Harris (Alpha One Security #1) (5 page)

She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached for my pants. Dug her hand in. Got a good grip.
 

“Fucking hell, woman. Isn’t three times in the morning enough for you?” I pulled away, reluctantly, because it wasn’t enough for me either, and if I let her distract me again, I’d never get packed and out of here.
 

“You know it’s not,” she said, putting on a fake pouting moue. “Come back over here. Give me something to remember you by.”
 

“I just did. Not twenty minutes ago.” I held up my cell phone. “I’ll send you some pics when I get to LA.”
 

“You better.”
 

“Promise me you’ll stay here?”
 

And fucking goddamn Layla, she just blinked at me, eyes wide and innocent, legs crossed at the knee, arms folded under her big beautiful tits. Seductive, enticing. Jesus, how could I possibly want her again? But I did. Ten more seconds in the room with a naked and mischief-planning Layla and I’d have her sitting on my cock again, fucking a promise out of her.
 

Thing about Layla is, she’ll never lie to me directly. Which is why she’s not answering me.

I know this, and she knows I know this, and I know she knows I know.

I just confused myself, I think.

Or actually, I’m pretty sure that made sense.
 

Point is, she’s gonna pop up at the most inopportune time.
 

Hopefully my ghostly friend Anselm will keep her out of too much trouble.
 

I turned away before I gave in to temptation. I did actually have to leave. I promised Puck I’d be in LA by three, which meant I didn’t have much time.
 

I made short work of packing. Duffel bag full of clothes, another full of gear, plenty of cash on hand. Then I went out to the landing strip and got the jet warmed up, going through pre-check a few times and then got it ready to taxi to the head of the runway. I logged the flight plan and did a final check of the cockpit. At which point Lear, Duke, and Thresh were all on the compound and shoving their shit into the cargo hold of the jet.
 

While they got situated, I grabbed a Gator and headed back to the house to pay Layla one last visit.

I found her in a loose, thin robe, watching some idiotic reality show. Women arguing, it looked like. What fun.
 

I knelt on the carpet in front of her and took the remote from her hand, putting her show on pause. Then I kissed the ever-loving hell out of her. “I’ll miss you,” I told her.

“I know.” She returned the favor, kissed me dizzy. “I’ll miss you, too.”

“Stay here.” I grabbed the back of her neck, squeezing gently. “Or I swear to god I’ll tie you up and leave you somewhere safe.”

“You keep promising to tie me up like it’s a deterrent, Nick.” She grinned up at me. “You should know me better than that.”

“I do. But I gotta try, you know? I know you won’t listen. And I’ve taken certain…precautions.”
 

“Which means you’ve got Anselm out there somewhere, watching me?”
 

“I’ve gotta go. Jet’s warmed up and the guys are on board. I’m due in LA. Got a little girl to rescue.”
 

“You do. You totally have Anselm out there watching me.” She got up, went to the front door and shouted out. “ANSELM! YOU MIGHT AS WELL COME IN! I KNOW YOU’RE OUT THERE!”
 

I just chuckled. “I have no idea where he is, babe. Save your breath.” That was the truth, too. Anselm did things his own way. You never knew where he was until it was too late.
 

I kissed her again, and then head down the steps.
 

“Nick?” I heard her voice call out from the doorway.

“Yeah, babe?” I turned back.

“I love you. Come back safe.”
 

“Love you too, sweetheart. Try to stay out of trouble, okay?”
 

“Never.”
 

I laughed as I trotted back to the Gator, which I drove over to the runway on the far edge of the property. As I’d told Layla, the guys were all onboard the jet, strapped in, and shooting the shit. Making bets about something.
 

I left the door open between the cockpit and the main cabin and shouted back as I took off. “What are you louts betting on?”
 

