and duck my head down. “Do you see that?” I whisper.

“See what?”

“Wait, don’t look now.”
 

She comes to a halt on the sidewalk. “What are you talking about, Pepper?”
 

“Keep walking,” I say, not wanting to be obvious in case I’m right. “I think I’m being followed.”
 

Savannah plunges her hand into her designer bag. “I’ll call security.”
 

“No,” I say and catch her wrist. “I can’t be sure.” We’re right in front of the salon now, and the BMW goes by. It’s on the opposite side of the street, and has tinted windows. I can’t make out who is inside.
 

“If you think you’re being followed, then have someone check it out,” she says, arching her eyebrows. “It won’t hurt anything, and isn’t that the reason you have security?”
 

I close my eyes in a long blink, lashes brushing against my sunglasses, and shake my head. “Yes, but I…I’m probably being paranoid.”

“Have you seen that car before?” Savannah asks and pushes her blonde curls behind her ear.
 

I consider lying, but just can’t. “Yes.” I don’t have to tell her who I think might possibly be driving, right? Or that my suspicions seem more and more legitimate considering someone has driven along the rural road in front of the house almost every night for the last four weeks. I’m familiar enough with the roar of the engine by now that I know it’s the same bike.

“Best case scenario: paparazzi. You father did make some changes to the company, after all. And the worst case: hit man.”
 

“Oh thanks,” I laugh.
 

“I’m serious,” Savannah presses. “People are fucking crazy these days. And you’re a walking target by default. It might not be fair, but it is what it is. Be safe and be careful. If you think someone is following you, call security for fuck’s sake.”

“I will,” I promise with a smile, and hate that it feels like I’m lying to her face. If Grayson is involved, if he’s back in town…I’m damned.
 

Chapter Two

Grayson

“Did you tell her?” I cross my arms and lean against the side of the brick building, ignoring the sweat rolling down my back. It’s humid as fuck outside and I’m dying in motorcycle boots, jeans, and a leather jacket.
 

Alcott adjusts his tie and walks straight ahead, pretending not to notice me. “Not yet.”
 

“You have to tell her.” I push off the wall and fall in step behind him. “Judging by how long you were in there, you didn’t get good news.” It’s more than just that, but I don’t bring up the dejection on Alcott’s face. Or the fact he drove himself to the University Hospital. Alcott Davenwood has been driven around his whole life. I was surprised to learn he even knew how to operate a car. “It’s not right and you know it.”
 

“It’s not your concern,” he says and unlocks his Mercedes. “And correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. King, but I hired you to follow her, not me.”
 

“And I have for a month. You have me tailing her every move like a fucking stalker. You said I’d get more details. I think I need them.”
 

Alcott opens the door to his SUV and steps back, almost surprised at the hot air that hits him. Yeah…that’s what happens when you don’t have a driver waiting for you with the A/C on. He turns to me, worry rimming his pale eyes. He blinks it away, turning back into the heartless businessman he wants to be seen as. “I’ll arrange a meeting with you next week. Perhaps Thursday? We can sit down and go over all the details.”
 

“Next week?” I echo. That’s the first time since I took this job—if you can even call it one—that he’s given me an actual date. It’s been all vague-talk of “later” until now. My heart gives a good holy-fuck thump against my chest when it dawns on me that the doctor must have delivered some shitty news. “How long?”

Alcott moves to get into the SUV. I grab his arm. He looks down at my hand, and then moves his glare to my face. I don’t let go.
 

“How long?” I repeat. “How long do you have left?”
 

The resolve Alcott desperately holds onto starts to crumble. Lines form around his mouth and his eyebrows pinch together. “Maybe a month if I’m lucky.”
 

His words are like a punch to the gut. “But you look so…so normal,” I blurt, then feel like an ass.
 

“The cancer has spread but hasn’t taken hold of anything yet.” He speaks matter-of-factly, like he’s stating something mundane like the weather. Denial, maybe? “It’s only a matter of time before that happens. Now,” he says and jerks his arm out of my grasp, “if you’ll be so kind as to get back to the job I’m
paying
you to do. I have to go and start getting my affairs in order.”
 

“Then you’ll tell her, right?” I take a step back to avoid being hit by the closing Mercedes door. “You’ll tell her you’re sick.”
 

The door slams shut and Alcott backs out of the parking space without another look at me.
 

“Fucking asshole,” I mutter and roll a loose piece of pavement under my boot. I shake my head and go to my Harley, foregoing the helmet because of the heat.

If he won’t tell Pepper, I will. She deserves to know. Yeah, telling her will void whatever contract Alcott and I have going, but it’s not about the money. It’s never been about the money, not when it comes to Pepper.
 

It’s always been her. It will always be her.
 

