Page 23 of Treachery

Without another word, he slipped by her, and wrenched open the closet door.

She held her breath, unable to follow behind him; she knew what he’d find.

TEN

“It lookslike a Tasmanian devil had a party in here,” Locust said, his voice muffled from inside the walk-in. “Do you know what they could have been looking for?”

She had no freaking idea! “No. I only kept clothes and shoes in there. I have nothing to hide—seriously, nothing! I gave the only things that weren’t mine to Frost. It isn’t like I make a habit of keeping things I don’t need, you know that.” He grunted, because he did; he’d been a victim of her frustrated stare whenever he’d toss a bread tie or coupon from the pizza box into one of her kitchen drawers. If she was never going to use it, she didn’t keep it, period. She’d been stuck living in a home with a mother who hoarded things she “might need someday” and a stepfather who indulged her because he didn’t have the energy after working a twelve-hour shift to deal with it. So, while living in a house no bigger than a matchbox wasn’t ideal at the best of times, no one should have to live in a tiny, three-bedroom house with five overflowing junk drawers, closets bursting with plastic shopping bags, old coats, and bent umbrellas, and a coffee table covered in stacks ofMarie ClaireandCosmofrom the early 2000s. The worst was that, after they’d died, she’d hadto go through all of it, by herself, because Elijah was too busy gambling and getting high to come home and help her.

After that, she swore that, upon her death, no one she loved would have to dig through the remains of her life before they could move on.

Vicki is the only one in your life….God, that sounded sad and pathetic.You once had James….

Thankfully, he interrupted her thoughts.

“Do you know if anything was taken? Shit—could you even tell?” he grumbled.

“Like I said, unless they wanted to upgrade their wardrobe to Target business essentials, they came away empty-handed.”

He grunted, his head and shoulders popped out of the closet, and he gazed at her, his eyes softening.

Ugh, why did he have to look at her like that? Where was the selfish, arrogant biker who tore her heart out? Him she could have stayed pissed at. This guy, though, he’d ridden to her rescue, kissed the hell out of her, then actually had the gall to be worried about her. She rolled her eyes at herself.

“Can you come take a look?” She jolted at his words, the idea of setting foot in the wreckage of her wardrobe making her heart race and her palms sweaty—the fucker, whoever it was, had violated her personal space, her sense of safety and security, and it made her queasy just thinking about it. “I know this is hard for you, baby,” Locust cajoled, his deep voice smooth and warm like aged bourbon, “but I think if you can see whether they took something, it’ll be easier to figure out who could have done it.”

Dammit, that made sense. Which meant she was going in there—not like she could justnotgo into her own closet for the rest of her life. Sure, she could buy a whole new wardrobe, but some of those clothes were worn in and washed to comfy perfection, she’d hate to have to wear in new of everything. On top of that, some of those jeans fit her plus sized frame perfectly;not too tight around the ass and hips, and they didn’t sag in the back or gape at the waist. They hugged her curvy body like they’d been made for her. Nope. Definitely couldn’t just throw those out. It was a nightmare to find jeans to fit the bigger girl, so she wasn’t trying to do that.

Closing her eyes, she sucked in a deep breath, her lungs shuddering, then let it out slowly.

Opening her eyes once more, she met his concerned gaze.

“Fine,” she muttered, stomping to the closet and then inside it as he pressed his massive body up against the doorframe. As she scooched by, she could swear he groaned as her breasts brushed against his chest.

Damn, her nipples hardened, fine-tuned to his noises, his scent, his heat, his very presence.

No, boobs, bad girls! You willnotget a fondling today—oranyday. His hands are off-limits because he is a lying piece of shit!

Right…like the rest of her hadn’t sat up and took notice of him when she saw him on the other side of the bathroom door.

God, why couldn’t the jerk be ugly? Why did he half to look like the very definition of the biker book boyfriend?

Internally slapping herself to get her mind right, she told her senses to ignore him and get on with it. Inside the closet, silently, she scanned the mess, taking in the clothes ripped from the hangers and thrown on the floor, the shoe boxes opened, the shoes tossed on the floor, the empty boxes scattered everywhere. The top shelves where she kept her blankets and thick sweaters had been cleared, the contents on the floor as well. It was a freaking mess!

“Why would someone do this?” she murmured, hating that she had to ask that question in the first place. “I have nothing they’d want to steal in here—and why didn’t they take the TV or my laptop?” Her laptop was sitting on the coffee table whereit usually ended up after she checked emails, chatted with her Facebook friends, and fell into the internet trap of Wikipedia and Homestar Runner.

Taking in the sight of her belongings at her feet, tears burned the backs of her eyes. She refused to cry, though, especially in front of Locust. He didn’t deserve anything from her but castration by chainsaw.

But he came when he knew you needed him…if he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t have bothered.

Ugh. Was it possible to muzzle inner voices without the aid of bourbon?

Kicking at a pile of clothes, the bottom of her bare foot scraped against something. She hissed in surprise, jerking her foot back.

“What?” Locust barked, grabbing her arm to pull her into his chest. She looked up, her breath catching on the look of concern on his face. “What happened?”

Whoa, this was definitely a different Locust; she’d never seen him so…emotional before, not in all those months they were dating.

Yeah, because he was faking it the whole time, so of course you didn’t see his real emotions.

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