Duke, all six foot six and two hundred and eighty pounds of him, slumped into the co-pilot chair and tugged the headphones on. He was a certified pilot too, but only on fixed wing propeller aircraft. I’d trust him to pilot one of these in a pinch, but he’s not licensed on them. He was a true orange-as-carrots ginger, had his hair undercut and pulled back into a ponytail. Being the youngest of the group at twenty-eight, he could actually get away with a punk hairstyle like that. Clean-shaven, bright cornflower-blue eyes. He was a pretty sonofabitch—could be a model if he wanted to. He was built like a goddamn tank, though, spent as much time in the gym bulking up as Thresh did, if not more. Gave Thresh a run for his money in terms of sheer muscle mass, despite Thresh’s four-inch height advantage. Duke is a seriously massive individual, on top of being stupidly good looking. Like, you think of one of Tolkien’s elves, they’re supposed to be ethereally beautiful, otherworldly. That’s Duke. It’s honestly horrifying the amount of tail the man pulls down on a nightly basis, just based on a single grin. That’s all he has to do, give any girl that smirk of his, and they’re all but falling at his feet, begging him to plunder them.
 

Duke hesitated to answer. “You know the guys. They’ll bet on anything,” he hedged.

I snorted at that. “Out with it, bub.”
 

Duke straightened in the seat, gripped the second set. “Can I have it for a minute?” he asked nodding at the controls.

I let go. “All yours. Nice and steady.” I watched him feather the yoke a bit, testing the response. He had a soft touch, that was for sure. I eyed him. “Duke. What were you guys betting on?”

He adjusted the throttle slightly. “Layla.” He cut me a glance. “Whether she would show up or not.”
 

“Who’s got what?”

“Lear thinks Anselm will keep her in line. Thresh and I think she’s going to show up and make trouble before this show is over, and I’ve got a text from Puck putting money on her staying put.”
 

I chuckled. “Lear and Puck are suckers, if that’s the bet. I call a ten percent cut when you and Thresh clean house.”

Duke laughed, glancing at me. “That a fact?”

I laughed again. “Buddy, it’s not a matter of
if
, it’s a matter of
when
, and how bad it’ll be. Anselm is just…insurance that her pretty head stays in one piece. Besides, I like having him out there in the shadows, where he does his best work, you know? It’s reassuring.”

“I hear that loud and clear.” Duke took a hand off the yoke. “Back to you, boss.”

“I’ve got it.” I took back the controls when Duke released them.
 

He left the cabin, and I was alone with my thoughts.
 

Which, of course, returned to Layla…and all the ways she could cause trouble.

3

A GIRL WITH A PLAN

Creepy as fuck is what it was, knowing Anselm was out there and not being able to see him. I mean, I
felt
him watching me. It’s not like he’s weird or anything…I don’t like it. Just…he’s a ghost. Here I was in LA, prancing up and down Rodeo Drive, spending my man’s money, yet knowing that Anselm was in the shadows. Knowing he was watching my every move put a real damper on things.
 

Now, here’s the thing. Nicholas Harris has done well for himself—Roth paid
really
well, apparently, and since starting A1S, things had only gotten more flush for us. Which meant I could blow a G or ten and he wouldn’t even care—in fact, he wouldn’t even notice. He wasn’t in the same stratosphere as Valentine Roth, of course, but few men on the planet were. I mean, you had guys like the Koch brothers, Bill Gates, that Sultan of wherever, and Roth. Top tier of the whole word. But Nick? He was down a few pegs, down with the lowly Hollywood set in terms of overall wealth. Not quite a buy-his-own-island kind of guy, but he was doing well enough that he could hit an auction on a weekend and buy a vintage fighter jet—on a whim.
 

So a pair of Manolos and a Gucci handbag? Pssshhh. That was nothing to Nick.

Plus, Nick had me on the payroll, took off taxes and deductions and made me log my hours and everything, so really, technically, I’m spending my own money, which makes this feel even better.
 

The only thing that’s harshing my mellow right now is fucking creepy invisible Anslem goddamn See.
 

Finally, I got sick of it. I couldn’t handle it anymore. So I found a little café with a nice shaded outdoor eating area, ordered a mug of coffee and sat my ass down. Seeing as I’m not the type to sit around idle, I took matters into my own hands.
 

In my purse—the old one, since I hadn’t switched my things over yet—I had two cell phones. One was a big white iPhone in a sparkly case—Swarovski-sparkly, not diamond-sparkly, sadly—the other was more like the prepaid one I’d used in Brazil, an ancient plain black Razr, no case, no bling, no features, not even a smart phone. One of those phones was my every day cell, and the other was for use in case of emergencies. Can you guess which is which? Yeah, duh. I’d never used the Razr, seeing as Nick had gone all Scary Harris on me when he gave it to me, told me it was not for fun, not for needing a ride home from the bar because I’d had too much too drink. It was only for real, serious, life or death emergencies.

