Authors: Cheryl Ann Smith

The Sweetheart Racket (10 page)

BOOK: The Sweetheart Racket

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“Sweetheart, I've never been so happy to have you behind the wheel. That was one hell of a getaway. Thank God for the crazy woman driver.”

“I'm not a crazyâ” The rest of her admonishment died, when something out of place caught her attention in the glowing green light from the dashboard; a red smear on his upper arm. A sickening dread turned her cold.

“Oh no. Rick, you're bleeding! You've been shot!”

Chapter 9

T
aryn flicked on the tiny penlight dangling from her keychain and aimed it at Rick. Blood seeped from his upper left arm to cause spots of red on his shirt. They were hard to see with the backdrop of the black tee, but clear enough to confirm her assessment. This wasn't a scratch. He'd been hit.

Her stomach clenched. “Take off your shirt and let me see the damage.”

He looked down at his arm and gently probed the spot with his fingertip. The only reaction was an almost imperceptible wince. “It's nothing.”

Stubborn man. “It isn't nothing. We have to get you to the hospital before you bleed out.”

“No hospital.” He made a face. “I'm not going to bleed out, Taryn. I've had worse.”

“You've been shot before?”

“Grazed.” He grinned. “That doesn't count.”

Great. She turned off the car and pulled the trunk latch. Facing him straight on with her best “I'm not taking any bullshit from you” glare, she ordered, “Then get out of the car. I'll take care of it myself.”

Without waiting for him to obey her command, she went in search of her toolkit. Without the flashlights, which had been left at the storage unit, her options for lighting the area were limited. Thankfully, she had the penlight and the headlights. Between the two, there should be enough light to patch Rick up. Hopefully.

“You should see a doctor.” She walked to where he'd taken a seat on the hood. She dropped the toolkit beside him with a thump to show her aggravation. “There is only so much I can do if you have a bullet lodged inside your arm. If you get an infection and your arm falls off, don't blame me.”

“I trust you, Doctor Brash.” His half smile and the warmth of his knee against her hip almost made her forget the gravity of the situation.

“I'm not brash.”

“Certainly you are . . . while driving.”

Instead of arguing, she got to work. “The first aid kit is meant for bug bites and scraped knees. Not bullet wounds.” She took out an antiseptic pad and ripped the foil wrapper open with her teeth. “Take off your shirt.”

Wincing, he got it up far enough to expose a seriously ripped stomach and stopped. “I think I need help.”

From the look in his eyes, she wondered if he needed assistance or just wanted her to undress him. Either way, she couldn't work without it off.

She laid the antiseptic pad on the discarded wrapper.

Without hesitation, she tugged at the hem. Keeping her manner clinical, she tried to ignore the tattoo resembling some sort of hieroglyphic on his upper right arm. It was all one color, blackish, and very cool. She struggled not to trace her fingertip over it, but her eyes followed it down from shoulder to elbow.

The muscle beneath it flexed. Once. Twice. Three times.

“I'm not looking,” she said, jerking her eyes away.

He chuckled. “I didn't think so.”

Frowning, she maneuvered the shirt over his head, leaving the damaged arm covered. Her eyes kept getting drawn back to the tattoo. She'd never been a fan of ink, but on Rick it upped his sexual appeal.

Geez. Did the man have any flaws?

Move on, Taryn. “I'm going to ease the shirt off your arm.” She held it bunched in her hands. “I'll go slowly. Hopefully, it won't hurt too much.”

A little at a time, she slid the shirt down over his left arm, exposing the head of a large scorpion, then its body and tail. Every nerve ending inside her buzzed, her breath caught, and her lips parted. She barely registered the seeping wound inside the curled tail.

“Like it?” he said softly.

“I, um.” Not only did she like it, she had the sudden urge to rip off her clothes. And his. “It's, ah, okay. If you enjoy that sort of thing.”

Rick chuckled again. “Good thing you're immune, then. I wouldn't want you to start thinking sexy thoughts about me.”

