The Mercenary Next Door (Rogues and Rescuers Book 2), page 10
“Well, I had help with that last bit.” Mason reluctantly told Ransom about Angie, downplaying what had happened in his bedroom.
Nevertheless, Ransom filled in some of the dots. His friend’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “Man, I didn’t hear jack shit about that. When I left your place that morning, she wasn’t there. Wes was still crashed out on the floor, though. Maybe he let her in.”
“Or he forgot to lock the fucking door, and she let herself in.” Mason sighed. “Doesn’t matter. Because Laila saw her, and it didn’t look good. Like really bad. I don’t blame her for not picking up when my number flashed across her screen.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Ransom grunted. “I know I only talked to her once, but she seemed…delicate. Real shy. A girl like Angie would roll over Laila like a steamroller.”
Yes, Laila was shy and sweet…fragile. He didn’t need to ask if she would be crushed, seeing him with someone else. He’d seen her reaction, the way she’d shut down. The pain he’d caused had been all over her stricken face.
“I need to get home,” he repeated.
Mason was in the worst shape of his life—literally broken into pieces. But all he could think about was getting back to Laila and fixing what had gone wrong between him.
Ransom winced. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. The docs are being cagey, but I think they’re worried about you re-puncturing your lung or some shit like that. They have a billion and one tests planned.”
Mason groaned loud enough for a concerned nurse to poke her head in the door. After she took his vitals, Ransom swung back to Mason’s least favorite topic. “How mad are you at Angie?”
“I don’t know. It depends on the time of day,” he confessed, but Mason wasn’t a complete asshole. He knew nine out of ten guys would have welcomed that kind of wake-up call, but he wasn’t one—even if there hadn’t been another girl in the equation.
And it hadn’t been just any girl. It had been Laila. Just thinking about her made Mason ache. It hurt worse than the broken ribs.
Mason dragged himself back to the present. “Do me a favor. Don’t tell Dusty or anyone else about what happened. If Wes managed to keep his mouth shut, let’s not spread shit around.”
Ransom shrugged. “Sure, no skin off my back. I’m just surprised it happened at all. Angie doesn’t seem like the type to go in for the kill unless she’s sure of her reception. I also can’t believe you’re not more pissed at her. If a woman blew up my happily-ever-after, I’d be getting ready to read her the riot act the minute I got back.”
Mason tried to shrug, but he soon regretted it. The cast kept him immobile so he didn’t hurt himself, but the lack of response from his muscles and bones, something he’d always taken for granted, was profoundly disturbing.
Mason’s mastery of his body was absolute. Even when he’d gotten sick with the flu or something bad enough to knock him off his feet, he’d never been down long enough to feel weak or incapacitated. All he’d ever felt was a brief frustration, along with a certain restlessness to get back up and be active again.
“I’m not going to do anything to Angie,” he said, trying to sound as if he didn’t deeply resent her. “She took a shot when she shouldn’t have. I’m sure all of us have made the same mistake.”
It was more generous than she deserved, but just talking about her pissed Mason off.
Ransom shrugged, then leaned back in the chair. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re smart to avoid that whole hot mess.”
“I wouldn’t call Angie a hot mess,” Mason said, uncomfortable about defending the woman responsible for wrecking his love life.
“Not Angie—the situation,” Ransom rolled his eyes. “I just mean that Dusty isn’t as calm about Angie’s activities as he pretends to be. Personally, I think those two should just bone and get it over with.”
Mason’s face curdled, feeling as if he’d smelled rotten milk. “With each other? Did the blow to the head make it okay for brothers and sisters to…er…you know.”
“Nah, man.” Ransom chuckled. “Their parents married each other in their teens. I think Dusty had graduated from high school already. They’re not related by blood,” he said.
Surprised, Mason only stared.
“Anyway,” Ransom continued after a long pause. “I’m gonna stick around for a while, at least until the end of the week.”
Mason groaned again, this time with his good hand theatrically pressed to his chest.
His friend fished a paper out of his pocket, a receipt of some kind. He balled it up, then threw it at Mason’s face.
“I was going to offer to check in on your girl when I head back to the States, but now I’m tempted to let you sweat that one out until you get home.”
Mason knew when he was beaten. “I take it back,” he said quickly.
“Yeah, I thought you would.” Ransom smirked, but he sobered fast. “Although, I don’t know how much good it will do. Honestly, it kind of sounds like something you have to fix yourself.”
“Just find me a charger for my phone, so I can explain where I am,” Mason said. “Laila will take my calls if she knows why I can’t be there in person.”
At least, he prayed she would.
Chapter Fifteen
Laila pulled the tray of lemon bars from the oven, sniffing them deeply. It was a simple recipe compared to some, but, in her opinion, few people did it well. She had spent weeks tweaking hers, experimenting with different varieties of lemons while adjusting the amount of butter until the shortbread crust was a perfect shade of gold.
She even made the powdered sugar, crushing the bright sanding sugar to get various colors. After getting the consistency she wanted, she would sprinkle it over the lemon bars through stencils to make designs related to the season.
