Bounty (2 page)

"I assume you can't get a warrant on it?"

"No way," Vicente says. "We've got so much intel, but so little is admissible in court. It's gotta be you, Copperhead."

I nod. This is where my career exists — in the gap between the criminal justice system and true justice.

“Let’s take a walk. The police station smells like ass.”

I
’m starting
to dread the dinging chime of the shop door. It was Dad’s idea – if your business has a bird-chime name, it should have a bird-chime sound.

Okay, Dad. You’re the one that made me go with the fake name.

It’s really so I don’t get caught up in the back room and ignore any more customers, elbow-deep in some carpentry work, or welding, or painting. When I get in the “flow” of building, it’s like everything else disappears. No sounds, no smells, not even a rumbling stomach or neck ache can reach me. It’s the most glorious thing. I’ve lost countless hours to the “flow.” I just love building clocks.

The chime, though. Not my favorite.
Selling
clocks… not my favorite.

Ah shit, the chime!

Dad is always right. It’s infuriating.

I turn off the power sander and fumble to untie my apron as I race out onto the sales floor. Or the boutique, however you want to phrase it. There’s a large-looking man hunched over one of my recent favorites, a grandiose, twisting piece of driftwood marked off with delicate rose-gold filagree. Simple, as far as a clock goes, but nature provided the intricacy. I just let it shine.

The man’s broad back, covered by a bomber jacket, makes it hard to see around to his face and introduce myself. Awkward. So I hover, for a minute, uncertain. God I hate this part.

I know I should be grateful anyone wants to pay for my art, and truly I am. But trying to sell my work — sell myself as an artist — is difficult. I’m no salesman.

But, remembering my dad’s warnings, I take a deep breath.

“Can I help you?”

The man stands and swivels in one quick movement and I jerk back, bumping into a shelf of clocks.

“Shit!”

I knock a porcelain painted number off with my elbow, just as the man reaches out to grab it. It thunks neatly into his palm.

“So sorry,” he apologizes, returning the clock to its shelf. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice is deep and a bit rough. “You always so jumpy?”

“Oh, no, I… you’re just super tall,” I say weakly. Stupid. But it’s true – I wasn’t expecting one of my customers to be quite so… strapping. The guy is easily six-three and seems to be made mostly of muscle with a small topping of stubble and eyes. I can’t keep my eyes off his white ribbed tank, stretched thin over his pecs, bunched up just a bit at the bottom, revealing just a tiny sliver of skin right at his hip. I can see the sharp drop-off of his v-cut.

A wave of tingling sensation washes over me as I picture what else might be under that beater.

Most of my customers are older men. Friends of my dad, often. Real old curmudgeons, or pinched, waspish wives of curmudgeons. They throw money at me, sure, but they’re all crusty and pudgy and awful.

This guy is young. And irritatingly handsome, in a rough, tattooed way, and he’s
smiling broadly at me for some reason.
There’s a dimple — just one — at the left corner of his mouth.

Ugh, no April! Focus.

“So… can I help you?” I try to mimic the bright chirpy sound my assistant Nadine uses.

“Well, I’m not so sure now,” he says, squinting at my feet and then my hands. “I’m afraid you’ll damage more clocks and get in trouble.”

“Well, seeing as I
make
the clocks, I don’t think so,” I say. I never give this much attitude to annoying customers. But his condescending comment seems to invite it.

“Ah, wonderful,” he says. His smile is irritatingly adorable. “In that case, Miss Clumsy Craftsman, can I speak to your manager?”

“Sure,” I say. “You’re looking at her. April Bluebird, owner, manager, and lead clockmaker at your service.”

His smile grows wider, but I see a flicker of
something
in his eyes. The usual surprise, maybe, when I announce to men that I run my own shop? The guy hesitates. Whatever he wanted to ask the owner, he wasn’t planning to ask
me
. As used to that as I am, it’s still irritating.

“Well. First, my name’s Liam.” He thrusts his hand toward me.

I grasp it, and it’s distractingly warm. “I’m April Bluebird,” I repeat. No need to explain it’s a ‘stage’ name, so to speak. My professional name.

“Miss Bluebird. Do you happen to—”

He’s interrupted by the phone behind the counter, practically jangling off the counter. The landline phone that I’m meant to answer no matter what, any time of day. Dad’s orders.

“Excuse me, will you?” I say, half embarrassed to be rude, half relieved to get the guy’s dark eyes off me for a second. Grateful for the interruption.

