Tied Bond (Holly Woods Files, #4) (19 page)

“I
t’s nice that you’re going with Mom to the viewing.” Drake knots his tie, meeting my eyes through the reflection in the mirror.

“Yep.” Nice—sure. That’s what it is. No ulterior motive here.

“What are you planning?”

I laugh and put my mascara back into my makeup bag. “I’m not planning anything. I’m going with her to support her.”

Lying feels like shit. I hate it. It’s all shit.

“Then why the ‘yep’?”

“I was agreeing. Do you have any idea how hard it is to talk while applying mascara? This shit is an art form. Van Gogh would struggle.” Not to mention it really, really freaking stings when you prod yourself in the eye with the wand.

Not that I’ve done that. This month, anyway. But it’s only the start, so who knows how much longer I’ll go with mascara-free eyeballs?

“Noelle. You look like you’re up to something.”

“I’m a woman,” I say, turning around and reaching for my hairbrush. “I’m always up to something, and it’s usually figuring out a way I can kill you and not get caught.”

“From anyone else, I’d be scared of that. You? Not so much.” He finishes adjusting his tie and makes sure his shirt is fully tucked in. His arms strain against the sleeves, and I almost get distracted by the bulging of his biceps, but I manage to retain my focus long enough to realize that he essentially just called me a pussy.

“Why aren’t you scared of me? I’m lethal. I could kill you right now.”

He pauses his hand down the side of his pants. The twitch of his lips gives his amusement away, and he slowly runs his tongue over the upper one. “Yes, you’re right.” He pulls his hand from his pants and stalks toward me. “Look at you. My high-heel-lovin’, cupcake-addicted, independent, soft-hearted, sassy, pain-in-the-ass woman. You’re positively fuckin’ terrifyin’ wielding that hairbrush.”

I lower the brush. “That could be the nicest thing you’ve ever said me.”

“Well,” he says in a low voice, taking the brush from my grip and setting it on top of the dresser. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me against him. “I don’t want that hairbrush up my ass, and as sweet as you are, I wouldn’t put an attempt past you.”

“You know me so well.” I smile and touch my lips to his.

He holds me tighter, sliding one hand up my body to cup the back of my head. His fingers twine in my hair as mine grasp his shirt. Our lips move together—slowly, but every touch has shiver after shiver rocketing down my spine.

“Stop it,” he murmurs against my mouth, smiling, “or I’m gonna be late for work, and if I’m late, the boss man will be pissed.”

Ugh. I forgot he has a meeting with Sheriff Bates this morning. “That’s gonna be real fun for you.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.” Drake releases me and grabs his jacket. “Hopefully they’ve heard something from Austin and can rule Mom out.”

“That’s pretty quick.”

“Do you know how many times Trent’s called them?” He raises an eyebrow, his lips tugging up with it, as he slings his jacket over his forearm. “It’s a wonder they haven’t arrested him for harassment.”

“Trent? Wow. When I last talked to him, he had a stick so far up his ass he had a second spine.”

Drake snorts. “Yeah, well, he’s working hard on this case to clear Mom.”

“Really?” I ask as he walks past me. “Because, when I brought it up, he couldn’t be clearer that he was on the prosecuting side of her problem. He all but admitted he thought she was guilty.” I grab my shoes and follow him to the stairs.

“Of course he did. You’re not on the force, Noelle. You know he can’t tell you anything.”

“He’s not supposed to tell you anything, either.”

“He isn’t telling me case details or facts, and since I’m not in charge of his ass on this case, I can’t even order him to.”

“Sheriff Bates’s order would override yours.”

“You’re picky this morning, aren’t you?”

“You think this is picky? Really? It’s eight a.m., I haven’t had coffee, I’m craving sugar, and I have to go look at a dead guy. You can’t call that picky.”

“Stressed, then.” He turns the coffee machine on. “You seem stressed.”

“Yes, I am. I’d like a week off in the Bahamas with fruity cocktails and sunshine and no dead people.”

“That sounds amazing. Book a week off and we’ll go.”

