Bound to the Bounty Hunter Read online

  An older kid had taken him under his wing, only to turn on him a week later, beating the shit out of him, delivering the lesson, blow-by-blow, that would keep him alive.

  Never let your guard down.

  Always stay detached.

  Never lose control.

  Lessons he lived by.

  Tonight he’d come close to losing everything he stood for, and he couldn’t. There was too much at stake. Little head was firmly in his pants and big head was in the game.

  …

  Sophie pulled her car keys from her bag as she walked, her fingers slipping on the cool metal.

  Damn.

  Her hands still trembled, along with the rest of her body. She wasn’t going to analyze whether it was because of how close she’d come to losing her sanity along with her underwear.

  And part of me liked it.

  She increased her pace.

  Shoot me now.

  Groups of people spilled from bars, laughing from the high of alcohol and what the night promised. Homeless picked through bins. A man in a bathrobe walked a ferret.

  The timer on her phone pinged, alerting her that her shift started in twenty minutes. She managed to unlock the car door and sat in the driver’s seat. She forced long breaths until her heart calmed, then started the car and set the GPS. She pulled into traffic, noting a vehicle three cars back that had done the same. With one eye on the road and the other on the rearview mirror, she deviated from the route. The soothing alto voice of Never-Stressed Nancy on her GPS told her to calmly make a legal U-turn when she could.

  Sophie changed lanes, and her shadow mirrored her move. Cold sweat slithered across her body. At the next set of lights, gripping the wheel, she sent a silent prayer to her ailing car and when the light changed, gunned the accelerator, made a sharp left, and apologized with a wave to the line of traffic.

  While she drove, she ran scenarios in her scrambling mind.

  Was Babic onto her? Had he noted her interest in him at the club over the past weeks? If Babic’s men were following her and they found the recording in her bag, she had no idea what they’d do.

  The map on the GPS showed a park ahead. She pulled into a side street and navigated her way to the park, avoiding major roads. She killed the car engine and lights.

  She grabbed the recorder from her bag and jogged the circumference of the park. Lilac scented the tepid night air. The moon played chase, dipping in and out of silvery clouds.

  Streetlights hung shadows across the park but gave her enough light to navigate. She discounted the play equipment—small hands could find the expensive electronics and if swallowed would cause harm.

  A band rotunda rose out of the night, silent and empty as it loomed over the playground like the captain of a ship, guarding its charges.

  Perfect.

  With peeling paint and a general air of neglect, it mustn’t be high on the council’s maintenance list.

  She swung her head to the left, then right, holding still.

  A flash of light in her peripheral vision snapped her head left. She dropped into a crouch. Another sweep of light carved through the darkness. Dog walker or someone looking for her? Either way, she wasn’t hanging around to find out.

  With her calves cramping, she crouch-walked up the stairs of the rotunda. She counted the number of spindles and, still crouching in order to keep under the height of the railing, made her way across from the entrance.

  I hope I have enough clay.

  She pressed the recorder against the bottom of the hand railing—the thick wood cut with ornamental designs—and prayed there was enough clay to hold it in place until she could come back tomorrow.

  Her thighs now joining her protesting calves, she retraced her steps.

  Another sweep of light to her right pierced the inky night.

  Damn.

  Scurrying to her car as the wandering beams approached the rotunda, she thumped the check engine light.

  I swear the next time I can afford to get you fixed I will.

  She flew out of the parking lot, narrowly missing a sedan entering.

  Her mouth dried, and fear pressed against her rapidly beating heart when the car did a quick U-turn and exited the lot.

  Chapter Three

  Sophie pulled on the hem of the barely thicker-than-dental-floss black skirt of her new uniform. The faded wood and carpet at Pipe’s had soaked up beer, whiskey, and Marlboro cigarettes, giving the room a smoky scent that blended with the smell of leather and sweat.

  In a whirlwind, she’d signed forms, received a plastic supermarket bag containing a uniform, and been directed toward a cubicle curtained off with a sheet covered in smiling purple dinosaurs.

  Barney at a biker bar. Who knew?

  She bent an inch to the left and the dental floss hiked up.

  Awesome.

