Chapter
One
Cayden thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans to keep them from visibly shaking. He’d learned long ago to control his fury. If a sleeper or an exotic car wasn’t around, he forced his anger into his hands. This way, his face remained blank, and he could easily hide his hands.
“Never show your fear or anger,” his gran always said. “It was what got your father into trouble. I can’t stop you from boosting, but I’ll be damned if that Russo anger gets you killed too.”
Mr. Jones was sitting across the round kitchen table from him, looking just as pleased as Cayden. The rehabilitation officer was in his early sixties, but nothing got past the ornery bastard despite his age. The man had the eyes of an eagle, the nose of a hound, and the ears of a wolf. He knew when one of his parolees had been out drinking before they even stepped foot into the house. Some of Cayden’s housemates saw this as a challenge, but not Cayden. He had no intention of returning to prison and would do anything Mr. Jones said to keep that from happening.
Which was likely the core of his present anger. Because Cayden had tried. He always tried. But once again, life decided that Cayden wasn’t worthy and kicked him in the balls.
Cayden’s job options through the work program were limited. He didn’t know shit about computers, and his rap of auto theft prohibited him from working any retail job. Mr. Jones had found him three jobs so far—the first as a janitor, the second as a garbageman, and the third as a house cleaner—and he’d just been fired from the third. Cayden didn’t understand it. He showed up on time, was polite to his employers and fellow employees, and kept to himself. His employers knew he was an ex-biker who used to run with the Black Pythons MC. They had to because he was hired through the work program. Twice, his fellow employees had found out, and twice, they had rejected him. Today would make the third time. Cayden didn’t know who had done it, but they’d tampered with his power washer. If he hadn’t caught the kink in the hose at the last second, the damage could have been a lot worse.
So once again, Cayden was sitting in the halfway house’s kitchen with Mr. Jones, looking through job listings. Cayden was never going to get out of this place if he couldn’t hold a job. He couldn’t risk touching the funds he had stashed away prior to going in. He needed to give it at least two years before he risked withdrawing from either account. Cayden had no intention of returning to jail or breaking the law again, but that money was his. Illegally earned or not, it was his nest egg.
He just needed to survive on the outside.
He’d already parted ways with his motorcycle club. While the Black Pythons were a local chapter of a national club that was into drugs, skin and gun trade, blackmail, extortion, and anything else they could think of to make some scratch, Cayden’s former city chapter had excelled in one very specific area: jacking cars. They did it all—hotrods, sleepers, exotics, luxury—and Cayden had been at the forefront.
At least, he had been.
He’d been Boost, the best car thief this side of the Mississippi. But that was not who Cayden was anymore. Being a criminal was in his blood. He’d grown up on the streets, but he refused to die on them.
This was the new Cayden. Cayden 2.0.
He’d thrown out all of his jewelry, with the exception of his grandfather’s coin pendant. The eight piercing holes in his right ear and the three in his left were all empty, along with the one in his nose, the two in his bottom lip, and the one in his tongue. He hadn’t touched his eyeliner or hair dye since getting out, and to be frank, he had been tiring of his signature style of dress before he’d been arrested.
Looking at Cayden now, one would never have guessed that he used to spike his hair, dye his hair tips green, wear eyeliner, and had a jewelry store pierced through his face. He kept his brown hair neatly parted and his face clean. Not having the heart to toss his grandfather’s rings, Cayden had mailed those back to Gran for safe keeping.
Rather than his BPMC cut, ripped pants, boots, and a t-shirt with a smart comment or profanity on it, he now wore a nice pair of jeans and a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. The only positive he’d gotten from his time in prison were his new muscles, which helped to accentuate his numerous tattoos.
Cayden had always been tall and lean, but now he was tall and muscled. With not much else to do during his yard time, Cayden had taken advantage of the gym equipment. Lifting weights while outside and doing crunches and pushups inside had toned his body nicely.
Not that any of it was helping him to hold down a job.
He had stolen a car—just one, and he was sticking to that story—not a broom. Why would a bunch of house cleaners care that he was an ex-biker? It wasn’t like their lives were that much better than his. They too were cleaning some rich schmuk’s house. But, apparently, his rap sheet made him lower than them on the totem pole.