“I can’t just book a week off.” I put my shoes down and step into them. “I can’t just ask my clients and subjects to pause their lives for a moment while I take a vacation.”

“You have a best friend who works for you and is more than capable of running your business for a week so you can take a vacation. You haven’t had one for, what? Two years?”

“Does a crazy weekend in Vegas with Bek count as a vacation?” I tilt my head to the side and take the coffee he’s handing me. “Because, if so, yes, two-ish years. If not, probably closer to four.”

“Wow. You amaze me every day. Except this isn’t the good way, sweetheart. You need a break.”

“Jesus, you sound like my dad. ‘Noelle, you need a break. It isn’t healthy to work so much. Bond P.I. will survive your absence for seven little days.’”

“He’s right.” Drake laughs, making his own coffee. “He is. You have to admit that.”

“Wow,” I say, setting my coffee on the counter and fetching my purse from the dining table. “Holly Woods is in the middle of a murder investigation and you’re thinking about a vacation. Are you sick?” I pause and touch the backs of my fingers to his forehead.

He bats my hand away from his head. “Shut up. No, I’m not sick.” He turns back to the coffee machine and switches it off. “I’m just being realistic. This year has been crazy—and a good deal of that is courtesy of your family—but we both need some time to relax.”

“I have time to relax. It’s called sleep.”

“Which is a necessary action for human life. It’s hardly relaxation.”

“I read.”

“Sweetheart.” He slaps his hand on the counter in front of me. “You read true crime and look it up on Google. The last time you read anything remotely romantic was a text Dev meant to send to Amelia but hit your name instead.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re so dramatic. And true crime happens to be relaxing. You know. The stuff I read. And, for your information, I read a Cosmo article on sex toys yesterday while I was on hold with Barnes and Noble.”

“You called Barnes and Noble? For what?”

I blink at him. “To find out when my new kettle is going to be delivered.”

He ushers me out the front door. It’s his turn to roll his eyes now. I bet he looks better than I do when he does it too. None of this headache-inducing eye rolling. Just a quick flick.

“I pity the clients you see today. You’re in a foul mood.”

“Well, death does that to me. I can’t say I’m thrilled about going to the viewing.” I pull my keys—now with the new addition added—out of my purse and hit the button to unlock my car. “There’s something that seems morally wrong about putting a dead body out so people can stare at it.”

“But getting excited about finding a website full of serial killer true stories isn’t morally wrong?” His eyebrows draw together as he opens the door to his truck.

“No.” I put my purse on my seat and turn to face him. “It’s been scientifically proven that people who are obsessed with murderers and serial killers are intellectually superior and excellent conversationalists.”

“And also the kind of people you want to tell they’re intellectually superior because they know a million ways to kill you, and they’re excellent conversationalists because they can describe each of those ways in extreme detail.” He lets his door go to quickly kiss me.

“That means I know a million ways to kill you too. I’d sleep with one eye open. In fact, I wouldn’t sleep at all, Nash.”

He studies me with his icy, blue eyes for a long, long moment, his lips pursed to one side, then says, “I’m gonna ask Jason to have the FBI keep an eye on your movements. You’re starting to alarm me.” With that, he gets into his truck and starts the engine.

The deep purr of it getting going fills the air, and he drives away from his house, and me, with a wave out of the window.

Did he not say twenty minutes ago that I wasn’t scary? Yet, now, he wants to get the FBI to keep an eye on me. The man is a walking, talking contradiction right now.

That or he needs to go to a doctor to get his memory checked. Maybe old age is setting in young for him.

Honestly. The man needs to make his mind up. I’d do something to terrify him, but with his reflexes, there’s no doubt I’d find myself in another gun-to-face situation. At least he wouldn’t actually mean to shoot me. I guess there’s always that.

I finally get into my car and start it. Every minute that goes by this morning, I wish a little more that I’d never agreed to this whole thing with Gianna. The saddest part is that it’s because I don’t want to go this afternoon. I keep thinking it—hell, I keep on saying it—but I feel like I need to do that so I can convince myself that it doesn’t matter what I want.