  Yep, she’d flash a room filled with bikers her sensibly priced underwear.

  To top off her night, she’d be starting work with damp underwear thanks to Harlan. The humiliation prickled her face.

  He’s not into me. He’s playing me and I totally fell for it again.

  Sophie tugged on the hem of the skirt. “Are you sure about the skirt? There isn’t another size?”

  “Very sure.” The gorgeous brunette who’d hired her, Gemma, looked up from strapping a black stiletto shoe to her foot, the heel so high and thin it could be used as a weapon. Warm, startling golden eyes danced in her heart-shaped face. She had a body that every woman craved: petite, curvy, with a generous serving of natural boobs.

  Sophie tugged on the hem again to no avail. A black tank top five sizes too small with the word “Pipe’s” spelled out in diamantes pulled tight across her breasts.

  “You might want to get a pushup bra.” Gemma surveyed her with a critical eye. “Get those puppies on display. You’ll bring in more tips.”

  Sophie pulled at the strap of her comes-in-a-multipack bra. Her small puppies were staying right where they were. There was far too much of her already on display.

  “Dudes are going to blow their loads when they see you in stilettos. Be sexy, flirty, and unavailable.”

  A cold weight settled in her chest and expanded outward. She had to walk around a crowded bar full of men and feel the full weight of their smirks and laughter at her attempt at being sexy or flirty.

  I can’t do this.

  She needed this job. Her car wasn’t going to be thumped into submission forever, and she couldn’t afford to keep taking it to mechanics who’d promised they’d fixed it, only to have them scratching their heads when she returned. Every Thursday she cooked for her neighbors, Sally and Titus Carroll, and since it was the best meal they got all week, she cooked up a storm, with enough leftovers for two to three days of lunches and dinners. Sadly, her invoices sat at the bottom of her clients’ “to be paid” pile, gathering cobwebs.

  You can do this, Buttercup.

  She choked back a bitter laugh at the name her father used to call her. It still seeped into her thoughts at unexpected moments when she needed strength—his sweet, happy, Buttercup.

  She pushed him out of her head.

  I need this job.

  Tonight, hopefully, she’d pay the overdue gas bill, and Melissa Gibson from Wichita, Kansas would be receiving a crisp hundred-dollar bill in a card with a bogus return address signed with the name Josiah O’Connor and the word “Sorry” scrawled across it. Another name scratched from her father’s journal.

  Gemma squeezed her shoulder. “Hey, what’s up? If you’re worried about the guys, don’t be. This may be a biker bar and yeah, some of them are badass, but if one of them lays a hand on you, Pipe will remove his balls and deep fry them. I hired you because I know you’ll be able to take shit from a guy and send it back twofold.”

  She gnawed her lip, staring at Gemma’s shoes. Another dilemma. She’d never mastered the trainer heels that progressed to gliding in killer stilettos. She’d attempted to wear high shoes once. She and her drink ha
d face-planted into her date’s lap, not bringing him the happy ending he’d been hoping for.

  Sophie waved her hand. “I…um can’t do the sexy thing.”

  “You are sooooo sexy. Seriously. The boots are hot. With your long legs you rock it.” Gemma cocked her head to one side. “Are you sure about the whole no makeup and hair up thing?”

  Sophie frowned and thought back to her interview last week. She’d stood in a long line of hopeful applicants at ten in the morning. The on-call position suited her perfectly. She’d arrived with her resume wondering if she’d read the ad wrong. The women were dressed in clothes that showed leg to their butt or cleavage spilling out of tops they must have stolen from their tween sisters, hair either keratin-straight or in big, bouncy curls down their backs, fuck-me heels strapped to their feet, and with enough makeup and cologne to start their own beauty supply warehouse. When Sophie had joined the line, a few had smirked at her, then turned back to their pack. She’d been less than thrilled to overhear about one woman’s now-hairless vagina and deeply unhappy to hear about the procedure to achieve lifelong baldness.

  The slamming of a door had brought her head up. Gemma had walked in, stopped, and scanned the room. Her eyes had locked on Sophie. She’d smiled, made a beeline to her, and announced to the room that the position had been filled. Gemma had taken her to a surprisingly tidy office and explained the job. She didn’t glance at Sophie’s carefully typed resume. Turned out the primary qualification was a waitress who wouldn’t take shit or want to bang the clientele, would turn up on time, do her job, and go home.

