“The fact that kissing your finger got to you.”
“Jerk,” she says with a smile, shaking her head. “You are so full of yourself.”
She stops sweeping and begins scanning the floor. Her face pales and she walks the area, her gaze sweeping back and forth.
“What’s wrong?” I step in front of her.
“My picture. The asshole stole my picture.”
I glance at the cardboard backing of the 8x10 frame. “Maybe it fell underneath something.”
We both drop to our knees, looking underneath the sofa and chair. Emerson sits on her heels, practically rocking with a level of agitation I’ve never seen from her.
I place a hand on her shoulder. “There’s something going on, isn’t there? Something you need to tell me?”
Emerson sits back from my touch and draws her knees up to her chin. “It’s just a photo.”
“A photo of what?”
“Me and my dad. The last one I had of us together. Before he went away.”
“Went away?” I hope this isn’t a euphemism for died. I’ve really asked a shit question if it is.
“To a federal corrections complex.” She studies her hands.
“For doing what?”
“Selling data.” She says the words as low and resigned as a person surrendering.
“Data like...credit card numbers?” I think about all the news I’ve seen lately dealing with stolen credit data.
“Nope.” She looks up and her gaze meets mine. “US military information.”
Chapter Seven
Chasing the Sun
Emerson
“Smart people can be dangerous. Dad could hack into anything. Now he can’t even touch a computer.” I give Dylan a casual smile, but my insides quake.
My dad’s indiscretion—selling military data like some people hock fake purses in New York—changed who I am. My high school friends, my community—virtually the entire world—shunned my family and me. So, I’ve hidden behind my wall of cold looks and chin-up attitude. Why did I blurt out the truth about something that makes me feel raw and exposed? I know the answer. Because the tenderness in Dylan’s gaze makes me want to confide, confide, confide.
He’s looking at me—brows knitted together and his eyes soft and sympathetic, one syllable away from saying he’s sorry about my dad. I hate it when people do that. Apologize for something they had no control over. It’s like telling me you’re sorry for the rain.
And maybe that’s not really it. The real problem is that I don’t like pity. My high school classmates drowned me in it.
“Stop with the face. Okay? Just stop.” I get to my feet and grab the ripped up pieces of sofa, smashing chunks of foam into a trash bag.
“You caught me off guard.” Dylan stands, still watching me and not helping.
“So, Jordy didn’t tell you about Dad?” I glance at him to gauge his reaction. “He told you I was a stripper, but that’s it?”
“Well, yeah.” He looks away.
I grab the broom and shove it into his hands. “Perfect. At least I know what Jordy thinks is important. Would you try and get the dirt into the pot?” I turn to go and find a dustpan.
At this point, I’d start a private striptease if it’d divert his attention from talking about my family.
Dylan grabs my arm with his free hand. “Slow down. And Jordy told us because he wanted you out of the job at that club. Forever. No other reason.” His gaze searches my face. “I want to know about your dad.”
“You know what? My dad got greedy. Middle-class America wasn’t good enough for him. End of story.” I break from his grasp. “I’m making you leave if you don’t find something else to talk about.”
He stares at the dirt on the floor for a second and looks up. “Why do you think someone broke in here tonight?”
“To steal some money or drugs. Some high-as-a-freakin’-kite delinquent broke in for cookies. Who knows? I’m not a thief.”
“As if you would have drugs.” Dylan shakes his head. “Really. You don’t believe that any more than I do.”
“Well, I do know this guy who drives a Jag and parks the flashy thing in front of my building. People in this building probably think you’re my drug dealer or pimp.”
He gives me a dark look. “Good. They’ll leave you alone.”
“That’s not even funny. And if I weren’t kidding—which I actually was—your presence as Flashy Pimp Overlord didn’t stop someone from breaking in.”
“Quit joking. I’m serious.”
I leave the room to get the dustpan. This time, Dylan doesn’t stop me. “I’m not joking,” I yell from the kitchen. “I’m telling you there are some bad people who live around here and one of the baddies broke in. Do you have any idea how many times the cops get called here?”
When I reenter the room, Dylan is carefully placing my plant inside the glazed pot. He’s busy with scooping dirt back into the container by using a magazine. His back is to me, broad shoulders stretching the material of his black T-shirt against his back muscles. Triceps tighten. The tanned skin of the back of his neck begs to be nuzzled.
My pulse hammers in my throat, my ears, my mouth. I lick my lips. I could take five steps and kiss the back of his neck. He’d stop questioning and cleaning and judging. He’d only feel.
Inappropriate thoughts. Inappropriate timing. Inappropriate target for my affections.
He stands in one graceful move and turns to catch me staring. It’s like he reads my unguarded emotions because a corner of his mouth slides up.
My breath hitches and I turn my back to him so I can put my shields back up.
I pick up an overturned jar candle and set it on the end table. “Go ahead, Sherlock. What’s your theory?”
When he doesn’t answer, I turn and meet his gaze. He’s got a satisfied smile on his face.
“Somebody was looking for something. Why else would they rip into cushions and pillows? This guy was looking for a particular thing,” he says.
“Like drugs.”
“No. Tell me. Is anything missing?”
I moan and close my eyes. “There’s nothing valuable here. What do you think they’d take?”
“I don’t know, but I want you to be careful. Something doesn’t feel—”
There’s screaming louder than the last seconds of a boxing match, and it steals Dylan’s attention. Jordy is yelling something and I can’t make out his words until the last ones. “Back off!”
“Make me, motherfucker,” a gruff, familiar voice yells back. I recognize the neighbor guy’s voice. There’s a crash against the wall and the sound of Gabby squealing. I can tell by the sound that she’s not really scared.
But Dylan doesn’t know the melodrama and testosterone frenzy of this place. He moves toward the door. I reach for his arm, but I’m not quick enough and he’s out to join whatever is going on. I glance around for my phone and see it on top of my purse.
I squeeze my eyes shut—for once could things go smoothly? I know I live in a bad part of town, but I’ve had my limit. The last thing I need is my friends in a brawl.