“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 ofif, it’s a matter ofwhen, 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, Ifelthim 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 paidreallywell, 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.
