"If he does, I'll handle it the way I always do. Quickly. Efficiently. Permanently."
"The way you always do? I thought you were trying to change."
"I am," I replied. "But white trash is still white trash, detective. Nobody comes into my restaurant, tries to hold up the place, and threatens my customers. I don't care who his daddy is."
We stared at each other. Not for the first time, I longed to draw the detective close, to pull his lips down to mine and see if the sex would be as hot and hard and good as it had been before. We'd certainly have more room to maneuver on one of the tables than we'd had in the supply closet. Mmm.
But I wasn't going to make the first move. I'd done that before. If the detective wanted me, he could let me know.
But he didn't.
Instead, Donovan Caine stared at me, his eyes tracing over my features, as if he was memorizing them. As if he was never planning on seeing me again. Maybe he wasn't.
The idea made my stomach twist, but I kept my face smooth and expressionless. I hadn't survived this long by wearing my heart on my sleeve. I didn't plan on doing it now. Not even for him.
Finally, Donovan held out his hand. I took it. His fingers felt hard, strong, capable against my own, and the heat from him warmed my whole body. Donovan dropped my hand like it burned him. Maybe it did, to want me so much, the woman who'd killed his partner.
I'd heard the detective say once that you didn't fuck your partner's murderer. But he'd done it - twice - and enjoyed it. And he still hated himself for it.
"Take care, Gin."
"You too, detective. You too."
Donovan Caine nodded at me a final time. Then the detective turned on his heel and walked out the door, leaving my gin joint and heart a little emptier and colder than they had been before.
Chapter Three
Barely a minute passed before the front door opened once more, making the bell chime. I looked up, wondering if the detective had changed his mind about, well, anything.
Everything.
But the man who strode into the Pork Pit wasn't Donovan Caine or another cop. His suit was much too nice for that. The black fabric draped off his shoulders, highlighting a frame that was compact, sturdy, strong. Given his body structure, I would have thought him a dwarf.
But at six foot one, he was much too tall for that. He had a thick head of hair that was a glossy blue-black, while his eyes were a light violet. A white, thin scar slashed diagonally across his chin. It offset the crooked tilt of his nose.
Those were the only two flaws in his chiseled features, which somehow added even more character to his face, rather than detracting from his good looks.
He cut an impressive figure. Striking, confident, aggressive, forceful. Someone who demanded attention.
Someone worth watching. Especially since he looked vaguely familiar to me.
I half-expected a couple of giant guards to follow the man into the Pork Pit. Most of the rich folks in Ashland employed at least a couple, and this guy was definitely wealthy, judging by his swanky suit and confident demeanor.
But the man entered alone. His light eyes swept over the interior of the restaurant, pausing at the blood spatters on the floor. After a moment, his gaze moved on and settled on the two girls, who were packing up their books to leave.
"Eva," he said in a voice that rumbled like thunder.
"Are you all right?"
Eva zipped up her backpack. "I'm fine, Owen."
The man moved to stand beside her. He walked stiffly but with purpose, like a bulldozer plowing through dandelions.
"Tell me what happened."
"I said I was fine," she repeated in an irritated voice, as though they'd had this argument many times before. "I also told you there was no need to come down here. You never listen to me."
"I'm your big brother," he said. "I'm supposed to watch out for you."
Big brother? Yeah, I could see that. Eva had the same coloring as the thirtysomething man. Blue-black hair, pale eyes, milky skin. It made her beautiful. Him too, in a cold sort of way.
"Now, tell me what happened," the man demanded again.
Eva rolled her eyes and launched into a recount of the attempted robbery. As she talked, the man crossed his arms over his chest. His biceps bulged with the motion, and he started tapping one finger on his opposite elbow.
Despite the movements, he was totally focused on his sister, as though she was the most important thing in the world to him. Maybe she was. He stared at the red welt on her cheek, and his hands curled into fists. I got the distinct feeling he would love to have some alone time with Jake McAllister.
When Eva finished her story, her big brother turned his attention to me. For the first time, I felt the full force of his gaze. Sharp, shrewd, calculating. Like looking into my own eyes. He walked forward and held out his hand.
