So sorry for the long wait for this update. I have been extremely busy and there also was an lack of muse issue. But the updates should be pretty regular now. Thanks for everyone being patient with me. I hope you enjoy this chapter and please leave a review and let me know what you think.

SAM

Sundays are big visiting days at prisons. It's always sad to see the number of families sitting at the separated tables. Kids talking to fathers they barely know. Wives talking to husbands they barely see. Lives lived in a way that's barely human. In a place like this, it's easy to see that all mistakes, large and small, have consequences. The larger the mistake, the heftier the consequence. I just hope nothing I've done or have to do in the immediate future lands me in here. I think I'd rather be dead.

On autopilot, I go through the familiar motions of getting in to visit my father. I'm sitting behind the glass, my hands folded on the table in front of me, when they bring him in. Although I'm not aware of wearing any particularly telling expression, something I'm doing alerts my father. He gets right to the point the instant he picks up the black phone on the wall.

"What happened?"

I meet his concerned eyes, eyes just a shade or two lighter than mine, and I shake my head once, casually reaching up to tap my right ear with my fingertip. He watches me intently for several long seconds. I know he's processing it all and that contingency plans are being formulated as we speak. Or don't speak, as it were. Finally, he nods. Just once, a short, curt bob of his head. He understands. I can see it in his eyes.

"Nothing happened. It's just been a long weekend. Work's been busy."

The conversation drifts to mundane topics, nothing that would be totally out of the ordinary for one of my visits. We catch up on people and events and daily real-life things, nothing worthy of any extra attention. I'm hoping it's just enough to lull any listeners into a lazy state of boredom. Finally, Dad steers the conversation back to the most important thing. But, crafty guy that he is, he does it in such a way that it doesn't seem obvious. At least I hope it doesn't.

"So how'd that fishing trip go? Catch anything?"

I don't fish. Cam did, but I never have. Dad knows that. And that's how I know that we're not really talking about fishing.

"Nah, it was a no-go. Ended up spending the weekend hiding out. You know, to work."

He nods slowly, meaningfully. I know he picked up on my use of the term hiding out.

"It can be dangerous. To work too much."

"Yeah, I know it can be," I say, nodding for emphasis.

Still he watches me closely. It's like we're carrying on a much deeper conversation without saying a word.

"Gonna have to hand over some of the important duties to someone else, I think." I hope he understands what I'm really going to have to hand over.

"Sometimes you have to do what you have to do, Sam. Things don't always turn out like we want. Or like we plan. Sometimes, you just have to go with it and do what you think is best. It's all about surviving this life."

"I feel like my hands are tied."

He nods again. "Well, giving up everything can have a whole different set of consequences. Do you have a plan B?"

I shake my head, raising my hand helplessly. "No, but I'm open to suggestions. I've still got time. Just not much. The club's in trouble." He scratches his chin, still watching me. "Anything you can think of that might help? Anything else I can do?"

"You're so damned stubborn," he murmurs. "You had to go all in, didn't you? With that club. And risk someday going down with the ship."

Before Dad got arrested, he didn't want me to have the mob's books, didn't want me involved. I convinced him that not only would they provide us with some leverage, but they would also keep me safe. As long as Dad's employers knew the books were…somewhere, they could never risk making a move until they confirmed who had them or where they were. Only now they've confirmed the who.

"That's what I'm trying to avoid. Thought you might have some advice. You're a pretty smart old man, after all." I say this with a grin, a loving one. And Dad recognizes it. I see it in his eyes, all the affection I have for him reflected there.

"You need help at the club."

"I'm open to it. Any suggestions?"

"Here's what you do. Take out two ads in the paper."

"Does anyone still use an actual newspaper?" I tease.

"Some people do," he says with a casual shrug. In this case, some people must be pretty important people. "But there's an online place you can advertise, too. Don't put the second ad in there. Only the first one. You might get a quicker response from it." He goes on to tell me exactly where to place the ads and how to word them. I make notes in the crappy burner phone I'm carrying. "You should hear something in a few days. At the latest. Maybe getting some help around there will free you up a little more."

"Yeah. This is really becoming a problem for some of my employees, too." He knows that Mercedes bartends for me.

"Well, this might be the answer, then. Sometimes it takes drastic measures."

"I'm desperate. At this point, I'd be willing to try pretty much anything."

He nods again, but says nothing. In his eyes, I see regret. Deep, painful regret and sorrow. Although he doesn't have the details, he knows that things are starting to go sideways. Coming to a head. And not in a good way, not in our way. Having to hand over the books was never part of the plan, never a consideration. After all this time, I never thought…well, I just never thought. And not thinking has cost me. And it might keep costing me. Unless I can figure out something else. Maybe the ads and whomever they're signaling will be all the answer I need. I hope so.