Yes sir
, I’d said, all doe-eyed and innocent.
 

Ha. Has he met me? Since when do I do what I’m told? Never, that’s since when.

Thusly, I pulled out that old Razr, flipped it open—and god, what a marvelously nostalgic sensation that was!—and hunted laboriously through the contact list. Laboriously, I say, because I had to use actual buttons, not just swipe. I mean, there was only what, seven contacts in there? Harris, Duke, Lear, Puck, Anselm, Alexei, and Sasha. The heavy hitters of Alpha One Security. The kind of men you were really glad were your friends, whom you knew you really didn’t want to know too terribly much about, because the details of their lives tended be a little…gnarly, shall we say. Even sweet, geeky Lear had his secrets, and he was as vanilla as you could get and still work for Nick.
 

I found the entry I was looking for: Anselm See.
 

Before I could remind myself that this was a bad idea and certain to get me in trouble with Scary Harris, I dialed him.

It rang three times.
 

“You should not be calling me. You know this.”
 

“I know, but it’s creepy, knowing you’re out there. Can’t you just…hang out with me?”

“I do not…
hang out
.” Anselm’s voice contained a sarcasm so potent it almost hurt. “And certainly not somewhere like Rodeo Drive.”
 

“They have really good espresso here,” I said.
 

I’d seen the break room at A1S headquarters. There was a fridge stocked with craft beer, a bar stocked with bottles of expensive scotch and bourbon, a humidor full of cigars, a cabinet full of junk food and Mountain Dew—I’m sure you can guess who that’s for—and…an espresso machine. And not just a rinky-dink Mr. Coffee plastic piece of shit, but a full size, chromed-out, two-brewer-handle monster installed by the contractors who built the HQ because it wasn’t the kind of espresso machine you just plunked down and turned on.
 

Anselm took his espresso
very
seriously.

“Bah. American piss water.” He hung up without warning, because that’s what spooks and soldiers do, apparently.

Knowing he was watching from somewhere, I flagged down a waitress and ordered a double shot of espresso. A few minutes later the waitress set down a cute little white ceramic mini-mug full of espresso. It was thick and rich, with a frothy golden
crema
, just the way it’s supposed to be. I slid the
doppio
espresso across the table to the empty chair and waited.

It was like baiting a bear with honeycomb; I didn’t have to wait long.
 

I was looking in my compact, checking my makeup—the seat across from me was empty. I touched up my eyeliner, reapplied my lipstick, closed the compact—and there he was, Anselm See in the flesh.
 

I jumped a foot, and clapped a hand to my chest in a vain attempt to slow the thudding of my heart. “Jesus, Anselm. Make some noise, would you?”
 

He lifted the espresso to his lips, inhaled. Lowered it, peered with extreme scrutiny at the contents, swirled the liquid the way a sommelier would a glass of fine wine. Finally, he took a sip.

“Not bad. Not so good, but not piss.” He eyed me. “What do you want?”

I shrugged. “I don’t want anything. I just don’t liked being watched. If you’re going to babysit me, do it in person, not from far away with a telescope or whatever. That’s just creepy.”

Anselm smirked. “Telescope? You are not a star in the space for me to use a telescope.”

“Then what do you use?”
 

He laughed, a quiet chuckle. “My eyes,
Frau
Campari
.
”

“I always pictured you watching people from the top of a building with a rifle or something, muttering to yourself in German the whole time.”
 

He snorted. “I am not from one of your Hollywood movies. If I have a rifle, I am going to shoot you. If I am watching you, then I just…watch. And I do not mutter.”
 

Anselm was, at first glance, utterly unremarkable. Medium stature, perhaps five-ten, five eleven. Not short enough to be called short, but not tall enough to attract notice either. His hair was somewhere between dark blond and light brown, side-parted in the kind of classic haircut that never really went out of style. Shaved jaw, with a day or two worth of stubble. Brown eyes. Dressed in dark-wash blue jeans, a collared black polo shirt, only the front hem tucked in under his belt, the rest left untucked, and sensible hiking boots. If he put on a blazer, he could sit down at a nice restaurant. You’d never notice him in a crowd.