  Ticked boxes all around.

  Gemma continued, “Your hair is awesome. So thick and wavy. And you’ve got killer bee-stung lips.”

  Sophie touched her still-tingling, normally completely average lips. Harlan Franco’s mouth had made them swollen and sensitive and for some weird reason, red.

  “I’ve got an eye shadow that would make your eyes pop. Want me to go get it? Give me fifteen minutes with my flat iron on your hair.”

  “No,” Sophie barked.

  Gemma flinched. That came out sharper than Sophie intended. Being homeschooled, the whole girlfriend thing was lost to her. She’d never had a best friend, a sleepover, or done the girly things girls apparently did.

  Sophie went to reach out a hand, leaving it quavering in no-man’s-land.

  “Sorry, this is all new to me. Thanks for the offer and for your help.”

  Gemma stared at her for a long second. She pulled her cell from her bag, checked the time, and shot Sophie a quick smile. “No problem. I’m training you tonight. It’s pretty easy. Stick with me and you’ll be good.” Sophie stowed her phone and bag in a locker, her mind in a washing machine spin.

  I wonder if Harlan’s already ordering a submissive blonde around.

  Her fingers flexed and her muscles tightened at the thought of him with another woman.

  Brain, this is your body. We don’t care what Harlan does. He can fulfill his Groupon promise.

  She tugged on the hem of her skirt one more time, squared her shoulders, and followed Gemma out into the packed bar. Five huge flat-screen TVs hung from the ceiling showing cage fighting, drag racing, or what could be the Miss Hot Boobs USA pageant. To her left sat a long row of pool tables at which denim-clad men and women stood in groups. The chink of ceramic balls could be heard above three girls singing.

  “Unskinny Bop” indeed.

  Gemma stood beside a man ripped straight out of every girl’s California surfer wet dream. Cali Surfer towered above Sophie’s five-foot-nine frame. His dirty-blond hair flopped on his forehead. Muscular body outlined under a black T-shirt and low-slung faded denim. Sparkly, navy-blue eyes, strong chin, a slightly off-center nose, a dusting of dark stubble on his cheeks. She bet it got him laid, often. He oozed sex appeal and charm and had an easy air about him, but her sixth sense told her that if he were pushed, underneath his playful puppy exterior, a pissed off pit bull would emerge.

  Gemma threw her arm around his waist. “Sophie, this is Cope. He tends bar while working his way through every available woman in Colorado. The man is a walking petri dish. If I didn’t love his whorey ass so much, I’d report him to the CDC.”

  Warm blue eyes focused on her. “Sophie, nice to meet you. If you have any problem with any guy here, hold up your hand and I’ll be over. The girls are not allowed to be touched. They might test a new girl, but don’t take their shit.” He pulled Gemma tight to his side. “Don’t believe a word she says. I’m Catholic schooled. If I ever touched my impressively sized penis other than to attend to bathroom duties, there is the high possibility I’d go blind. The only work I could find would be as a eunuch where I’d work in a sheik’s harem, surrounded by beautiful naked women giving each other facials.”

  Sophie couldn’t help but smile. His warmth and charm were infectious.

  Gemma elbowed him in the ribs and rolled her eyes.

  Cope held up his hands in surrender.

  Gemma laughed, shook her head and tugged on Sophie’s arm.

  An hour into her shift, Sophie found her rhythm. She and Gemma had allocated sections. She’d write customers’ orders, which didn’t change much from beer or spirits, and take their money. Cope or Dave, another bartender she’d only briefly met, would hand over the drinks, she’d serve the orders, return their change, calculating it in her head walking back, and then move to the next table. Rinse and repeat.

  Her biceps and triceps had been stretched beyond their limits. The burn in her muscles had turned into a long-standing ache, which had morphed into a quivering numbness. She’d kept her back ramrod straight so as not to flash the bar her underwear. The vision of Miss Newly Lasered flew into her brain and stayed a second longer than necessary. Her shoulders had sent out protest notices an hour ago and would be a no-show tomorrow.