"Owen Grayson."
Well, the hits just kept on coming. First, Jake McAllister decided to grace my restaurant with his presence, and now Owen Grayson had come to collect his sister.
I'd heard of him, of course. Grayson was one of the city's wealthiest businessmen. Mining, timber, metal manufacturing.
He had his fingers in a lot of money-making pies. With his subdued suit and chiseled features, Grayson didn't have the ostentatious, deadly, in-your-face flash of Mab Monroe, who enjoyed flaunting her status as the city's golden girl. Still, I knew power when I saw it - elemental or otherwise. And Owen Grayson had plenty.
Definitely someone worth watching.
"Gin Blanco."
"Gin?" he asked.
"Like the liquor," I quipped.
Owen Grayson's eyes glittered at my wry tone, but I still put my hand in his. Grayson's fingers curled around my skin like thick ropes of kudzu. Hard, sturdy, and almost unbreakable. He might not be a dwarf, but there had to be some of the blood in his veins. Only way to explain that kind of grip. Grayson glanced down at our entwined hands and frowned, as though I'd static-shocked him or something. Maybe I had, because I felt a brief prick on my palm.
The sensation vanished, and I tightened my own grip, just to show him I wasn't easily intimidated. A small smile tugged up Grayson's lips, as though he found my show of strength amusing. I gave him a cool stare. The hostility must have flickered in my gray eyes because Owen Grayson let go first.
Eva Grayson watched the exchange with interest. So did her friend Cassidy. Sophia Deveraux had already retreated to the back of the Pork Pit to start closing up the restaurant for the night.
Owen Grayson stared at me a moment more before turning to his sister. "If nothing else, tonight has proven my point about Southtown. From now on, someone will be with you during school hours."
Eva rolled her eyes again. Looked like something she did a lot when her big brother was around. "No. No more bodyguards. I'm nineteen years old, Owen. I'm in college. I can take care of myself."
"Like you did tonight?" he replied.
"Tonight was a freak event, and you know it," she retorted.
"I'm not going to let you use it as an excuse. Besides, I was perfectly safe the whole time."
"That bruise on your cheek tells me otherwise."
Owen glowered at his sister, but the hostile gaze slid off her like water. Looked like something she ignored a lot. Instead, Eva gave him a calm, calculating look.
"You want me to have a bodyguard? Then hire her."
The girl stabbed her finger at me. "Because she took out a Fire elemental like it was nothing. And she cooks."
Owen's pale eyes swept over my body. Probably wondering how I'd had the strength, balls, or dumb luck to do that.
I'd taken a lot of dirty jobs in my time, but be a bodyguard to a know-it-all college girl? I might have retired from being an assassin, but I hadn't gone insane. "Sorry. My dance card's already full."
Owen nodded. "Job offer notwithstanding, you saved my sister's life. I owe you. Name your price."
My turn to roll my eyes. "I don't want your money, and I don't need it."
His violet gaze flicked around the restaurant, taking in the faded pig tracks on the floor and the well-worn booths, chairs, and tables. Disbelief filled his features, but he was enough of a Southern gentleman not to call me a liar to my face. Little did he know I was telling the truth. I'd salted away a lot of money - a lot of money - from my assassin jobs over the years, and Fletcher had left me an exceptionally healthy bequest in his will. I could hemorrhage C-notes for years, decades even, and it wouldn't hurt a bit.
But instead of offering his money to me again, Owen reached into his suit and drew out a small white card. I took it from him. Along with his name and a cell phone number, a hammer was embossed in silver foil on the card. Grayson's rune. A large, heavy hammer, symbolizing strength, power, hard work.
"If you ever need anything, please, don't hesitate to call, day or night," he said.
My finger traced over the hammer rune, and I memorized the number. Might not be a bad thing having someone like Owen Grayson owe me a favor. Besides, Finnegan Lane, my foster brother and general partner in crime, would kill me if I turned him down. "All right."
We locked gazes. Cool, calculating, and shrewd, on both sides. Grayson tipped his head at me. I did the same, and we had an agreement.