Mr. Wynn walked into the kitchen, his eyes narrowing at the familiar sight of Cayden and Mr. Jones looking at job listings. “What happened?” the houseowner asked.
Mr. and Mrs. Wynn had turned their home into a halfway house for parolees after their son Josh’s release from prison. Not many ex-cons were so lucky as to have parents or family to take them back in as Josh Wynn. After he’d learned his cellmate had been murdered on the streets, Josh had disappeared, vanishing without a trace. That was almost fifteen years ago. The Wynns had opened their home to ex-cons until either they were rehabilitated back into society or their parole was up.
Mr. Jones had told Cayden the Wynns’ story prior to his release when they had been trying to figure out living options for Cayden. He couldn’t return to his prior residence, as he had lived in the Black Python’s clubhouse. Cayden had admitted to Mr. Jones that the temptation would be too great to fall back into old habits. He also couldn’t go live with his only living relative, his gran, because she lived outside his designated radius.
After meeting the older couple, Cayden suspected that, while the Wynns selflessly opened their home to ex-cons, it broke their hearts that their son was never the one to walk through their door. Mrs. Wynn was a retired secretary. Cayden was actually more fearful of her than he was of her husband. The woman wielded a wooden spoon like a knight would his sword. It was rare that any of the residents disrespected the Mrs. They knew she wouldn’t feed them if they dared to say or do anything against Mr. or Mrs. Wynn.
Mr. Wynn was a former construction entrepreneur. His muscular physique still showed, despite having retired almost ten years prior. The man kept up with the maintenance on the house, but always made sure to have one of the residents with him when fixing a problem. He made a grumble that this was for Mrs. Wynn’s peace of mind, but Cayden suspected that it was so he could pass on his knowledge to whomever was with him at the time of the repair. Cayden now knew how to patch up sheetrock and unclog the garbage disposal.
He might be able to take apart and put an eight-cylinder engine back together blindfolded, but he’d never before had to fix a garbage disposal. He appreciated Mr. Wynn’s secret efforts to pass along his skills.
“Same story, different day,” was Cayden’s reply. “They found out my history and I turned into a pariah.”
Mr. Wynn’s face showed disappointment, but his silver eyes blazed with pity. “You know the terms of being here. In order to earn a weekend pass or any other privileges, you have to hold a job for a minimum of fifteen days.”
Cayden bit his tongue to keep from snapping “I know” at the older man. His gran’s slap upside the head was only rivaled by Mrs. Wynn’s skills with a wooden spoon. He didn’t want to gain the wrath of either woman if it got back to them that Cayden had been disrespectful or had lost his temper.
He might be a car thief, and a damn good one too, but he wasn’t some lowlife punk. He’d own what he was and refused to be labeled what he wasn’t.
“I know, sir,” he said evenly. “I’m sorry. I did try.”
Mr. Wynn gripped Cayden’s shoulder. Having been raised by his grandmother after his father’s murder, Cayden hadn’t grown up with much paternal attention. It was odd, knowing that Mr. Wynn’s disappointment increased his own. He would have expected this reaction from Mrs. Wynn, who reminded him of Gran, but not Mr. Wynn.
But he did like the Wynns. He appreciated their assistance while he was trying to regain his bearings in a world that had changed in the two years and six months he’d been locked away.
Even Mr. Jones had earned his respect. The man was a lot kinder than Cayden had expected him to be. He didn’t know much about Mr. Jones’s history, but the wedding ring on his finger seemed old. It also hadn’t missed Cayden’s notice that, despite the ring, Mr. Jones never mentioned Mrs. Jones. Cayden had never gotten up the courage to ask. The man was ornery and a stickler for the rules, but he was, above all else, fair. Cayden appreciated that more than he could ever express. Not much about Cayden’s life had been fair.
An hour later, even with Mr. Wynn’s assistance, Cayden was no closer to finding a new job. He wished his rap as a car thief only prohibited him from working at car dealerships. He’d take any fast-food restaurant job he could get at this point. He’d never stolen a dollar from another in his life. Cars had been and always would be his temptation.
Mrs. Wynn came into the kitchen sometime later. Seeing her arms full of grocery bags, Cayden leaped to his feet to assist her. He saw Paul, the hacker, trailing behind her with even more bags.