Heat flashed up her body, taking up residence in her face. How could he know what she was thinking? Did he see heat in her eyes or was it just a good guess?

Biting back a frustrated groan, she disregarded the teasing, dropped the shirt on the hood beside him, and reached for the pad.

Unfortunately, Rick wasn't finished flirting with her. “If you wanted to see me shirtless, all you had to do was ask.”

“I have no interest in you
sans
clothing.”

“Then why did you kiss me?”

One brow lifted. “A kiss in the heat of the moment is all that was. We were in danger. I thought we were about to die.”

“If you say so.”

Choosing to let the comment drop, she went into doctor mode. Even in the low light, his chest was amazing: hard, scarred, with just a light dusting of hair to play with. Just right.

If not for the blood slowly seeping from his arm, she might well have forgotten all about that whole client-PI thing and done something really stupid, like a full body exploration. With her mouth. That would be a disaster.

“Is that where you were shot?” She pressed the pad gently on the wound and looked over the rest of him for any other damage. She pointed to a puckered scar that marred an otherwise perfectly muscled stomach.

“Stabbed.” He touched the spot. “Shanked, actually. A gangbanger wanted my mashed potatoes. I said no. He politely asked again with a sharpened toothbrush. I didn't react quickly enough to the warning signs. I got four stitches and he got a compound fracture of the tibia.”

“And the potatoes?” She brushed aside his hand and touched the scar. His skin was warm and soft beneath her fingertips.

“Lumpy and dry. I should've let him have them.” He twisted to the left and pointed to a scar the shape of a caterpillar right below his rib cage. “This was from a bullet.”

“Should I ask?” She touched the old wound.

“Drive-by.”

Releasing a breath through pursed lips, she shook her head and said, “Interesting.”

And he'd called her a menace.

Before her hand turned the touch into a caress, she returned her attention back to his arm.

“I thought you said you stayed out of the general population?” She drew the wipe over the wound. The antiseptic pad cleared away the blood so she could examine the wound. Rick was right. It wasn't fatal. “And yet you got shanked.”

“True. But I still had to show up enough to establish a presence. The man I was hunting had eyes everywhere. Getting stabbed was actually good. It gave me prison cred.”

Men. Only a man would take pride in getting stabbed.

She lifted the penlight and squinted for a better view of the torn tissue. “This doesn't look like a bullet wound. Hand me the needle-nose pliers. There's something under the skin.”

“You stock pliers in your PI kit?”

“Yes, and two screwdrivers, a small pry bar, and a hammer. I'm always prepared for any eventuality.” She cleaned the pliers with a second antiseptic wipe. “If I have to play field surgeon, I don't want to give you a fatal infection.”

“I appreciate your concern.” He rattled around in the box with his free hand, while she unhooked the penlight from the keychain and put it between her teeth.

“Here you go, Girl Scout,” he said. Taryn handed him the first aid kit and he gave her the pliers.

With the light illuminating the shallow wound, she could just see the edge of what looked like broken glass. She gently probed the wedge and after two tries, managed to get a hold on the slippery edge and pull it out.

Rick didn't flinch.

“Got it,” she said, slightly slurring her words around the flashlight, and laid the shard and pliers on the hood.

Blood trickled out of the cut. “Hand me the big pad.” With him acting as her surgical assistant, and Taryn using the skills she'd picked up from watching hospital dramas on TV, they managed to patch him up with gauze and medical tape.

“Not bad.” She removed the flashlight and stepped back to examine her work. Even the scorpion seemed happy with the final outcome. “Not bad at all, with no medical training. I may have picked the wrong profession.”

“I'd like to see you in hospital whites.” His hand caressed her hip, before moving up to hook his thumb in her belt loop.

She looked up to see him staring at her, his eyes soft and smiling. Darn, he was way too handsome for comfort.

