My side burns like a motherfucker, but I force the pain out of my mind as I wash my hands, slip on a black caftan over my clothes that swirls around my ankles, and snag a floppy hat.
I’m out of my condo in less than three minutes. On the way to the stairwell, I yank the fire alarm.
Chaos is good.
Moments later, I’m hustling down the stairs to the parking garage amid a crowd of frantic residents rushing outside.
My heels click against the pavement as I breathe in exhaust and gasoline fumes, but I don’t go for my Lexus.
It’s a gut feeling. Something I can’t explain. But until I know if that dude in the elevator was coming for me or just anyone who happened to be riding up, I’m not taking any chances. My Lexus is too flashy and noticeable, and I’m feeling paranoid as shit right now. Instead, I trek to a corner spot and slide a key into the door of a black Honda Accord I keep for emergencies, complete with a car seat in the back to blend in.
I toss my duffel in the front seat and get the fuck out of Dodge before I can even hear the sirens that’ll be coming next.
Ten
Moses
People pour out every door of Magnolia’s condo building as an alarm blares, and my unease hits new heights.
“Something isn’t right,” I tell Jules, who sits in the driver’s seat.
“It’s just a fire alarm. You want me to go in and check her place? She’s probably outside already.”
I shake my head. We hadn’t seen Magnolia leave—sneaky woman—so it surprised us both when she got out of a car in front of the condo building a few minutes ago.
“No . . . timing is off. Something’s wrong. We’re both going in.”
I’m out of the car before Jules can even get his door open. I don’t ignore gut instincts, ever. That’s how people get dead.
We catch the open front door as people stream out, and the first thing I notice in the lobby is a blood smear on the elevator door and a trail leading toward a door marked Service, right beside it.
“What the fuck?” I point at it. “You follow the blood. I’m going to get her out if she isn’t already.”
Jules doesn’t hesitate and goes into tracking mode. “Got it. On it.”
We separate as I dash up five flights of stairs, dodging the people still coming down.
When I reach Magnolia’s end of the hall, the first thing I notice is blood on her knob and door, and another smear on the floor.
“Fuck.” Now my instincts are going wild. Doors are slamming around me as people run to get out of the building, but I know there’s no fire. Whatever happened tonight, Magnolia’s involved, and I gotta find her.
I pound on the door, but there’s no answer. “Magnolia! Open the fucking door.”
Still no answer.
I whip out a credit card, and a few seconds later, I’m inside. I should have known that she wasn’t here, because the chain and dead bolt weren’t set. And for her not to lock the dead bolt as she left? That tells me she hauled ass out of here as fast as she could.
The condo is loaded with boxes. It hasn’t been tossed. No furniture is broken or lamps shattered. So, no sign of a struggle. What the fuck happened then?
I clear the rooms and then get the fuck out as fast as I came in, wiping the knob, door, and floor clean of blood and my prints.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I grab it. The display tells me it’s Jules.
“Boss, we got a fucking problem.”
“You find her?”
“No, but I got a dead body in the service hallway. Fucker got stabbed in the leg. Bled out.”
“Femoral artery. Fuck. Get his prints and a picture of his face, then get the fuck out. We’re going to find Magnolia.”
Eleven
Magnolia
It takes me over half an hour to get to my house in the Quarter, because I can’t take the chance that anyone followed me. More than ever, I’m so fucking glad I never told anyone other than Mount and Keira that I bought this place.
But Moses knows.
I push the thought of him out of my mind. Ain’t got time for that. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.
I park a block down and walk to my gate with my caftan swirling around my feet, my floppy hat fixed on my head, and my duffel bag over my shoulder. Once inside, I finally take a deep breath.
“Fuck, that hurts.” My side is on fire where he cut me. But this ain’t my first rodeo getting knifed, unfortunately. Hopefully, it’s my last time, though. I’m thoroughly sick of this shit.
Carefully, I pick my way over drop cloths and head upstairs to my all-white bathroom. The bathroom that was never supposed to be stained with blood.
Too bad wishes don’t all come true.
Once I’m inside, I drop the duffel on the floor and bend to unzip it, unleashing a sharp, burning sensation.
I grit my teeth as I dig in the bag. The first aid kit, whiskey, weed, and shotgun come out first. I lay the gun on the white marble countertop within reach, just in case that motherfucker manages to find me. Then I tug off the caftan, carefully peel up the hem of my crop top, and glance down at the wound. He sliced me right through the fucking band of my high-waisted black skirt.
Fucking asshole. I liked this skirt.
As I suspected from the pain, my inspection tells me the wound needs stitches. But that comes after the hefty swig of whiskey I take before slipping off my skirt.
Jesus, shit, that burns.
But it doesn’t hurt as much as it’s going to. I splash some of Keira’s best whiskey on the cut and grit my teeth against the fiery pain.
“I’m getting too old for this bullshit,” I murmur to the empty room with a shake of my head and a long sigh.
After digging into the first aid kit, I grab gauze and press it against the cut. The blood is clotting, so there’s no chance I’ll bleed out. Which means I have time to get my priorities in order and roll a nice fat blunt. Because I’m gonna need it.
Once I’m done, I light it and take a long hit, puffing hard to get it burning right. Smoke fills my lungs, and I wait a beat before blowing it out. I glance down at the suture kit, but reach for the whiskey again instead.
“This is gonna fucking suck,” I murmur, then freeze.
Before he even speaks, I feel his presence. I jerk my head up to see Moses Buford Gaspard standing in the doorway of my goddamned bathroom.
“Your stitches are gonna be crooked as fuck if you drink that whole bottle before you start,” he says with a lazy grin.
Twelve
Moses
Magnolia grabs the shotgun on the bathroom counter, racks it, and has the barrel pointed at me in less time than it would take most people to scream. But not Mags. She’s one of a fucking kind.
I came here expecting the worst, but what I found was straight out of a twisted fantasy. With the shotgun cradled in her arms, a blunt hanging from her lips, and a bottle of whiskey by her side, Magnolia Maison is the goddamned woman of my dreams. Gorgeous. Capable. And so fucking sexy, even with the bleeding wound on her side.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Mob—Moses?” she spits out, almost calling me by that silly, long-lost nickname she gave me.