“Thank you, dear,” she said to Cayden, keeping one reusable bag on her shoulder. “Paul, could you get the milk and eggs in the fridge please?” Paul nodded once. Cayden too started to unpack the groceries from the bags he’d taken from her. Mrs. Wynn gave him an approving smile. Turning to her husband, she said, “Greg, I was able to get that picture of you and Bobby repaired. Good as new.” She pulled out a large picture frame from the red bag she’d kept.
Mr. Wynn stood and put his arm around his wife. “Well, look at that. I can’t even see where the knife went in.”
At the word ‘knife’, Cayden shot Paul a questioning look. The younger man, though, shook his head like he didn’t know either.
Mr. Wynn placed a kiss on his wife’s temple. “Thank you, Peg. Look, Frank—”
If Mr. Wynn said anything else as he turned the picture towards Mr. Jones, Cayden didn’t hear it. At the sight of the picture facing towards him, Cayden’s eyes went wide and his hands numb. He barely kept a hold of the thin plastic bag holding the apples.
“Dude, what’s wrong with you?”
Cayden ignored Paul, and despite how rude it was, rushed forward to snatch the large, framed photo from Mr. Wynn’s outstretched hand. He gaped, open mouthed, at the picture for several seconds before he stared up at Mr. Wynn in awe. “That’s a 1967 Shelby Cobra 427 Roadster.”
The picture was obviously old, but there was no mistaking those distinct front vents and slick finish. In front of the car was a much younger Mr. Wynn with his arm wrapped around the shoulders of another young man. Mr. Wynn was holding up a set of keys in victory.
“It is.” At Mr. Wynn’s words, Cayden snapped out of his awed haze. Realizing he’d taken the picture without invitation, he sheepishly handed it back to the houseowner. Mr. Wynn, though, didn’t look upset. Thank God. If anything, his eyes sparked with amusement. “You know your cars.”
A snort came from Mr. Jones.
“That car is worth over seven hundred thousand today.” Cayden knew his voice cracked when he mentioned its worth. It wasn’t the money, though, that had Cayden’s heart racing in his chest. It was how polished and obviously loved that car was by the two men in the picture. Anyone who loved a car like that earned bonus points in Cayden’s book. “Do you still have it?”
Cayden’s heart broke when Mr. Wynn shook his head. He felt like he’d been sucker punched. Oh, what Cayden wouldn’t have given for just five minutes with a ride like that.
“Bobby,” Mr. Wynn pointed to the other man in the picture, “found us a buyer. A collector who appreciated the care we took in refurbishing it. Mind you, this was in the nineties, so I’m not sure who has it now.”
As Mr. Wynn took his hand away from the picture, Cayden’s eyes landed on the building he’d completely missed behind the car and men. The two-story building with full-glass front windows was too large to fit in the border of the picture, but Cayden knew it had a massive white sign with red cursive reading Romero’s on the roof.
He knew, because he had passed the building every day on his way to work this week. They were an exotic dealership and repair shop. Cayden had practically drooled in envy each time he passed it.
“You worked at Romero’s?”
Mr. Wynn shook his head, finally passing the picture off to Mr. Jones as had been his earlier intention. “Bobby owned Romero’s. We were buddies in high school who shared a love of repairing cars and motorcycles. When he opened his shop, I was building my construction business. We both invested in the other’s businesses, be it time or money. When he picked up the Cobra from a junkyard, it was a steal. We worked on it for years, trying to find all the right parts for her. When we finished, man, did that baby purr.” The cocky smile on Mr. Wynn’s face was one Cayden could truly appreciate, because he’d worn it on his own many times.
Cayden let out an envious sigh. “I’d have loved to have seen her.”
“I’ll swing you by Romero’s at some point,” Mr. Wynn offered. Then, as if realizing what he’d said, he turned to Mr. Jones. “Or would that break his terms of parole?”
Mr. Jones, to Cayden’s delight, shook his head. “He can’t drive a car, but he’s allowed to be near them. We’d have to ship him off to a remote part of Antarctica if his terms stated he couldn’t be within so many feet of a working vehicle.”
Cayden’s smile stretched wide. He rounded on Mr. Wynn. “I’ll do anything you want. I’ll rake the yard, I’ll take out the garbage, I’ll even cook dinner.” He paused at that offer. “Well, I’ll help Mrs. Wynn cook dinner. I don’t want to be sent back to jail for accidentally poisoning my housemates.”