  Her tank top had taken a hit when she’d spilled beer on herself after one of the scariest men she’d ever seen materialized in her path. Massive, with hams for arms, dump trucks for legs, and a plaited gray beard that landed at the button of threadbare jeans that looked like he’d been born in. Tattoos snaked up his neck and possibly spelled out something on his bald head. She wasn’t about to get a stepladder and find out.

  Man Mountain didn’t say a word. His eyes dropped to her boobs, her boots, then back to her face. He’d crossed his arms across his mountain range of a chest and stared at her.

  She tapped her foot and arched a brow at Mr. Probably Whacks People for a Living.

  After a standoff lasting forever, he’d smiled, revealing three teeth, told her to call him Boris, and welcomed her to Pipe’s.

  On her way back to the bar, a man blocked her path.

  Is this a tag-team test or something?

  “Sweetheart, I’m Mick, and baby, you’ll want my dick. You want to take a ride with me after your shift. Have my Harley throb between your legs, then have me throbbing between your legs.” He grabbed her hips, pressing his hips against hers, and gyrated.

  Beer, onions, and “I’m allergic to deodorant” wafted over Sophie.

  She moved back out of his reach and arched a brow. “Touch me again, I’ll snap off that dick of yours, turn it into an itty-bitty sandwich, and serve it back to you with a single fry.”

  His eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward her.

  She held her ground.

  “You’re not woman enough for me anyway.” His eyes wandered over her.

  Sophie the PI shot forward. “Baby, we both know you’re not man enough for me.”

  His eyes hardened. “I expect you’ve got a dick there in your skirt.”

  “Yep, and it’s bigger than yours.”

  He loomed over her, a vicious look on his face. He raised his hand to slap her. She jumped left and caught his arm, scissor-kicking his legs. He dropped to the ground with a heavy grunt. Sophie landed on his back and grabbed his wrists.

  A hand landed gently on her shoulder.

  “I’ve got this, Soph.�
�

  With her heart hammering at locomotive speed, she looked up at Cope, whose narrowed gaze was directed at Mick. He held out a hand and she stood, her legs shaking. Cope hauled Mick to his feet.

  Mick’s flinty eyes narrowed, his face heart-attack red. “You’ll regret that, bitch.”

  She smiled down at him. “Don’t choke on your dick sandwich.”

  Applause and laughter rippled across the bar. She smoothed a hand across her hair, gave a tight smile, and walked back toward Gemma. She caught the eye of a few patrons. One man saluted her. Boris openly grinned at her, and a biker chick gave her a thumbs-up.

  “Look at you, girlfriend.” Gemma grinned at her.

  Sophie took an order for a round of Wild Turkey when the door flew open and a gorgeous, tall, blond woman walked in wearing designer shoes so high Sophie wondered if she had to alert air traffic control when she put them on. A floor-length silver sheath hugged every part of her perfect, curvy body. She wove through the bikers, greeting some, smacking others playfully on the shoulder, and headed toward the bar.

  “I think Cinderella got lost coming home from the ball,” Sophie said to Gemma, who passed her holding a tray filled with glasses of Coors.

  “That’s Annie, my bestie. Her date mustn’t have gone well.” Gemma’s lips thinned. “None of her dates go well. Let me get this tray, then come meet her.”

  Sophie opened her mouth to protest but shut it at Gemma’s questioning look.

  Five minutes later, she stood next to Gemma. Annie sat at the bar, two empty shot glasses in front of her. Cope filled a third. Seemed Annie’s idea of having hot and horny sex in the back of a limo while it cruised around town hadn’t been met with a positive reaction. Her thick honey-colored hair curled down her back, almond-shaped eyes the color of emeralds, sun-kissed skin, sparkly pink lips, and a body that could grace covers of magazines, and she’d been turned down?

  “I don’t understand,” Sophie blurted out. “He turned you down? Is there something wrong with the universe?”

  Shrewd eyes appraised her. “He wanted a relationship. I want fun.” A manicured hand with blood-red nails waved. “He’ll fake it that he only wants fun, but then he’ll get clingy and possessive. Neither rocks my boat.”