*

I wipe sweat from my forehead and walk around my bike, holding my hand over my eyes to shield the sun. The thing is pristine, better than the day I took it home. The bike is five years old, but doesn’t look like it. I rode it damn near every day it was in my possession. Two and a half of those five years, the poor bike sat covered in the back of an auto shop. The same one I work at.

Worked.
 

My whole life I’ve had a job, scraping by paycheck to paycheck. Now I have more money than I know what to do with, and a house with a garage. An attached garage. Plus, loads of spare time. I never in a million years thought I’d have complaints about getting paid a shit ton of money for doing little work, but dammit, I’m bored. The highlights of my day are the little glimpses of Pepper that I get as she walks from house to car, car to building, and back. She goes to expensive restaurants, does a lot of shopping, and spends most of her spare time with a strawberry blonde woman named Savannah Lenox.
 

A quick Google search told me that Savannah’s father owns a pharmaceutical company worth billions, and Savannah has an on-and-off relationship with a movie director. Savannah’s a smart girl, having gotten into the MD Program at the Geisel School of Medicine. She never finished her degree, and I’m sure if I kept digging I could find out why, but honestly I don’t give a shit, and with her inheritance she doesn’t need to work a day in her life.
 

The last four Thursdays, Pepper went to a church in a rundown part of town to serve food at a soup kitchen. Two of her daddy’s hired guards went with her. I did a Google search on Pepper as well, and nothing came up about her volunteering. Because that’s how Pepper is. She does it to help people, not to look good in the eyes of the media. She doesn’t post about it, doesn’t brag. She just quietly goes in to help.
 

I flick water off my hands and pick up a microfiber towel, running it over the black metal on my Harley to be sure I didn’t miss any water. Water spots on a black bike stick out, and I can’t have that. Twenty minutes later, the sun is killing me and I have nothing left to clean. I move my motorcycle into the two-car garage, parking it next to that damn car Alcott insists I drive when I’m tailing Pepper, and go into the house.
 

It was fully furnished when I got there, décor included. It’s nothing spectacular; it’s something a normal middle-class family would live in. I presume at least. I don’t have much experience with normal, or middle class. It’s better than anything I’ve had before, and it’s unnerving, making me constantly battle the sinking feeling that this offer is to good to be true, that no one really gets a clean slate even though I think I really fucking deserve one. I didn’t start the shit, yet I’m the one getting the bottom of my shoes dirty cleaning it up.
 

I straighten up the kitchen, and then take a shower. I get out, get dressed, and still have time to kill. Pepper ran errands with Savannah this morning, and then retreated back to the Davenwood Manor. She’s going to some sort of charity ball tonight. It’s an event I can’t get in, and it’s an event that’ll be heavily guarded on its own. I’m a man of my word, so I’ll be nearby, keeping an eye on whatever the hell I’m able to keep an eye on.
 

And there’s a bar across the street from the venue. Could be worse, right?
 

When it comes time to leave, I decide it’s too damn nice of a night
not
to ride my bike. Pepper’s not going to see me, after all. I can’t get close enough for it to even be a risk.
 

*

I finish my second beer and lean back in the booth, watching the wrestling match on the large TV mounted in the corner of the bar. The building across from this place has been buzzing with all walks of life for an hour now. From what I could gather, the place is an old warehouse turned into some after-school art gallery for children. Because poor kids need art supplies more than food or clothes. Whatever makes the elite sleep better at night, thinking they did something amazing to help better the city. We’re not in the best part of town, which is why there are double the number of men in black suits standing around the sidewalk.

Limos and expensive cars drop off the rich and famous. Paparazzi crowd around the roped off aisle way, cameras flashing as they snap something they can sell. And ordinary citizens squeeze between, cell phones out in hopes of getting something that can go viral, gaining their own weird little fame via social media.
 

Pepper arrived half an hour ago, exiting a black limo arm-in-arm with that sleezeball she was out with last night. I don’t know the guy’s name, or what he does, but I could tell by his body language he thinks he’s hot shit. And anyone could tell that Pepper was uncomfortable during their dinner.
 

So why the fuck is she with him again? It took effort not to get angry. Pepper can date whoever she wants. We broke up and never spoke again. She moved on. I didn’t. Sucks to be me, but what the hell am I to do? Hope that maybe, someday, somehow, I can move on from her, find someone better?
 

There will never be anyone better than Pepper.
 

I’m about to order another beer—and hell, another burger—when Rosemary sways her way back over. The chick was lit up like a Christmas tree when I got here a little after 7 PM, and wasted no time hitting on me. She’d be attractive if she showered, washing away the traces of white powder on her nose and ridding her body of the smell of sweat and dirty hair.
 

This isn’t the first time she’s been blitzed like this in public. She’s got her shit somewhat together like a functioning addict. I let out a breath and set the empty beer bottle on the table. I let Rosemary down easy the first time, feeling bad for her. I know what it’s like to have a fucked-up life. My eyes meet hers, but she doesn’t smile.