Mr. Wynn chuckled before he said, “How about tomorrow? I have some errands to run, and you can help me with some of the heavy lifting.”
Cayden nodded. He didn’t care if Mr. Wynn had said he needed to escort him to the doctor’s office to get his prostate checked. Anything would be worth the opportunity to see Romero’s. If Bobby restored cars and motorcycles with the care and love that photo had captured, Cayden could only imagine the treasures held within those glass walls.
The hand on his shoulder forced his attention to Mr. Jones, who now stood beside him. “Behave,” the crotchety man warned, “or I’ll throw you back inside faster than you can say ‘hotwire’.”
Cayden gulped nervously, because he knew the old man didn’t bluff.
The radio beeped beside her before she heard Joey’s voice say, “Boss, you have a visitor.”
Grumbling, Trixie rolled herself out from under the GTO. She picked up the radio where she’d left it next to her toolbox and water bottle. “Who is it?”
“Greg Wynn.”
Despite not being happy about the interruption, a smile appeared on her face. She immediately stood. “Tell Tìo Greg I’ll be right down.”
Greg Wynn had been her abuelo’s best friend. He’d practically raised her papá, Zyn, who’d grown up alongside Greg’s son, Josh. Trix had never met Josh. He’d been incarcerated before she’d been born and then vanished soon after his release. Towards the end of his life, her papá’s struggle with lung cancer had prevented him from working in the shop with the cars he loved so much. Her abuelo, Bobby, had owned the shop, but it had been Zyn who’d run the day-to-day operations. When Trix had been old enough, Bobby had taken her under his wing and taught her everything she knew. Unlike her brothers, whose interests lay elsewhere, Trix’s heart and soul had never wandered outside these walls. Zyn had finally lost his battle with cancer and Bobby had followed his son to an early grave eleven months later.
Though willed to all four of his grandchildren, Trixie’s brothers had given her their shares outright. She’d expected needing to purchase them, but her siblings had signed the shop over to her without asking for a dime. Still raw from her abuelo and best friend’s passing, she’d never cried so hard in her life as she’d hugged her older siblings. Later on, she’d suspected that her abuelo had somehow manufactured that from beyond the grave. It would have been something magical she’d expect from him to bring the siblings closer during their time of grief.
While her family tragedies did not stop with the deaths of her papá and abuelo, the Romeros were strong and resilient. There was no beating them back or down.
Careful to make sure she had wiped all the grease from her hands, Trixie walked past the other mechanics working hard. She pressed the code to open the door to the hallway. The bay was filled with priceless wonders, so security was a big concern of hers. No one entered or exited the bay without inputting an individual code. Key cards were too easily swiped, whereas codes had to be told.
To get to her private projects, she had a retinal scanner installed. Only herself, her assistant Joey, and her head mechanic Jeff had access to that room. That was her sanctuary, her Fortress of Solitude. No one was getting close to her babies until she was ready to either auction or display them.
Heading up the stairs to the main floor of the showroom, Trixie caught her reflection in the glass door. Fuck, her hair looked like a rat’s nest. Her long black curls had always been a pain in her butt. But Abuelo had loved her hair. He claimed she’d inherited two things from him: his love of cars and his thick, unruly hair. With those words constantly ringing in her head, she’d never cut it, even if it would make her life easier.
She quickly took the hairband out and tried to throw it up into a messy bun. Her work coveralls were grease and oil stained, so she unbuttoned the top half and wrapped the arms around her waist to tie off at her navel. The white tank she wore under her coveralls was skimpy but at least it was clean. She probably should have stopped by her office to put on some more deodorant, darn it. Her office was on the second floor above the showroom.
Screw it, she silently determined. Greg had seen her in far worse condition. She wondered if Peggy had come with him. She hadn’t seen her surrogate aunt in ages.
Trixie took the time to wipe her work boots against the doormat before walking through to the showroom. She nodded to her sales crew, all finely dressed, before hurrying past to the front desk. With a shout of joy, Trixie launched herself into the old man’s tight grasp.
Despite only living a few miles from each other, Trixie was ashamed to say she hadn’t visited with her abuelo’s best friend in a long time. It was really good to see him.