A couple of steps to the left and she'd be in his arms and kissing him again. Instead, she moved back, collected the semi-clean discarded wipe she'd used on the pliers and cleaned his blood off her hands.

“You shouldn't look at me like that,” she said. “We're working partners. That's it.”

“I think you like me looking at you like that.”

“You're delusional.”

“And yet you kissed me.”

There was that. “We've already covered this. Kisses during a life-and-death situation don't count.”

He slid off the hood and leaned his hard butt against the car. Crossing his arms caused his upper arms to flex, showcasing the tattoos and causing heat to flow back through her body.

Was it wrong to want to unzip his Levi's and answer the burning question foremost in her mind: boxers or briefs?

Well, that wasn't the foremost thought keeping her awake at night. It was more about a part of his anatomy that was covered by said skivvies.

Lord, she needed alcohol, and lots of it.

“So you don't want to kiss me again?” he said.

Anything she said at this point would be a lie. She wanted to throw her heated body against his long muscled self and kiss the hell out of him, explore his tattoos, cup his butt, and test the size of the backseat with their naked bodies. Rick was everything she wanted but didn't needâanother bad boy to run over her heart with his big, bad motorcycle.

The next man she took to bed would be stable and settled; a relationship kind of guy.

No more bad boys for her.

And this man was bad. Very, very bad.

“Kissing you was a mistake. You kissing me was your mistake.” She collected her things and tucked everything back into her PI kit, all while squelching the silent command from her body to forget caution and have some really great sex. Because a guy like Rick wouldn't leave her unsatisfied.

Yet she couldn't take that leap. Not now. Not with this man and his sexy tattoos. “From now on, no kissing.”

All sorts of emotions filtered through his eyes. When he finally spoke, the words were a surprise.

“I agree. Kissing and sex are a distraction from the case.” He reached for his shirt and eased it over his head. Taryn stayed back and didn't help. “Our focus is catching Brinkman.”

Although she wasn't certain he was seriousâthe attitude adjustment had been awfully quickâbut she had to take him at his word. Life would be a lot easier if he wasn't looking at her like she was his favorite snack food.

“I think we should call it a night. If you feel feverish and need to go to the hospital, phone me.”

“I will.”

She dropped Rick at his hotel and headed home. She slowed to turn into her driveway, when a large figure darted across the road, in a flash of her headlights, and vanished behind a hedge that fronted the red brick ranch opposite her house.

Strange. Her mind reached for but couldn't grasp why someone would be out at this hour without a dog to walk or a backpack full of college books. Crime was low in the neighborhood, outside of petty thefts of stuff like lawn furniture or car stereos.

She pulled in and parked. There was something familiar about the way the man carried himself. But she couldn't place him among the neighbors. She was too tired to put the pieces together so she let it go. The guy was probably someone new to the neighborhood out chasing his cat.

Taryn was not entirely surprised to see Andrew sitting in the darkness on her front steps after she got her stuff out of the car and headed for the front door. The fact that he wouldn't look her in the eye as she approached was concerning.

“Hey, kid.” She sat beside him. “What's up? More panties in my tree?”

Chapter 10

A
ndrew stared at his feet through his thick glasses, his worried face illuminated by his cell phone. Whatever troubled him was serious and he'd come to her for advice. It made her feel sort of sisterly toward the nerdy panty-peeper.

She leaned sideways and nudged him with her shoulder. “Look, Andrew. You'll feel better if you get out what's bothering you. We bonded the other day over beer cans and thongs. You can tell me anything.”

While she watched his inward struggle, she hoped he wasn't going to tell her about something gross, like STDs or foot fungus. With hormonal teen boys, one never knew.

“I'm afraid you might hurt me,” he blurted out.

Not gross. Worse.

“What have you done?” She turned on the step to face him. He shifted his upper half away from her and seemed poised to bolt. Instead, he pulled out his phone, swiped a finger across the screen, and slowly turned it to face her.

Taryn watched in horror as a ten-second video clip played out in full, clear color.