Owen turned to the two women. "Come on, girls. Time to go."
He held the door open for them, and they headed outside.
Owen Grayson paused, looking over his shoulder.
The businessman stared at me a moment more before stepping out into the dark night.
I locked the front door behind the three of them and turned the sign over to Closed. It was barely after seven, but we weren't going to have any more customers tonight.
This close to Southtown, people could sniff out violence better than bloodhounds. Besides, I didn't feel like mopping up Jake McAllister's blood just yet.
I went into the back and said my good nights to Sophia.
The Goth dwarf grunted, gathered up her glass Mason jars full of baked beans, and headed out the back door to go home to her sister, Jo-Jo. After I made sure the stoves, french fryer, and lights were off, I followed her out into the alley that ran behind the restaurant.
I stood in the ink-black shadows next to one of the Dumpsters, looking, listening, searching. But nothing moved in the cold, quiet night, not even the rats and alley cats searching for garbage. Still, I brushed my fingers against the hard brick of the restaurant, using my elemental magic to listen to the stone.
The brick's slow murmur was one of muted, clogged contentment - just the way the stomachs and arteries of the Pork Pit's customers felt after eating a hot, thick, juicy barbecue sandwich. Over time, emotions, feelings, and actions sink into the earth and especially stone, where they can linger indefinitely until something else, some other action, comes along to add to, change, or overpower them. My elemental Stone magic let me sense these vibrations, analyze, interpret, and even tap into them if I wanted to. But the brief bit of violence that had happened earlier tonight hadn't lasted long enough or been brutal enough for the brick to permanently pick up its vibrations. Good.
Still, I looked and listened a moment more, searching for the telltale shape of a half giant or some sort of fire flickering in the shadows. But Jake McAllister wasn't waiting for me. Daddy was probably bailing him out of jail right now. McAllister would be here sooner or later, though. I'd gotten the better of him, and he knew it. He wouldn't be satisfied until he'd returned the favor. I hoped he tried. Might alleviate some of the boredom that had settled over me these last two months during my retirement.
For a few minutes, anyway. Guys like Jake McAllister always thought they were tougher than they actually were.
Satisfied the Fire elemental wasn't going to come gunning for me tonight, I dropped my hand from the cold brick and headed home. I walked three blocks in the drizzling rain, cut through twice as many alleys, and doubled back five times before I was positive no one was following me. Sure, I was a retired assassin, but that didn't mean there weren't people out there who didn't want me dead.
As the Spider, I'd killed my share of powerful men and women over the years, and I wasn't taking any chances with my safety - retirement or not.
Twenty minutes later, I retrieved my car - a sturdy, silver Benz that I'd recently purchased - from one of the parking garages near the restaurant and headed for Fletcher's.
Traffic was light on the downtown streets that ringed the Pork Pit. The bankers, businessmen, and other corporate sharks had long since fled the city's spindly skyscrapers for the comfort of their posh homes in Northtown.
Their secretaries and junior staff lived out in the suburbs that clustered around the heart of the city, while the janitors, maids, and other menial workers made their homes on the rough streets of Southtown.
The city of Ashland spread over three states - Tennessee, Virginia, and North Carolina. The official borders might have shown it to be one cohesive city, but the area was really divided into two distinct sections - Northtown and Southtown. A holdover from the Civil War days that had just never faded away. The sprawling, circular confines of the downtown area joined the two halves of the city together, but they bore little resemblance to each other. The working poor and blue-collar folks populated Southtown, along with vampire hookers, gangbangers, junkies, and all other manner of rednecks and white trash. Most of them lived in run-down row houses and public housing units that resembled fallout shelters. The Pork Pit lay close to the Southtown border.
While Southtown resembled the dregs in the bottom of a coffee cup, Northtown was the whipped meringue on top of a chocolate pie. You had to have money to live in Northtown. Lots of it, to afford one of the plantation-style mansions. Connections and a bloodline that went back a few hundred years didn't hurt either. But for all their polish, the folks in Northtown weren't any better than those in Southtown. They were all dangerous. The only difference was the people in Northtown would serve you tea and cucumber sandwiches before they fucked you over.