Greg returned her hug with vigor. Either he didn’t realize how bad her hair was or he didn’t care, because he dropped a rough kiss onto her curls. “Trixie, baby, you’re looking good.” Setting her down on her feet, he gripped her shoulders as he took a step back to get a better view of her. “I swear you get taller every time I see you.”
Her cheeks reddened. He’d been saying that since she was two feet tall. Now, at twenty-five, she stood only an inch under him. “Stop it. I finished growing years ago. But look at you. Is that another gray hair?”
He chucked her gently across the chin. “I only have gray hairs.”
Her grin widened. “Is Tìa Peg with you?”
He shook his head to her disappointment. “No, but she did invite you to dinner on Sunday night.”
That brightened Trix’s mood. She missed Sunday dinners with the Romeros and Wynns. It had been a long time since she’d been with her entire family. There hadn’t been a lot to celebrate recently.
“I’ll be there.” She missed Peggy. And she would never turn down a free meal. Trixie’s version of a gourmet meal was a bowl of cereal. Even she couldn’t mess up pouring milk into a bowl, though that was not from lack of trying. “What brings you by?”
“Well, I was passing by and wanted to stop in.” The man lived three miles down the road; when was he not passing by? “Peg got that old picture of me and Bobby fixed up, and it got me thinking that I hadn’t been by to see you in a while.”
The guilt on his face was clear. In his defense, Trixie also hadn’t been by to see either him or Peggy either. She reached out to grip his arm affectionately. “We’ve all been busy. It’s really good to see you.”
He squeezed her hand on his bicep. “I know, sweetheart. I’ll make more time, I promise.”
Greg and Peggy ran a halfway house. Their time was certainly kept busy. Trixie worried about them, especially Peggy. She knew opening their home to ex-cons trying to get their feet back under them was their way of being close to their son again, but she still worried. Peggy was stern and had a good heart, but she was still a woman in a house with a bunch of unknown men. Trixie didn’t know how Greg handled it.
There had been a few instances when the cops had had to be called. In fact, the time Trixie had passed the house almost three months ago to see a bunch of cop cars outside had probably been the last time she’d seen Greg or Peggy. One of the residents had taken a knife to another. Strong and resilient Peggy had been more upset about the hole in her kitchen wallpaper than she had been about the man who had used a knife to threaten her. The picture Greg was referring to had also been damaged in the scuffle, the blade piercing the glass and paper of the old photo.
Trixie was glad Peggy had been able to get it repaired. A copy of that same picture was framed in Trixie’s office, inherited from when it had been Abuelo’s. If Peggy hadn’t been able to get Greg’s repaired, she would have offered up hers as a replacement or seen if it could be copied again. The original film had been long lost.
A man stepped up next to Greg, and Trixie blinked in wonder. Whoa. He wasn’t handsome by Hollywood standards. Like her Marine brother, his nose had been broken too many times to sit straight on his face. He was tall and muscular, filling out his button-up and jeans quite nicely. He wore work boots similar to her own. The short sleeves revealed extensive, incredible tattoos on both of his arms and hands. With her height, she rarely had to look up at men to meet their eyes, but she did for him. He towered over both Greg and Trixie.
It was his eyes that held her attention, though. One was bright blue and the other was sea green. The contrast was breathtaking. She loved unique things, always finding them more interesting than most. She didn’t know how common heterochromia was, but she certainly found it unique on this man.
Apparently, so had her body. As soon as he’d approached, her mouth had gone dry and her panties had gotten damp. Very, very damp. A shiver ran through her as his eyes met hers, making her grateful she’d decided to wear a bra today. Her small excuses for breasts didn’t often require one, especially when she was planning on wearing her coveralls. Knowing she was going to be working on her back for most of the day under the GTO, she had worn one to keep herself secure. She could feel her nipples perk up against the polyester.
She couldn’t remember the last time a man had this sort of effect on her.
“Cayden,” Greg smiled in greeting. “Good, I want to introduce you to Trixie Romero, the owner of this dealership. Trix, this is Cayden Russo. He’s going to be staying with Peggy and I for a bit.”
The meaning behind Greg’s cryptic words was clear, and it was also the douse of cold-water Trixie needed to break through her sudden arousal. Her eyes landed on the tattoo creeping up his neck of a detailed snake, and her breath hitched. Cayden wasn’t just an ex-con living in Greg and Peggy’s house. He was a Black Python. They were notorious in this area for car theft, which meant he was beyond off limits to her.