At the moment, she was making turkey and cornucopia shapes. Her boss had tried to steamroll her to move straight to reindeer and Santa hats, but Laila steadfastly refused to start on Christmas themes before Thanksgiving had passed. The autumn leaf garland decorating the front of her display case was her silent way of telling him to stuff his jingle bells where the sun didn’t shine.
“I will hold the line at Thanksgiving,” she told herself, sticking her index finger into the handle of her empty sugar shifter. She twirled it around like a gunfighter before setting it down and picking up a paintbrush. Bending, she swept some excess sugar off a slightly misshapen bird. “Your sacrifice will not have been in vain,” she assured the twisted turkey.
“Well, now I don’t think I can eat them, knowing they’re your friends.”
Laila’s head snapped up to meet the twinkling blue eyes of a brown-haired man around her age. Dressed in an expensive polo and tailored khakis, he grinned, flashing bright white teeth.
He had Greek-Row elite douchebag written all over him.
“Then again, they look so good I may have to buy them. And whatever those are, too,” he said, waving at the neat row of cylinders in the front of the display case.
“Those are canelés, a pastry from the Bordeaux region of France,” she said, slipping into her professional mask. “A very good choice.”
The guy’s lips stretched. “Then I would like one, please.”
Laila didn’t respond to his megawatt smile. She wrapped the canelé in wax paper before handing it to him.
His fingers brushed hers as he took the pastry from her hand. Instead of fishing out his wallet, he raised the pastry to his mouth, then bit through the dark brown and golden crust.
“Oh my God, this is amazing,” he said, gazing down at it as if it were a revelation.
Thank you,” Laila said, warming incrementally at his praise. Getting the caramelized crust crispy without drying out the tender and soft center had been tricky. She was rather proud of how they’d turned out.
“What’s in these?”
“Booze,” she answered.
He laughed. “I don’t taste it, and I consider myself an expert.”
I bet you are, she thought a touch snidely. From the popped collar of his shirt to his hundred-dollar loafers, this guy oozed privilege from every pore.
“I use cognac, although rum is standard. But it’s cooked off, so it’s quite harmless.”
Her customer leaned against the counter. “Got anything stronger?”
“That would be aisle six, the liquor section,” she said, starting to pack away a batch of edible glitter she’d made for tomorrow’s petit fours.
“Not even a tiny baba au rum?” he asked, naming a liquor-soaked cake, also from France.
Laila stepped back in surprise. “We couldn’t sell those without carding customers.”
“Well, honestly, they’re not that great,” the man said magnanimously. “I had a few in France on a family trip when I was fourteen. I made a point to eat them for dessert every night—because of the rum. I thought I was so cool and grown-up. But they weren’t a fraction as good as these,” he said, gesturing to the canelé. “I’m going to have to have at least a dozen more.”
“Sure thing.” Laila pulled out a box, then began packing it with the pastries. She was hyperaware that the customer watched her every move, his eyes running up and down her figure.
Her job’s dress code dictated she wear the store’s branded shirt with dark pants, but since she worked for the bakery at the front of the store, her manager had encouraged her to wear skirts when he hired her. She’d ignored the suggestion for years, but after moving in with Rosalie on campus, she’d taken to dressing a touch more femininely.
Since it was cold, she was wearing tights with her short skirt, which she paired with vintage Doc Marten boots. The last wasn’t girly, but they didn’t hurt her feet after hours behind the counter.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
Laila’s brow creased as she snuck a peek at the man from under her lashes.
He held out his hand, but when she merely handed him the box and moved to the register, he stepped back and bowed. “Joseph Dubey, at your service.”
“Have we met?” she asked, ringing him up.
“No, but not for lack of trying on my part. You never stay long at our parties. Not that I blame you—it would kind of defeat the purpose of the Night Witches.”
“Oh, you’re that Joseph Dubey.” Joseph, or Joe, as his brothers called him, was the new president of the Alpha Omega fraternity. He was the rich-as-sin, politically connected son of some political bigwig. No doubt he would follow in his father’s footsteps.
I’m probably looking at a future congressman. It did not make her see him any more favorably.
Several of the Night Witches had reported that, under Joseph’s leadership, the atmosphere of Alpha and Omega had changed. The brothers now rolled out the red carpet for them—literally the first time. It was a stunt that had gotten them written up in the school paper. Laila had been suspicious of the new fraternity president ever since.
“I’ve seen you at Club Casim, too,” Joseph said. “You wouldn’t dance with me.”
“Oh,” Laila said. “Sorry. I don’t remember that.”
Joseph’s laugh was easy, a small bonus in his favor. “That’s all right. I was in good company. You shot down every guy who asked you to dance—I saw you do it. You preferred to dance on stage with your friend.”
Heat filled her cheeks. “Yeah, well, I just go for fun. I’m not looking to meet anyone.”
Or get groped.
The charming megawatt grin dimmed theatrically. “That’s too bad because I’d love to take you to dinner sometime.”
Laila cocked her head as she checked his expression. He appeared completely serious.
“I know an excellent French restaurant downtown,” he continued. “Or any other country if you’d rather branch out. There’s a great little Italian place not far from it that does authentic Venetian tapas.”