Someone had caught her the other day with her boot on Andrew's chest, her hair in disarray around her angry face, and her finger pointed in his direction. Wearing all black and acting seriously badass, she'd looked like an outraged warrior princess.

“What in the heck?” She yanked the phone out of his hand and hit replay. If not for the clear invasion of her privacy, she'd have appreciated that she did look kind of good. Sexy, even. She never realized how much she rocked dressed in boots and black jeans.

But that wasn't the point. “Who took this? Take it down!”

Andrew shook his head, his face morose, like he was worried she'd hate him. Or hurt him. She was leaning toward the latter. “It's too late. The video's gone viral. You already have one hundred twelve thousand hits.”

She gaped. “One hundred twelve thousand?”

“Guys think you're hot,” he rushed on. “Women want to be you. At least that's what the eight thousand four hundred and two comments say.”

Shocked, she felt the blood rush from her head and pool at her feet. “Is this a joke? Please tell me that one percent of the entire American population is not watching me kick your ass.”

“Well, the percentage isn't that high.” At her glare he gulped and rushed on, “Sorry. Taryn, it's not bad to be viral. Really. You're even cooler than kitten videos.”

Great. As if that helped. She was the YouTube flavor of the week and couldn't do a darn thing about it.

The irony of the situation was not lost on her. She'd taken her share of videos of cheating spouses and other such nonsense, but that was business. This wasn't the same. Was it?

“At least you weren't naked,” Andrew said helpfully.

Instead of freaking out over the idea of a hundred thousand people watching her threaten Andrew, while he was sprawled in a bed of panties, she leaned back and rubbed her eyes. “There is that.” She didn't try to hide her sarcasm. “Who took this?”

“I d-don't know.”

“I have a gun.”

He paled, gingerly took the phone from her hand, and slid back a foot or so. Not enough for safety. He was still within reach, if she wanted to twist off his head.

“I can't tell you, Taryn. It's the bro code. We don't rat on each other.”

Taryn knew several painful ways she could torture the information out of him. And thoroughly enjoy doing each. However, she liked Andrew and didn't seriously want to kill him. Well, maybe a little. Still, the damage was already done. And like he said, she wasn't naked. Still, she had to make sure this didn't happen again. She didn't want her neighbors spying on her for internet glory.

“Keep your secret then, Andrew. But I want you to go back over there to your fourteen bros and give them this message.” She leaned forward, her eyes taking on a wicked gleam. “If anyone ever takes a video or pictures of me again, while I'm on my property, I'll make him very, very sorry.” She leaned forward and whispered. “I know people.”

His Adam's apple bobbed and his eyes went wide. “Okay.” He jumped up and scurried off.

Taryn shook her head as the door next door slammed shut behind him. There was only one thing worse than college kids with cell phone cameras and that was their need to take pictures and videos of everything and post them online.

She pulled out her phone and loaded up the video. There was nothing indicating her name, where she lived, or the city of origin. She wouldn't have freaks chasing her around Ann Arbor. Well, hopefully not.

Standing, she forwarded the link on to Summer and Jess. They'd have a good laugh.

Once inside, she closed the curtains on Andrew's side of the house. No sense taking chances.

Her cell beeped. A text.

Jess: New boyfriend?

Summer: He's hot.

Jess: Nerdy young stud.

Summer: Easy to train.

Jess: Youthful stamina.

Summer: Good point.

Taryn: You 2 are hysterical.

Taryn put her things on the end table and headed for the stairs. She liked living alone, but the one thing she missed was having someone to come home to at the end of the day. Though she knew she could call her friends anytime and chat, it wasn't the same as snuggling up to a partner and downloading her latest adventure. And tonight had been quite an adventure.

Rick. Her mind involuntarily went to him. She wondered if he gave good foot rubs with those strong hands.

The doorbell rang. “What now?” She was exhausted, had Rick's blood under her fingernails, and needed a shower.

