Bounty (3 page)

And why did I agree to hang out with him? I’m obviously in no state to start dating a mysterious, rich, thuggish guy who asked me out just because he wants to get in my panties.

Even if he is just outlandishly attractive. His ass in those jeans…

I just get flustered, is all. I’ll meet him tomorrow, show him I am absolutely not interested in his tough guy routine, or men at all right now, and wash my hands of this.

God, I haven’t even gotten all my deposits back on my canceled wedding. I need to scare him off, immediately.

This is trouble with a T, I can tell.

I head to the workshop in the back to take out my existential angst on a copper dowel.

I
’m surprised
as I beat a hasty retreat from Devlin Sullivan’s mob-front clock shop. I wasn’t prepared for it. I was expecting a balding, slightly sweaty man in a suit to be laundering money. Not… an
April,
red-headed bombshell with a snappy candor and some recent heartbreak – if her hilariously ineffective attempts to hide her tears are any indication.

Her eyes were so green, lit up with tears.

And fuck, that
rack
. Popping open the front of her button-down, so I could just peek through the gaps between the buttons. Imagine sliding my hard cock between those twin mounds…

Whatever, I shouldn’t be surprised. Why wouldn’t organized crime use attractive women to front their businesses? Makes as much sense as anyone trying to do business on sex appeal.

As much sense as me hunting bounties on sex appeal. Sometimes.

Asking her out was, of course, the next logical step in gathering more intel — there’s no way the “owner, manager, and artist” of the shop doesn’t notice that the books aren’t adding up. But the pride in her eye as she said it… I’ve met a lot of criminals who’re damn proud of their “achievements,” but she seemed so sincere.

Could she truly have no idea? She took that phone call during our conversation. Could it have been one of Sullivan’s men? Whoever runs the cash-washing at this place?

So much juicy information to gather. I’ve got to charm this girl long enough to get some more information on her business and her boss. Which might be a bit tough, actually, because she seems not to be having any of my usual sarcastic wit, which is generally very effective with women.

And usually my “courting” of women involves bedding them, quick and hard, and getting out. Which, I won’t lie, is just as tempting in this case. I’d fuck April in a heartbeat. But this feels different and I don’t know why.

I try to ignore the feeling in the pit of my stomach.

April agrees to meet me at a café down the street from Bluebird’s Boutique for our date, and I’ve got two tall cups at the ready. She’s right on time, glancing around for just a moment before spotting me and striding over. She barely looks me in the eye, busy tapping something into her phone as she approaches.

I make a little noise to get her attention. “I had to guess, but I’m assuming you’re a light milk, no sugar?”

“I like sugar, actually,” she says, and doesn’t reach for the cup.

“So…” I thrust it towards her.

“That’s sweet, but no thanks. This isn’t a coffee date, remember?” She gestures to her outfit, which, admittedly, doesn’t give off a date vibe. It’s just jeans, a messy, scraped-back ponytail, the same dirty steel-toed boots she wore yesterday, and a stained cotton tank top. Through which I can see the outline of her black bra, and when the sunlight hits it just right and makes it glow transparent, the barest hint of the curve of her breasts.

I snap my eyes back to her face, which has now taken on a slight blush, and try to will away the twitching half-mast that just sprang up.

“No problem,” I say, and knock back the rest of my cup with a wink. “I prepped your coffee how I like it, anyway. I’ll have both.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t even smile.

Tough nut to crack.

“So, errands! Where are we off to? Shopping? Target?”

“No,” she says, striding off and expecting me to follow.

“Ooh, are we going to look for materials for clocks?” That actually sounds kind of fun, hunting for driftwood or weird old objects in thrift stores.

She cracks the barest of smiles at that.

“Nope,” she says again. “Just follow me, alright? And I hope you’re in for the whole afternoon.”

“I’m up for anything you want, baby,” I say.

I
actually was not prepared
for this. Our drive took us through the suburbs and up the Salem Turnpike, with Third Eye Blind and The Cranberries blasting the whole way. So much for my plan of passing the time trying to pry information out of her about the shop. I could barely hear myself think.

After about twenty minutes, we pull over at a… Rifle and Revolver club? What? What kind of girl takes a guy to the gun range for a date?

When she throws her car into park, as if reading my mind, she says, “This isn’t a date, remember? We’re just running errands. Someone bought me a gun, which I don’t want, and we just have to return it.”

“Oh,” I say, a little perplexed but relieved. “Who buys you guns? Protective boyfriend? Crime fighting best friend?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, her eyes far away. Something about that makes my gut twinge, but I ignore it.

“Well, great!” I say. “It just so happens I’m actually pretty good with a gun. I love having my finger on the trigger.” I give her a raised eyebrow.

She blushes a bit, then scowls and pushes open her door. “How nice for you.”

“Yup,” I say, hopping out of the car after her, and circling around to her side. “And since you haven’t asked me anything about myself,” she looks down, slightly abashed, “I’ll tell you that my dad was really into hunting, and I can shoot with the best of them.”

Strictly true, but misleading — my dad was into hunting, sure. Hunting for criminals. He was a cop, back in the day, and I learned everything I know from him. Before he was shot in the line of duty.

Not that she needs to know that.