“Venice has tapas?” That was news.
Joseph’s eyes flared. “They do! I know people only think of Spain when they hear tapas but Italy, Venice in particular, has its own tradition.”
“I didn’t know that,” Laila said, feeling strangely removed.
The entire conversation had taken a surreal tinge. Against her better judgment, Joseph, the big man on campus, was succeeding in intriguing her. If someone had asked her the day before—even the hour before—she would have said it wasn’t possible.
It also wasn’t possible that a guy like Joseph would want someone like her. Yes, she could look cute if she put the effort in, but she wasn’t exotic or busty like the girls who frequented the Alpha Omega parties.
Don’t get carried away. He’s talking about food. Food was a hook for everyone.
“Thank you, but no. I meant it. I’m not interested in meeting anyone.”
Joseph seemed unfazed. “Are you seeing someone?”
Mason’s face flashed through her head. “No.”
Joseph leaned in. “Bad break-up?”
“Also no.” There would have to have been a real relationship first.
But the words vibrated, too loaded with emotion. Even a superficial frat boy could pick up on it.
Joseph tsked in commiseration. “So, it’s complicated. Been there.” He sighed, glancing at the massive watch on his wrist. “I have to get back to the house, but at least I’m not leaving empty-handed.”
He lifted the box, then made a show of smelling them. “I may not be leaving with your phone number, but at least I have these.” He paused to wink at her. “I’m not leaving with your phone number, am I?”
“Again, no,” she said, but she couldn’t help but laugh this time. He was a practiced flirt.
Joseph began to walk backward toward the door. “Not today, maybe, but I’ll be back. Now that I know this place exists and has goodies like this, I won’t be able to stay away.” He threw another toothpaste commercial-worthy grin at her. “Of course, I’ll have to jog here or else there’s no shot of me getting a date with you, not unless you’re willing to roll me around.”
He backed out the doors, ducking out of view. Laila was shaking her head in amused disbelief when he poked his head back in. “But I will be back,” he called before waving and disappearing.
Chapter Sixteen
Four months later
“I can’t believe you’re thinking of saying no!” Rosamie said, holding up a mustard-yellow dress under her chin. She turned Laila to face the mirror nailed to their door room wall.
“Why are you always trying to get me into a shade of yellow?” Laila made a beeline for the black cocktail dress.
“Because you’re an autumn with gold undertones. Yellow should be your signature color. And stop trying to change the subject,” Rosamie chided.
“She’s right,” Jasmine, their other friend, said from the bed in between checking Rosamie’s many different eye-shadow palettes for coordinating shades. “Your super-hot, super-rich boyfriend just asked you to move in with him. Yet, for some reason, you’re hesitating.”
“Do you want me to move out that badly?” Laila pretended to pout.
“Of course not.” Rosamie leaned back, critically examining the dress draped across her front. “But we’re talking about Joseph Dubey here. The only acceptable excuse for not moving in with him is temporary insanity. That or you just discovered he’s an ax murderer.”
“Neither is the case,” Laila replied. “Unless you mean he is insane—because I have doubts about him being in his right mind. We haven’t been together long enough for him to ask me to move in.”
Just thinking about her life lately made her head spin. Laila barely recognized it. It was as if the last few months had happened to someone else.
Joseph Dubey had come back to the store as promised—or rather threatened—a few days after their first meeting. He became a regular, stopping in three or four times a week.
Every time he came in, Joseph did his determined best to get her to go out with him. But given what had just happened with Mason, she was suspicious of his regard.
Then Laila’s cell phone contract expired. She’d never been able to get the phone to turn back on after she dropped it in the stairwell. But given the constraints on her budget, she hadn’t been able to afford to replace it out of pocket. Instead, she’d used her computer to message her friends, going so far as to take it with her to work to stay in touch. She called her mother’s care home from the breakroom phone at Gardullo’s.
The minute her old contract was up, she had gone to the mall to sign up for a new one. After shopping around for the best plan, she decided to switch to a different carrier, one that offered a better smartphone for free with a new contract. She had planned to keep her old phone number, but she could not transfer it to the new carrier because they didn’t have an interconnection agreement with the previous one.
The assistant at the shop had generously let her put her old sim card in a compatible phone to check if there had been any calls or texts that she’d missed while her phone had been inactive.
Laila had held her breath while she scanned the logs…but there had been nothing. Just a few messages from the phone company itself, reminders to pay her bill, and a few special offers, but that was it.
Nothing from Mason.
A little secret piece of her had died at that moment. Whatever stubborn ember of hope still glowed in her heart had been smothered.
She’d thrown the broken phone and obsolete sim card in the trash on the way out. Then she took the bus back to her dorm, heading straight to bed despite the fact it was only mid-afternoon.
She woke before dawn the next day, resolving never to think about Mason Lang ever again. The next time Joseph had come to the store and asked her out, she’d said yes.
It had started as an act of defiance, a little screw-you to the memory of Mason’s smile. But Joseph had proven to be a surprise. To begin with, he was far more mature than she’d initially given him credit for. It may have helped he was a few years older than his frat brothers, thanks to multiple years off traveling abroad.
