I’d spent years of my life learning to read people. The skill was an essential component of my line of work, but it also helped me keep my cool. If people didn’t catch me off guard, I didn’t get upset, and no one got hurt. My childhood was spent trapped in that series of cascading events. I refused to succumb as an adult.
So why the fuck couldn’t I get a proper read on Rowan Alexander? Never in a million years had I anticipated her walking into Moxy, let alone accepting the challenge I’d thrown down. I fully expected her to tuck tail and run. Not only did that not happen, but she owned that fucking stage. She looked like a goddamn fantasy without even taking off a scrap of clothing, and I wasn’t the only dick in the room standing salute.
Knowing everyone in the club could see her dance sent me closer than I’d been in years to losing my shit. What she did on that stage wasn’t meant for anyone but me. I wanted to plunge my thumbs straight into their eye sockets, and that was a bad fucking sign.
If I’d been thinking logically, I would have listened to her request from the beginning and avoided the entire scene. We needed her father’s cooperation. Helping her would be just another foot in the door with her father. But somehow, I’d known. Deep in my gut, I’d known that Rowan Alexander was trouble.
Now, not only did I have images of her seductive dance seared into the back of my retinas, I was also sitting outside Lawrence Wellington’s house when I had a shit ton of better things to do with my time.
I’d told her that I wouldn’t help. I’d told her to let it go, but a woman who would seek out someone like myself in a strip club wasn’t about to back down. I knew it better than I knew myself. I’d gnawed on that information for two days before I’d finally caved and done a cursory search on the man.
He was powerful enough to be familiar, but I’d never interacted with him personally. Information on him was surprisingly hard to come by, and that, more than anything, made me suspicious. People in high places with an impeccable public persona were often the worst of the lot.
Who was Lawrence Wellington?
I was on my second night of surveillance trying to find out. I’d also assigned our resident techie to do a deep dive on the web, but that would take time. Besides, plenty could be learned simply by observing. And one of the great things about living in the city was easy viewing.
Men like Wellington could tuck themselves away in a high-rise, but that was as secluded as he could get. And he hadn’t even gone to that extent. The shipping mogul must have valued prestige over privacy because he lived in a single-family mansion in the exclusive Lennox Hill neighborhood, his movements just as traceable as any other schmo on the street.
I tried to assure myself that looking into the man was strategic and had nothing to do with Rowan. Information on him might mean leverage over the governor. It was a lead worth following up. I told myself that Rowan was simply the source of my information and played no other part in my decision, but deep down, I knew that was bullshit. Her involvement created a sense of urgency inside me that I couldn’t ignore. She thought something shady was going on, and I had a feeling she would end up tangled in whatever web lay waiting.
Two hours into my night, a black Mercedes sedan pulled up in front of the house. I immediately started recording on my phone. The sun had set, but the ambient city lights were enough to keep me from needing more sophisticated recording equipment.
The driver popped the trunk, then stepped from the vehicle. I watched with an unobstructed view as he opened the back seat, pulled out two short-barreled SIG 550s, and quickly placed them in the trunk.
And just like that, everything changed.
I didn’t even breathe as the passenger exited the car. He never turned in my direction, preventing me from seeing his face. The two men went up the front steps to the Wellington family home and were welcomed inside.
Jesus fucking Christ. Tell me I’m wrong.
I pulled up the recording on my phone and zoomed in on the guns. Blood pulsed like bass drums inside my head as I verified my suspicion. The two guns were both authentic, possessing the select fire switch only found on military-grade Swiss-made SIGs. They weren’t easy to find. We were the only black-market dealers I knew of locally who had access, and even then, it didn’t happen often. We’d only had one shipment in the past six months, and Oran had reported them stolen within days of their arrival.
What kind of monumental coincidence would it take for those two weapons to have been sourced outside of that stolen shipment?
I studied the car and saw no indications of diplomatic immunity that would suggest a connection to the Swiss Embassy. The presence of men dealing in illegal guns supported Rowan’s theory that Wellington was into more than shipping. This shit just kept getting worse.
A wary unease scratched at my skin with jagged claws.
I needed a drink.
Thirty minutes later, I was at the Moxy sipping the Redbreast whiskey I kept on hand for days like this. I stayed in the club for the distraction, though I hardly noticed the people around me. It was late enough that the place was packed. I sat at the end of the bar, my back to the room in an attempt to dissuade conversation, which worked until Torin showed up. My cousin wasn’t intimidated by anything, least of all me.
“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” he asked under his breath while signaling the bartender. He wasn’t purposely being discreet. That was just Tor. He seemed to save all his energy for the boxing ring where he went nuclear on his opponents.
“Is something going on?” I swirled the amber liquid in my glass.
Tor shot me a look that said don’t be a dumbass. “You forget that I saw you here with that girl last week? Don’t even pretend nothing is going on there. You’ve been on edge ever since.”
“She’s Evan Alexander’s daughter,” I said with a sigh.
“No shit.” He huffed. “Girl can dance.”
I had to grind my teeth against the surge of rage that overtook me. “Watch it.” A promise of brutality roughened my voice.
“Oh yeah?” he asked with a genuine note of surprise. “Didn’t expect that from you.”
I shook my head. “There is no that. I’ve just got a lot of shit going on.”
He did a slow nod that told me he didn’t buy it for a second. Whatever. He could think what he liked.
“Need a hand with anything?” he asked.
“Not at the moment.” I downed the rest of my drink in one swallow, relishing the burn that filled my chest. “I’ll let you know if things change.” I stood, bumping my fist into his before leaving. I had work to do, and it was getting late.
I walked through the NYU campus the following morning with purposeful strides. It seemed empty for a college campus, not that I was one to know. School was never my scene. Fortunately, my family wasn’t the sort to carry academic expectations. I’d graduated from high school and never looked back.
Eventually, I found my way to 19 West 4th Street, room 302. A glance through the small window on the door confirmed that class was in session, and the professor was in the middle of lecturing. I opened the door and stepped inside, scanning the room until my eyes landed on Rowan dutifully watching her professor.
The old man in a tweed golf cap sputtered to a stop, his stare drawing the eyes of the rest of the students. “Can I help you?” he clipped snidely.
I’d like to see him show that kind of brass when he wasn’t on his throne, bolstered by the illusion of safety in the center of his little kingdom. The thought almost brought a smile to my lips.
I cut my eyes back to Rowan and gave a swift jerk of my chin toward the door. I didn’t wait to see her reaction, though I caught the bright pink of her cheeks before I slipped back into the hall.
Her eyes blazed when she slipped from the classroom. “I assume since you found me here that you illegally obtained my class schedule,” she hissed at me. “I guess it was too much to ask that you wait until after the lecture to arrive.”
What was it about that sharp edge of hers that drove me so damn insane? It was like my emotions were hardwired to respond to her, no matter how tightly I held the reins. Anyone else could spit in my fucking face without eliciting a reaction—not an emotional one, anyway. I might fracture their jaw as a lesson, but it wouldn’t be personal. Not on my end. But Rowan was different. All she had to do was breathe, and I lost all capacity to reason.
I clamped down on my need to silence her with my tongue down her throat and led us away from the door. “You asked me for help, Alexander. Take it how you can get it, or don’t take it at all.”