Sometimes, you have to do things you don’t want to do, and sometimes, you feel guilty that you don’t want to do it. Especially when it means a lot to someone else… But it’s okay. It’s okay to not want to do things.

Rationally, I know this, but I’m going to need several reminders today. Maybe a few Post-it notes will do it.

I’ve never been to a viewing prior to a funeral. I never went to Nonno’s because I was too upset, and Mom’s parents died when I was, like, two or three. I’ve never needed to go to one other than that. I don’t have enough fingers to count the funerals I’ve attended, but yeah. No viewings.

The idea creeps me out. In fact, the idea is downright petrifying. I know what dead bodies look like, but seeing one several days after death, all dressed and made up just so people can look upon it like it’s a waxwork in Madame Tussauds?

Yeah. No, thank you.

I pull into the Bond P.I. office parking lot. My day will be kicking off with a staff meeting, and a staff meeting means cupcakes. Although it is Mike’s turn to get them, so who the hell knows how many will be left in the box?

My phone rings as I’m parking in my spot, and I pull it out of my purse and hit answer as I get out. “Hello?”

“Noelle.” Jason’s deep voice travels down the line. “There’s been something from the lab. I don’t know what because I’m not in Holly Woods yet and Trent refused to tell me over the phone, but you need to know it isn’t good.”

“I really don’t like the sound of what you’re about to tell me.”

“It implicates Gianna further.” His sigh crackles through the connection.

I shut the door and lean back against it, my eyes closed. I pinch the bridge of my nose as my stomach drops, and a dark cloud of apprehension settles over me.

“When did they find out?” I ask.

“Yesterday evening. From what Trent said, they worked for hours, going through every scenario they could. Ultimately, it just stacked against her.”

“What did? Why wouldn’t he tell you?”

“I don’t know. Look—I’ll call you as soon as I can, yeah? I’m almost in town. But let me tell you this… You’re running out of time to prove she isn’t guilty. It sounds like it could be enough to arrest her—or, at the very least, one more piece of evidence could be.”

Shit. “All right. Thanks, Jason. I’ll speak to you later.” I hang up before he can respond. Then I bang my head against the door. “Shit.”

“Everything okay?” Bek stands in the doorway of the meeting room and rests her hand against the doorframe.

I open my eyes to meets hers. “No. But it will be.” I hope. “Is there cupcakes and coffee?”

“I stopped Dean from taking the champagne one. Apparently, it was the right choice.”

“Yes. And put whiskey in the coffee. It’s gonna be a long-ass day.”

I’ve been sitting in my car outside the funeral home for the last ten minutes. I haven’t moved a muscle except to scratch my cheek. The longer I sit here, the harder it is to contemplate going in. It’s made better by the fact that I can’t see Gianna’s car—or made worse. I haven’t heard a word from her all day, and now, I’m wondering if she’s been taken back into the station for more questioning.

Or arrested. Either option is entirely viable.

Oh, Jesus, no. I don’t want to think of that.

Maybe she walked. Maybe she didn’t want to drive in case she’d be upset and walked. She only lives a block or so away. Yes. That’s it. She walked.

Fuck a donkey, Noelle. Get your damn ass into that building and grow a pair of balls.

I snatch up my purse and get out of the car before I can change my mind. Well, not so much change my mind. Before I decide I’m real comfy sitting where I am and just kind of...stay here.

The weather matches the general mood. Light-gray clouds are slowly making their way across the sky, interspersed with both patches of blue sky and darker, more ominous clouds that threaten rain. I’m not a fan of rain, but I’d take it right now. I’d take anything right now.

Twelve feet of snow. Flash floods. Either or.

I clutch my purse to my body as I make my way toward the funeral home. Internally, I’m making an
nnnnng
kind of in pain sound. I’m, like, screaming at myself. I don’t even know why—I know there is so much I need to do here today, and it may as well be my only chance to talk to or arrange to talk to Kat.