Schooling herself, Trixie lifted her chin as she held out her hand. “Good to meet you, Cayden.”
He returned her grip with an equally callused hand. “You too, Trixie. I gotta say, until you walked in here, I thought that sweet sleeper in the corner was the prettiest thing I’d see today.”
Oh damn, and he was a flirt too.
When Mr. Wynn had parked at Romero’s, Cayden had nearly come in his pants like a teen looking at porn for the first time. Romero’s was breathtaking! Outside were what he considered to be flashy cars—Ferraris, Chargers, Challengers, Camaros, Mustangs, GT-Rs, and the like. They were expensive cars, and frankly, ones most commonly sold to men going through a midlife crisis. The ones inside were the exotics and sleepers. It took a real enthusiast to understand the beauty of a sleeper. They might be plain on the outside, but it was their interiors that made them valuable.
He’d been admiring a 2003 Mercury Marauder when he’d spotted the woman standing in front of Mr. Wynn. From their touches and smiles, he knew the two were well acquainted with each other. And while he’d found her smile to be stunning, it was the grease-stained coveralls wrapped around her middle, scuffed boots, and messy hair that drew him to her. She was not a woman who was afraid to get her hands dirty. He could still see the smudges on her hands from where she’d attempted to clean them.
Damn, and he’d thought the cars were going to be the most tempting thing here.
He tried to keep his surprise under control when Mr. Wynn introduced her as the owner. With the same last name as the sign out front, the Latina woman was obviously related to Mr. Wynn’s friend, Bobby. He didn’t know how, though he suspected daughter or granddaughter.
Her alluring chocolate eyes narrowed just slightly when Mr. Wynn said Cayden would be staying with Mr. and Mrs. Wynn for a while. Obviously, she knew about the halfway house, which also meant she now knew his history. Cayden couldn’t say he was happy about that. He hated it when people judged him by his record, rather than who he was as a person.
Trixie did not smile at him as she shook his hand. It was odd to feel calluses on a woman’s hand, but he liked it. She had an air of strength about her that was truly intoxicating.
“What are you working on?”
He noticed it took her an extra second to release his hand, though he had already unclasped from around hers. Fuck him, because he liked that too.
“Excuse me?” Trixie asked, crossing her arms over her chest. She was wearing a white tank with a beige bra underneath. He wondered if she realized her left strap was twisted.
He indicated to her hands. “What are you working on? I’m assuming we interrupted you.”
Her eyes narrowed further. “Mr. Russo, my customers come to me because they know I’ll be discreet and treat their vehicles like I would my children. I don’t talk about my projects and I certainly don’t advertise them to a hot-rodder.”
He raised his eyebrow. “Mr. Wynn hadn’t said why I was staying with him.” Though he did appreciate that Trixie hadn’t said the word ‘thief’ or ‘biker’. Anyone within earshot would know those words, but not many knew the street term ‘hot-rodder’ meant someone who jacked cars.
Trixie indicated to the Marauder in the corner. “You called her a sleeper.”
“Perhaps I’m just an enthusiast.”
She rose to the challenge, indicating with a single finger for him to follow her. He did, disappointed that the coveralls around her waist kept him from seeing the outline of her ass. If it was anything like the rest of her, though, he imagined it was sexy and sassy.
A hand up the backside of his head drew his attention to Mr. Wynn, who was glaring at him. Oops, probably shouldn’t have been checking her out in front of him. Or at least, he should have been less obvious about it.
Trixie popped the trunk of a Porsche Spyder to expose the rear-engine. The lime green finish shone in the overhead fluorescents. He looked down and noticed immediately what she wanted him to see. Any thief could break through glass and into the key box to get to one of these cars, but it took an expert to know the missing sparkplugs were the true anti-theft protection. The car wouldn’t start without those, key or no key.
She lowered the trunk. “My point exactly.”
He gave her a crooked smile. “Your babies are safe from me.” He held up his fingers in the Boy Scout salute. “I’m rehabilitated.”
Her unladylike snort increased his smile. She did not seem impressed in the least by his vow. “Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.”