Walking to the door, she peered out the window and saw a bouquet of flowers obscuring a male head. The dim light from the porch made it difficult to figure out whose. Rick? Nope, not tall enough. Andrew? God, she hoped not.

She swung the door open. The flowers swung right. The bearer of the blooms was blond with bright blue eyes, thin, and appeared to be about twelve. It was probably the braces. Or the oversize blue suit that hung on bony shoulders.

“Can I help you?”

The kid grinned, flashing blue wires and a pair of rubber bands pulling the braces back from what was probably once a severe, and still lingering, overbite.

“Hi. These are for you.” He shoved what looked like a bronze urn stolen off a gravesite into her hands, slopping water over the rim and onto her sock-covered feet.

“Thank you?” What else could she say? She had nothing. “And you are?”

“Thurston Covington Weatherwax the Third.” He beamed. “Of the New York Weatherwaxes.”

“Um, okay.” She held out the urn to keep water and damp potting soil from dripping on her shirt. Suspecting where this was going, she sighed inwardly and wished she'd ignored the bell. What was with her and men with roman numerals after their names?

“Do I know you?”

“I hope so,” he said. He straightened up to an imposing five-six or so, just enough to look her in the eyes. “I brought you flowers with the hope that you'll do me the honor of having dinner with me this Friday night?”

Dinner? What? Happy meals? This had to be a joke. She wouldn't put it past Jess and Summer to set this up after hearing about her meeting with Andrew. She'd set them both up on blind dates that ended badly. This would be a perfect payback.

“Do your parents know you're here?” She looked out for a waiting parental car parked at the curb. Nope. Nothing. “Are you sure you have the right house? How did you get here?” School bus?

“I live next door.”

No way. “You live with the college guys?”

“I am a college guy,” he said proudly. “And you are Taryn, so I'm at the right house.

Yep, this was a joke. She stepped out onto the porch and looked around for Jess or Summer. There was no sign of them. Uh-oh, this wasn't a joke. “How old are you, Thurston?”

“Fourteen,” he said and puffed up his narrow chest. “But I'm mature for my age.”

Sigh. “Kid, you'll have to mature another four years for a romance between us to not be a crime in most states, and two in Michigan.” She sat the urn on the porch next to a post. The flowers did dress up the peeling paint.

Thurston stepped closer, not at all put off by her comment about their age difference. “I'll take the risk if you will.”

The cloying smell of an aftershave bath tickled her nose.

Outside of a clear case of boyish charm, and a puppy dog cuteness, it was impossible to find anything else in the youngster standing before her that would entice her to risk decades of incarceration in order to date a kid who couldn't even drive. And that was the least disturbing of all the reasons not to date a fourteen-year-old.

Taryn needed a beer. Or six.

“How can you live off campus at your age?” she said, hoping to distract him from any further attempts to ask her out. “Are you old enough to leave home?”

He shrugged. “My brother, Byron, lives with me. He's eighteen. I'm a genius, so I'm in college. What do you say? I have my mom's credit card. We can tear up the town.”

Heartbreak was a lesson all youngsters would learn, but this was the first time she'd had to let down a boy under eighteen. It was his hopeful expression that tugged at her. Had she been born ten years later, she might have given him a chance. But she had panties older than him. And she enjoyed life outside of prison bars.

“Look, Thurston.” She gentled her tone. If she was going to flat-out reject the kid, she'd be gentle. “I appreciate the flowers and the invitation. I really do. But you are eleven years younger than me. I can't date you.”

His face fell. Desperation replaced hope. “I'll give you my
Star Wars
collectables if you say yes.”

Taryn bit back a smile. He was a charming kid. “Not even for that, buddy.”

“Darn.” He walked to the stairs, paused, and turned back. “You can keep the flowers.”

“Thank you, Thurston.” She watched him shuffle down the steps, along the sidewalk, and vanish into the house.

Taryn hoped this was the last of the crazies from next door.

BOOK: The Sweetheart Racket

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