I don’t wait for his reaction but half-dive for the phone.

“Bluebird’s Boutique!” I chirp.

“Hold for him.” It’s my dad’s assistant Bert, who I’ve talked to thousands of times over the last decade but whom I have never met.

I wait for a moment.

“Hey baby girl,” my dad’s voice crackles through. “Sorry to call on the red phone. But we’ve got a big one here, and I’m gonna need you to pull out all the stops.”

“Here now?” I look at the irritating customer. He’s alternating between running a gentle fingertip across various clocks on display by the checkout, and smiling broadly at me, just a hint of a smirk at the edges. He’s covered in inscrutable tattoos, wearing an off-white ribbed tank, and scruffy boots. His facial hair is somewhere between “five o’clock shadow” and “three-day bender,” though on him it looks kinda good.

Ugh.

He definitely doesn’t look like a high-stakes buyer of hand-crafted clocks, anyway.

“No, the buyer won’t be in town until the end of the year.” Ah, that makes more sense. “But he’s very interested, and he’ll want a large custom order. A collection. Do you think you can pull it off?”

“Sure,” I shrug. “It’s only September.” I’ve gotten used to doing whatever my dad says is the right move, customer-wise. Do I resent it? Not usually. It gets me a lot of business. My dad’s a businessman, after all. Do I sometimes cringe when I mention to other people that my
dad
helps me with my sales? A little. But plenty of people go into the family business, right? And at least I’m forging my own path.

I try to refocus.

“What kind of clock is he looking for? A driftwood? A library? A glass number?” My most popular styles.

“I trust your judgment.,” my dad says, sounding distracted.

“Okay, sounds good, I’ll let you go,” I say, aware again of Annoying Customer’s eyes on me. They’re not quite blue, when I look at them more closely. Like a dark, mossy gray, maybe? It’d pair really well with copper, and maybe some fine shell...

“One more thing, April,” my dad says.

“Uh oh.” Something in his voice tips me off that I’m not going to like that one more thing.

“We’re making another push,” he says. “And I want to feature you at the gala, you can bring this collection.”

My dad periodically sets up these big parties for clients of his, and likes to have me attend, so that he can funnel business my way. He does this for many of the businesses he supports, so it’s not just me, and I know it’s good for sales but I
hate
schmoozing and sucking up to his skeezy business partners and customers, getting all dressed up to look presentable to rich old guys. It’s just… I appreciate that he’s trying to help me but it feels so slimy.

“I think I’m doing pretty good without—”

“April, I know it’s not fun but this is
why
you’re doing well. Don’t you want to—”

“
Not fun
is an understatement.”

“It’s not that bad,” he insists. “I need you there. I help you, and your success helps me. I can’t have a daughter whose product isn’t selling, who refuses to network. We’ve talked about this, April. Just bring Alan, do a tour around the room, hand out your card, and you’ll be out.”

I haven’t told Dad about Alan yet. It’s humiliating. Who breaks up one month before their wedding? I just can’t fake being perky in front of a bunch of pretentious douchebags.

“Seriously, I don’t want to go to another party.”

“No more arguments. I gotta run. Love you.”

Click.

I hang up the phone. Irritating Customer’s eyes are locked on me, eyes glittering with interest. What was his name again? Not that it matters.

“So sorry about that,” I say, back to my business voice. “So, what kind of piece were you interested in?”

He gives me a long look, from my steel-toed boots to my sloppy button-down. I can almost
feel
his eyes grazing along my collar, up my neck, to my lips. It’s hard to ignore his thick, curving lips, twisted into a half-smile, half-smirk.

“I’m sure you have a lot of pieces I’d be interested in,” he says, but then he smiles and winks as if to take away how gross that line might actually sound. Still, it only makes me flush harder. Asshole. Why does he have to be so attractive?

“I’m sure,” I say. “So what do you need?”

“Maybe it’s about what
you
need, Miss Bluebird. You sound like you need a date.” He raises an eyebrow at me, and all but points to himself.

“No, thanks,” I say, and hold up my left hand to show off the rock.

Only — no ring. Cute Annoying Customer is just squinting at my bare finger. That’s right. I may or may not have taken my welder to my engagement ring.

