Page 2 of Love In The Shadows

A smile tugged at those candy lips. “I like shrimp.”

“Perfect! We’ll go eat some shrimp. And afterward,” I lowered toward her and flashed a cocky grin, “I’ll let you do all the grinding you want. But right now…”

“You gotta go.”

“Exactly.” I kissed her quick, needing another taste of those sweet lips before I pushed off the too-soft mattress and went to find my jeans. “I’ll call you.”

Harlowe was grinning now. My bullshit routine had worked flawlessly. Truth be told, she was hot enough. I probably would’ve called her again if the circumstances were different. I didn’t keep a little black book. Wasn’t my style. I preferred to find a nice piece of ass, have her as hard and often as I wanted, and when I got bored—or she got clingy—I moved on, never to darken her doorway again.

I zipped my fly, pulled on my shoes, and grabbed my black ball cap from the bed post. “See ya later, baby.”

“Seven o’clock?” she called after me.

“Sure!” I hollered back on my way through her apartment. The place was immaculate, and, as I wandered through, I wondered if she was the kind of chick who cleaned when she got pissed off. If so, she was about to scrub the grout right off the tiled floor when she realized I’d just fed her a bunch of lies and had no intention of calling her or going to a shrimp dinner with her.

Poor girl. I almost felt bad.

Almost.

I stepped out into the hallway of the controlled access building, pulled the front door closed, and headed for the elevators. The building was in a prime Santa Monica location. Whatever Harlowe did when she wasn’t taking home random bar guys and sucking their dicks obviously paid well.

The lobby was brightly lit, classy all the way, and most of the people I passed on my way out were in business attire, ready to conquer the world. Or, at least, Los Angeles. Which was pretty much the world, according to Los Angelinos.

Personally, I was from a little farther east of the pristine beaches of Southern California. Though I’d been here for a while now, I still wasn’t used to the noise and the hustle. It wasn’t my scene, and everyone around me knew it. I preferred blue jeans and ball caps to beach attire or three-piece suits and shoes made from dead gators. But what the hell? To each their own.

If I played my cards right, I’d be leaving soon enough. I just had some business I had to take care of first.

I merged into a stampede of what seemed to be passengers from a tour bus on the sidewalk in front of Harlowe’s building. None of them watching where they were going. They were all too busy taking selfies on their cell phones to be heard over the rush of traffic in the street a few feet away.

I shook my head to myself as I found my own path and kicked up the pace so I wouldn’t get trampled. Not that I could. I was a pretty big guy as it was. Stood six feet two on a good day. I’d let my dark hair grow out longer than usual and sported a full beard, which was definitely not my norm. In fact, I was feeling kind of scruffy and wanted to get home to shower and clean up before my big night tonight.

As I started down the street, I glanced up at the front of Harlowe’s apartment building and wondered if she was standing at the window, looking down at me as I walked away. Not to brag, but I had a way of leaving an impression. I knew if she was watching—or not—she was undoubtedly counting down the hours until she’d see me again.

If that was actually happening. Which it wasn’t.

Like I said, it wasn’t that I didn’t want another ride with the blonde goddess in 318B. It just wasn’t in the cards. I had a job to do, and it was dangerous as fuck. There wasn’t any way I could forgive myself if someone got it into their head that they could use a girl like Harlowe as leverage against me in case shit went south.

Which it probably would, at least once before this whole damn thing was done.

I hoofed it a few blocks to a beachfront public lot where I’d left my truck. I hated driving in LA. The traffic was like a scene from an apocalyptic zombie movie where everyone is trying to get out of Dodge all at the same time, but here—it’s all day, every day. But it was necessary for the time being.

This was big.

My job was a little unconventional and had me needing some new connections. Right now, I spend my days tailing the new head honcho of the Sanderson Syndicate, Richard “Richie” Dalton. Richie is one of two nephews vying to take over the syndicate and runs the day-to-day operations.

The other nephew, Albert Sanderson, hadn’t been seen in recent weeks, leaving me to wonder if he was in hiding or got outplayed by his cousin Richie. The syndicate is based in the desert near Las Vegas but has branches of militias all over the western United States. They specialize in amassing large amounts of weaponry with dreams of someday taking over the country. Or at least put up one hell of a fight when the heat comes.

Every day, I follow the bastard as he goes about his day. I’d been following Richie for a few weeks, and by now, I knew his every move. I knew his friends, his family, and, more importantly, his enemies. I knew where he lived, where he worked, where he went when he was pissed off, or, conversely, when he was happy.

I knew how he liked his tacos from the truck, where he went to meet his side piece, and when he took a shit.

I’d probably gone a little overboard, taking my time to get to know him from afar, but it would all pay off in the end. I was nothing if not thorough.

Just ask Harlowe.

After three weeks of scoping him out, everything about Richie was etched into my brain. And tonight would be the first time I put that information to good use.

Tonight, I was going to Parkston’s On the Hill.

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