“Well, I didn’t want to actually
shoot
it,” she says. “Just here to return it. I don’t want it.”

“Aw, come on. The gun range can be really fun. I’ll show you,” I offer. “Don’t you think your crime fighting best friend would want you to learn, even if you don’t keep it?”

She gives me a sidelong glance, and something about the turn of her lips, and the little shrug she gives — fuck, it’s cute. Plus, it presses her breasts together, deepens the crease of her cleavage, lets me peek down the front of her top…

“Alright,” she says, arching her lithe spine as she reaches back to tighten her ponytail. She heads straight into the club, boots heavy.

What is this girl?

I shoot a quick text to Vicente:
I think I’m onto something. Out with shop girl, and she has a gun. Getting more intel.

Vicente replies:
Tick-tock, Copperhead.

S
he works
out the handgun return, a range lane, and a quick rental with the guy at the front almost by the time I catch up to her. She’s already picked out the most ambitious gun, too. Maybe to spite me? It’s a Savage bolt-action rimfire — enormous compared to her little arms and hands.

“Whoa! Have you done safety training?” I ask, shooting a quick glance at the guy at the desk. He merely shrugs and waves us in. Doesn’t even ask to see my permits.

So much for gun control laws.

“Yeah,” April says. “A long time ago.” Then she pulls up her headphones and pulls down the flimsy plastic goggles, which just look insanely adorable on her. I swat that thought away quickly.

Before I can try to talk some sense into her, she marches off to the outdoor range, huge gun cradled against her chest.

“Okay,” I say when we get outside. There’s a line of human-shaped paper targets, and a line of cans. The sun is bright and I’m momentarily blinded by the way it reflects off her copper hair.

April takes her place right at the line, pulls in a quick tug of breath and hefts the rifle up to her face. With the big scope and the wide butt, it looks like the rifle might knock her clear over. I should not have let her pick that gun.

“Hey, there,” I say, rushing to her side, unsure where to put my hands but wanting to help somehow. “Careful with that. You sure you don’t want to start with something a little…”
smaller?
“…smoother?”

The kickback from that thing could knock her clean on her ass. Or punch the gun back into her face, giving her a nasty bruise. I’ve seen idiots crack their cheekbones from the recoil of rifles like this.

“But I like this one,” she says, tossing her hair to the side to peer through the sight, one bright green eye peering out ahead of her.

“Here, let me —“

I step in behind her to wrap my fingers around hers on the barrel. I can almost feel her smile, somehow, from behind. Trying to ignore the feeling, I re-adjust her grip on the rifle, making sure the butt presses gently against the pad of her pec and shoulder. She cocks her hip to the side, and I correct her, grazing my fingers against her hipbone to realign it, kneeing her legs further apart, redistributing her weight evenly between her feet. I wrap my other arm around her, too, checking the angle of her wrist. Her hair smells amazing.

Fuck.

She melts into my body, easing her hips parallel with mine, and suddenly I realize the position we’re in. How good she feels against me. I pull her in tighter, under the guise of perfecting her posture.

“Yeah, like that,” I say, my voice coming out much rougher than I’d intended.

“Oh,” she says, a little breathless, and her ass grazes against my cock, which is now hard as a rock. Fuck.

I step back, out of the way, and the absence of her body against mine is like a cold draft.

Stay cool, Copperhead.

“Okay,” I say, working to sound as nonchalant as usual. “You should be safe to fire now. Remember, nice and slow, one at a time. Give it your best shot.” I punctuate with one of my most rakish winks.

She flips off the safety and shoots me a sweet smile. “You sure you don’t want to squeeze my trigger for me, too?”

I gape at her and
BLAM BLAM BLAM!
She pegs the target twice in the forehead, dead center, and once between the legs.

She lowers the rifle, confident, radiant.

“Thanks for the tips,” and she winks back at me.

Holy shit. I think I’m completely fucked.

W
ell
.

That was rather unexpected. April cleaned up at the range, a natural sharpshooter. She seemed to be able to effortlessly put a bullet wherever she wanted it, sure and swift, and fuck if a girl holding a big gun isn’t hot.

She’s still cagey with me, though. Still a little skittish and stand-offish. I can’t tell if she’s just wary or what, but she’s been blowing hot and cold all afternoon – one minute teasing me with a raised eyebrow, and the next, kind of stonewalling me. Obviously she’s not in the most stable place, what with crying in the shop the other day, insisting she didn’t want to flirt, and then agreeing to this date at all.

Whatever. It still works for me. I just need to get more information from her.

“Not bad, Miss Clockmaker. Not bad at all. How’d you learn to shoot?” I ask, as we’re returning our rentals.

“My dad taught me,” she says, and then snaps her mouth shut. She tenses, almost frozen in place.

“Oh yeah?”

Her face looks drawn, her wide, lamp-like eyes down-turned, lashes whispering against her cheeks.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

But I really do. Could her dad have been involved with Devlin Sullivan? She obviously is on the take for the gang, whether or not she knows about it. Perhaps her dad has something to do with it. But I gotta take it slow, get her to trust me. So I can learn more about her store, who’s on the other end of that landline phone. Take a look at her books, tap her phone, her laptop, her contacts.