Page 1 of Babydoll

Prologue

Jeff

The Nissan Micra was not built for comfort. Hell, maybe it wasn’t even built for driving. Bumbling along perhaps, but driving? Shit, I’d rather take the bus. At least on the bus I didn’t have to kink my head to one side while simultaneously bashing my knees against the steering column.

This car, with the boxy feel of a coffin isn’t one of the several cars I own for my security firm. I needed something older for this job, so I borrowed my neighbor’s teenaged son’s car. It’s ten years old, has several dents, and the passenger door, purchased from the local scrap yard, is orange.

I hadn’t realized how uncomfortable the car would be until tonight. And it had cost me a tank of gas and some Twenty-One Pilots tickets. I’d changed the plates and took down the ridiculous fuzzy dice so nothing could link it back to the kid.

As I smash my knee for the hundredth time and curse, I wish he drove a rusted Intrepid like I had at his age.

I shift in the unforgiving seat to allow blood flow to my extremities and whack my head on the ceiling yet again. More cursing ensues. My head now pounds along with the bass from a party somewhere down the street. But my throbbing noggin isquickly forgotten the moment my eyes land on a curvy blonde in a calf-length, belted overcoat who’s just rounded the corner.

As she gets closer, my first thought is she’s hot. But hot isn’t relevant. I scribble her description in my notebook. Just over five feet, blonde, round face, big eyes, hourglass figure. I squint, waiting for her to get under the streetlamp, but it’s too dark to note the color of her eyes and I can’t see any distinguishing features. I do notice her legs though, but that stays out of my notes too. It’s not my detective skills noticing them.

Which brings me to my second thought. What the hell is she doing here? This isn’t a neighborhood anyone should be walking through alone, let alone a pretty, petite woman.

Just like the fuzzy dice, now hanging out of sight on the gear shift, this woman doesn’t belong.

Her hands anxiously clench and unclench at her sides which tells me she doesn’t want to be here. Add that to the way she’s glancing around nervously and I’m picking up damsel-in-distress vibes. I growl, my jaw tightening in annoyance. I scribble, ‘broke down?’ in my notes and circle it.

Glancing at the man leaning on the fence that separates his house and the building I’m staking out, I work my jaw. Cigarette smoke forms a cloud around him as he blows out. He’s lit by the entry lights on the building so I can see his face clearly. He squints through the smoke, leering at the woman.

Jesus effing Christ. Could this night get any worse?

Dude’s been lurking at the end of his driveway on and off for as long as I’ve been on this stake-out. I check my watch. More than a few hours now. He could be waiting for someone, just nosy, or maybe he doesn’t like to smoke in his house, but he’s been eying the street like a hawk the whole time and my gut tells me it’s not because he’s the head of his local neighborhood watch. Currently though, he’s only watching her. Predatorily.

I gather a breath and glance between him and the blonde. He straightens as she nears and I reach for my door handle just in case. At first she slows, her steps faltering, but then she surprises me by pulling her shoulders back and walking toward him with a boldness that belies her stature. When her face is once again lit by the street lamp, I see her expression. She glares as if daring him to mess with her.

Is this who he’s been watching for? Another note scribbled into my pad.

He speaks to her and she replies, but their words are drowned out by the pounding bass from down the street. I whisper a curse, annoyed, and concentrate on their mouths. Why can’t I read lips?

By her frown I can safely say she didn’t like what he said. I’m also confident she told him so, because the guy’s leer morphs into a scowl. I hear his next words clearly over the music. But Blondie’s unfazed by the derogatory language. And huh, she walks right up the walkway of the building, leaving the asshole to stare after her.

She better be mixed-martial-arts trained with that confidence, or she’s going to end up on the wrong side of a funeral one of these times. I shake my head.

Leaning deeper into my seat, I release the door handle and scrub my hand across my stubbled jaw. My eyes follow her into the vestibule of the building. She looks at the resident mailboxes, scanning the names with a finger before passing through the second set of doors.

She’s obviously never been here before, or at least not in a while, otherwise why consult the mailboxes? Could she be a prostitute? The thought makes me frown. She doesn’t look like a sex worker. I scribble the thought in my book anyway. Maybe that’s where the bravery comes from—a pimp nearby.

But wouldn’t she be showing more skin? Damn, with curves like hers, priests would pass over their collection plates. Maybe she’s wearing very little under that coat. As my eyes skim down her body, I notice she’s wearing tennis shoes.

Huh. Sex workers don’t often wear sensible footwear, do they? I glance at her shoulder where she should have a purse. Nothing. So, no stilettos tucked away. Before I can consider more options, she disappears deeper into the building, out of sight. I straighten too quickly, bashing my head again and swear.

I’m parked under a broken streetlamp, so when the smoking dude turns his glare on me, I don’t panic. I look the part in a dark hoodie and sunglasses. Actually, I look like a douche, but they’re a dime a dozen around here.

“Nothing to see, buddy,” I whisper and fiddle with the radio, finding a Green Day song and turning it loud enough to appear not to care if I’m noticed.

The guy’s gaze only stays on me for a few seconds before it swings back to the building… and then he pulls out his cell.

I smile. “Gotcha, fucker!”

It’s proof enough he’s watching Gage’s building. And I’d bet my ass he works for Satan’s Ransom. Maybe he’s not a patched member of the MC, but a prospect. Unless he’s undercover too. A narc? And what about the blonde? If the dude’s undercover, she could be working for the Ransom. No one does business, of any kind, in River’s End under the nose of the disreputable MC.

“Who are you, Blondie?” I question quietly, tapping my pen on my knee.

Thinking about Satan’s Ransom always makes my jaw clench, so I force it to relax. Unfolding myself from the coffin-like vehicle, I hunch down in my hoodie, shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my too-low, too-loose jeans.

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