Cayden knew taking a step forward was a risk, and not just because of how close their bodies now were. He saw Mr. Wynn’s eyes narrow warningly as he did it. He dipped his head and said into her ear, “Your security is good, but it could be better. I know a guy who could take anything off of this floor in under ten minutes.”
He left off that the ‘guy’ was him.
Trixie stiffened but didn’t back away. “Is that a threat?”
He shook his head. “No, just an observation. If you want to protect your babies, you need to think like a thief.” He stepped back, noticing the hitch in her breath and the spark in her eyes as he did. Good, she liked him being close to her as much as he’d enjoyed it. She’d smelled of cars, and that was more erotic to him than the most expensive perfume. “Give me a call some time if you want to better protect your merchandise.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I can protect my merchandise just fine without you, Mr. Russo.”
He loved her wit, almost as much as the double entendre. “I’m sure you do, Ms. Romero, but I can do it better.”
“Tìo Greg,” she said with her eyes still narrowed on Cayden, “it was really great to see you.” She turned to go, paused, and then said, “I just remembered I already had plans for Sunday. Raincheck.”
Mr. Wynn, who was now standing even with Cayden, nodded once. “Of course, sweetheart. I’ll let Peggy know.”
And then Trixie Romero was gone, escaping through a side door after inputting a four-digit code. Yeah, she definitely needed to increase her security.
Mr. Wynn grabbed his arm and practically dragged him out of the showroom. Cayden couldn’t help but feel disappointed as they exited. Surprisingly, it wasn’t because he hadn’t had a chance to look at all the beauties within.
His attention was more interested in their owner.
Mr. Wynn not-so-gently tossed him against the side of his Chevy truck. The maroon paint was hot against his back. Rather than pissed at his obvious flirting with Trixie, though, the halfway-house owner looked…thoughtful. Cayden blinked in confusion and waited. Mr. Wynn hadn’t told him to get in the truck, and he also hadn’t brought Cayden to the passenger side.
“Um, Mr. Wynn—” The man held up a hand to stop him.
That same hand went to his chin as he continued to think. Cayden shifted on his feet uncomfortably. What was Mr. Wynn thinking about? Was he trying to think of a way to send Cayden back in? He hadn’t broken any rules, but if Mr. Wynn claimed he had, it was his word against Cayden’s. That thought did not sit well with Cayden. He couldn’t get sent back to jail. The disappointment alone would kill Gran.
“Were you serious?” Mr. Wynn asked, breaking his silence. “About helping her?”
Cayden blinked. “Um, yes.” He’d been more flirting than serious, but he certainly wouldn’t back out of the offer.
“Trix is smart, too smart sometimes for her own good, and she’s cocky. I’ve never liked that she made one of the offices above the showroom into her apartment. She’s here alone all night with all that temptation just sitting under her. She might as well be sleeping in a bank vault.” Cayden stiffened, his eyes flashing back to the showroom. She slept here? Alone? That didn’t sit well with him either. “Mind you, I wasn’t lying before. Peg and I have been busy helping you boys—”
“Fuck that,” Cayden snapped. He and his fellow housemates were grown men. They were not single women living alone above a thieves’ treasure trove. Completely forgetting the Wynns’ no-cursing rule, he continued hotly, “You say what you have to say to convince her to let me help. There’s no fucking way I’m leaving her in there with that piss-poor security system she’s got set up. A four-digit code to enter the bay?” He snorted. “It’s easy pickings.”
None of his concern was for the cars and motorcycles within that store. Every fiber of his being was against the idea of Trixie living there so unprotected.
Mr. Wynn didn’t seem fazed or upset about his cursing. In fact, he almost looked proud. “Don’t worry, son. I’ll sic Peggy on her. Like you boys, Trixie won’t risk the wrath of the wooden spoon.” He patted Cayden on the shoulder, seemingly pleased with himself. “I’ll talk to Mr. Jones for you too. Maybe we can swing you a job as a security consultant.” He opened the driver’s door of his truck as he added offhandedly, “It worked for Leo in that movie with Tom Hanks.”
Despite not wanting to leave Romero’s, Cayden got into the truck and slid across the bench seat to the passenger side. He stared in the passenger side mirror as they pulled out of the parking lot. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but maybe Mr. Wynn could pull this off. Either way, he knew one thing for sure: he was not ready to put Trixie Romero in his rearview mirror.
He wasn’t sure he ever would be.