Fuck no. No, no, no. I’m feeling tears welling up in my eyes, thinking about my ring, and Alan, and how I wanted to throw the ring at him but I was too stunned, too shocked… all I could do was bolt, like the fucking idiot I am… no, no, no. No fucking way am I crying in front of this guy. Certainly not over Alan.

I duck down and start hunting through the shelves behind the desk, looking for nothing, so I can blink back my tears furiously in semi-private.

“I don’t need a date. So were you gonna buy something or what?” I bark into a stack of gift boxes and bubble wrap.

“You sure? Sounds like there is a party you don’t want to go to,” he asks to my back.

“For starters,” I try to keep my voice level as I rearrange the tissue paper dispenser for no reason. “I don’t know you.”

“If that’s your only objection, it’s easy enough to fix.” His voice sounds even deeper when it’s not paired with his smile. I quickly dab at my eyes with the edge of my sleeve before standing up, sniffing back the last of the moistness.

“Nope, I’m good. And I don’t flirt with people I’m trying to sell to, so you can stop trying.”

The look he sends me is absolutely
roguish.
There’s really no other word for it.

“Okay. What if you’ve already sold to me? I’ll take… that one,” he says, pointing to the corner of the room.

“Which one?”

“
That
one.”

The only clock in that corner is more of a decorative piece for my store, not an actual clock for sale. It’s one of my earliest attempts at a post-baroque grandfather clock — all gold and brass, enormous, and definitely heavier than me. It hasn’t moved since I opened the boutique, but only because I can’t lift it. Took two guys and a trolly just to get it in here.

Oh, and it’s covered in pink flowers.

“Are you serious? That’s three grand.” I look at him again, at his beater and his rough-looking hands, the scars across his knuckles, one peeking over the edge of his shirt. He looks like maybe he’s been to prison; not like he has three grand to throw around to impress a girl.

“Absolutely. Here’s my card.” He flicks out something heavy and black.

Damn.

“Alright, wow.” I swipe his card. “I’ll call the movers over and—”

He crouches low, surprisingly flexible in the legs, wraps his hands around the clock where it’s sturdiest along the brass edges, and stands. The entire clock is balanced against the front of his body.

Watching his biceps flex against the weight is… enlightening. His face is just as tough flushed and exerting.

“Oh,” is all I manage to say. “Okay.”

“And now that you’ve sold to me,” his voice is only a bit choppy through the exertion, “you can flirt with me, right?”

And I can’t really help it. I burst out laughing. He looks so ridiculous holding the giant mass of gold and pink, asking me out, just
a week or so
after I was betrayed by my fiancé and with my dad pressuring me to come to another “gala.” Just everything about the situation instantly strikes me as
funny
.

It takes me a few long moments to stop, and when I glance over at Cute Customer, he’s just standing there, still holding the clock, and I start up again.

“Hahaha, oh my God,” and I realize my eyes are damp again, this time with laughter. “
Jesus
.” I start wiping my eyes and giggling intermittently. “Fine. Why not? You’re such a tough, strong guy? You can help me with some errands I have to run tomorrow, okay? No party. Just errands.”

His smile is only slightly pained as he backs towards the door with my biggest, floweriest clock.

“Great! It’s a date.”

“Not a date,” I say again. “Errands. I feel like you’re not listening to me.” I try to make my voice stern, but it’s impossible while he’s holding the biggest clock in my store, grinning his face off while his biceps are flexing.

“See you tomorrow, April Bluebird. For our date.”

“See you tomorrow…” Cute Annoying customer. I’ve totally forgotten his name.

“Liam,” he groans out as he pushes open the door, banging the glass only a
little
against the metal of my clock. He makes eye contact with me around the insane contraption I’ve built. “And I’m really glad I met you.”

The strangest feeling comes over me. Something about the way he says it. I stop giggling and shivers go down my spine. His gaze on me is almost paralyzing. And somehow… a little frightening.

Then he breaks the spell with a wide grin, showing off his dimple again. “And I bet I’ll get you to invite me to that party.”

“Bye
,” I say, waving him away. Despite myself, I’m smiling and goosebumpy and feel altogether
strange watching
his back muscles flex as he retreats. And then he’s gone, and the boutique seems just a bit cooler than before. I still have little damp blurs of laughter-tears at the corners of my eyes.

Oh god, I’m clearly unstable here. What have I gotten myself into? Just over a week from the most devastating breakup of my life, my store a mess, my dad breathing down my neck… so where did this irritatingly attractive man with tattoos and
one stupid dimple
come from?