Golden Trail
Page 83

Rocky was moving out of the bathroom wearing his tee.
Layne didn’t hesitate. It was preview time. She was getting her guard back up and his job was to tear it right down.
He got in her space, wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her to his body.
She tipped her head back and put her hands on his chest. “Layne.”
His other hand went into her ponytail, he tagged the holder, slid it out and tossed it across the room toward his dresser where it skidded across the top and over the back to disappear, probably forever, or until he moved.
A good place for it to be.
“Layne!” Rocky snapped and shoved at his shoulders.
He looked down at her, her hair around her face and shoulders, her eyes igniting. Then he bunched her hair in his palm as he cupped the back of her head, tilted it to the side and his mouth came down on hers. She’d opened it, possibly to snap his name again, which was not a good move.
Layne took advantage, slid his tongue right inside her sweet mouth and he kissed her, deep, wet, hard and for a very long time. It had been a few days, he needed his fix. So he took it and kissed her long enough that he was losing his motivation for this mission; long enough that her fingers had curled around the edges of his jacket and she was holding on and holding him to her.
He thought that should just about do it. For now.
He lifted his head and saw her eyes were unfocused, gazing up at him.
She was off-balance, guard down, perfect.
He lifted his hand to cup her jaw and ran his thumb along her cheekbone as he whispered, “Sleep tight, sweetcheeks.”
His thumb moved to her lips so he felt as well as heard her breathy, “Okay.”
He grinned at her, turned and left the room, grabbing his camera before he went down the stairs. He let Blondie in, secured the door, set the alarm and headed out of his house.
When Layne arrived at the bar he saw Ryker wasn’t in the mood to have a drink and socialize. He was standing outside the front door, shoulders and the sole of one boot to the wall, biker jacket opened and Layne was right, another black tank was stretched across his massive chest. He was enjoying a smoke but flicked it in a wide arc when he saw the Suburban swing into the lot. He pushed away from the wall and Layne slid the truck to a halt in front of the doors.
Layne looked at the clock on his dash as Ryker folded his huge frame into the passenger seat and it was eleven oh seven.
Ryker slammed the door and instantly reached between his legs to push the seat back the two centimeters it had to give and then he adjusted the seatback so it was nearly in full on recline as if he was preparing to cruise with his homies.
“You’re late,” Ryker noted on a grunt once he’d settled in and Layne accelerated to turn around in the lot.
“Needed time to say goodnight to my woman,” Layne replied.
“I’ll accept that excuse,” Ryker muttered.
It was nuts but Layne couldn’t help it. He was beginning to like this guy.
As Layne drove, Ryker gave him directions and he also gave him information. They hit the storage units in Speedway and Layne knew instantly why this was the pay point. Easy to get to at the same time off the beaten track, neighborhood not close and also not great and the lighting was shit which meant rent on the units was either low or the people who rented there were stupid. No one around to hear or see and the light was so dim, if someone was around, they couldn’t be sure what they were seeing.
Layne cut the lights, parked behind a unit, they got out and Ryker guided them to their position.
When Ryker exited his SUV, Layne had noted he had a .45 shoved in the back of his jeans and he wasn’t hiding the huge-ass knife clipped to his belt. He might be beginning to like Ryker but he still didn’t trust him so he kept to Ryker’s back.
Ryker didn’t seem to mind.
The temperature had dropped and the bitter wind had not died down. It was f**king freezing, he was in Speedway, in the dark, with a man he didn’t trust who was a little nuts, crouching beside a big garbage container and Rocky’s soft, warm body was at home, in his tee, in his bed.
Definitely he needed a new job.
They waited twenty minutes and conversation was scarce, as in non-existent, which meant it was a long twenty minutes. Then the guy walked up.
Five foot six, maybe seven, slight, he had half a head of hair, the top so bald it shone in the dim lights lighting the storage unit. Wearing a navy windbreaker that probably wasn’t doing shit to break the wind. Company logo on the chest. Chinos. Visibly nervous. Layne pegged him as I.T. or an accountant. Probably I.T.
Looking at the guy, Layne hoped he had the money. He needed Stew out of his sons’ and Gabby’s lives but he didn’t want to watch Stew working this guy over. He didn’t particularly want to watch Stew working anyone over but especially not this guy.
Stew and his crew of three arrived ten minutes later, the guy was wired by the time they got there and the minute he saw them, he became jittery.
Shit, he didn’t have the money.
Layne assessed the scene. Stew did not need a crew to deal with this guy. Especially not this crew of thugs. He brought one because he was an ass**le.
Layne lifted the camera, quickly and expertly adjusted the telephoto and started shooting.
Stew no sooner made it to him than the guy handed over an envelope. Stew took it, bent his head to it, thumbed through what was inside, handed it to a lackey at his back and then turned and hammered the guy, fist to cheekbone.
There it was. The envelope was light.
Layne shoved back the instinct to move in and kept taking shots as Stew whaled on him with his fists until he was down and then kicked him in the ribs with his boot four times after he was down. The guy was curled in a ball on the pavement, whining, loudly and shrilly, “It’s all I’ve got!” when Stew stopped, bent over, said something to the guy that Layne couldn’t hear, his finger in his face, he lifted up, kicked him one more time and then stood over the guy, staring down.
It was at that point when Layne would understand why Ryker said Stew had a special flair.
The guy was down, cowed and beaten, bleeding from the face and likely had one or more broken ribs. The message had been delivered and, by the look of him, the guy would talk his grandma into selling her plasma so the next payment wouldn’t be light.
Stew still pulled a gun out of his jeans and drilled a round in the prone man’s thigh. The guy cried out in agony and curled into himself deeper, cradling his thigh.
Flesh wound, it’d bleed like a motherfucker and hurt worse, but it was way over the top.