As soon as I get back to my bike, I check my phone. The signal was lost completely inside the prison. Mercedes knew I'd be unreachable during that time. She seemed fine with it, much more so than me. I rushed through the visit as much as I dared so I could get back out into the wired world. Now I've got four bars and no messages, which is a good thing. I guess.

No emergencies.

No reason to worry.

But I wouldn't have minded finding a text or a message from her, anyway, reason or not. Just to let me know she's okay. Or maybe that she missed me.

After a few seconds of internal debate, I give in to the urge and push the button to dial Mercedes' temporary cell phone number. It's not that I have anything particular to say. I suppose it's just that, despite the fact that I've been gone only a couple of hours, I want to make sure she's okay. Just check in. It's the polite, considerate thing to do. That's all. Nothing more. Just keep telling yourself that, buddy. I roll my eyes at that voice in my head. He's a smartass.

"Hello?" comes the sleepy response.

"Did I wake you?"

"That's okay. I was just being lazy, but I need to get up. Where are you?"

"I'm still at the prison. I'm getting ready to leave. Just thought I'd check in."

"Really?" There's a smile in her voice. And a hint of something else. Pleasure, maybe? It seems like she's happy that I'm checking in with her.

"Does that surprise you?"

She pauses. "Maybe."

"Why?"

Another pause. "I don't know. I guess I just keep expecting you to…"

She trails off, but I have no problem finishing her thought. She still thinks I'm one of her typical bad-boy mistakes. Vaguely, I wonder if I'll ever be able to do enough or say enough or show her enough that I'm not like that. At least not in the ways that count. Or will she always compare me to them? If she does, she'll always find similarities. But will she see the differences? And will they be enough?

Sometimes it sounds like a battle I can't win. After living the lives of two separate people for all these years, after having to pretend to be two completely different guys—neither one the true me—what I really want is someone who sees the real me and accepts it. All of it. The good, the bad, and the ugly. But that can't be my primary concern at the moment. There are too many more important things to worry about. Like keeping everyone alive and safe and unharmed, like Marissa. I couldn't live with something like her death on my conscience. Or even her being hurt. I already feel like shit about this whole mess and nothing has really happened. Just the thought of it escalating and, God forbid, ending badly gives me a little insight into what Dad must feel every single day. He has the death of my mother and brother on his hands, not to mention whatever else he's done during his employment with the Russian mafia.

Mercedes clears her throat and brings me back to the present. "How'd it go?"

"I'll tell you all about it when I get there. Do you need anything as I come through town?"

"Ummm, not that I can think of. With what you brought last night, I think I'm all set."

"Good. Okay, I'll see you in a little while for lunch, then. We can order something up to the room."

Immediately, my thoughts go to the dining room table in the hotel room, to pushing aside china and crystal glasses and heavy silverware, to tearing that damned robe off her and easing my body into hers. I bite my lip when I feel blood flow divert away from all my vital, thinking organs in favor of the fun ones. I've gotta stop thinking about shit like that. I can't very well ride back to Atlanta, on a motorcycle, with a huge hard-on. At least not comfortably.

"Mmmm, that sounds good."

Part of what makes me bite my lip harder is what she said; it's like she knew exactly what I was thinking. But most of the reason is the way she said it. She's got the sexiest voice when she talks low like that. It's got a hoarseness to it, like a rumble that I can feel vibrate through me. Wakes my dick up every time. And he didn't need any help today.

"All right then. See you soon." I hang up.

I know it probably seemed abrupt to her, but it was either that or take a few extra minutes to walk off a boner before traveling back to the city. And I hate leaving her alone for one second longer than I have to. I'm pretty sure she's safe, but I'm not certain. And as long as I can't be certain, I won't be taking any unnecessary chances.

MERCEDES

I flip my head up from drying my hair and stare at my reflection. I can see the worry in my eyes. I don't know if Sam can or not, and if that's making things worse, but something sure is. It seems like the tension between us is growing. And not in a good way. The sexual tension is still there. For sure. But it's taking a backseat now to whatever else is going on to trouble the waters. It might just be a collection of things. I know I'm feeling a little uncertain. About him, about the situation, about…everything. Damn Taryn and her stupid comments. I know I shouldn't pay that much attention to her, but it seems like her words snapped me out of a trance, one where I was ignoring everything in order to focus on Sam. And look where that got me. A kidnapped cousin and an all-expenses-paid trip to a luxury hotel that might as well be a prison.

It wouldn't feel so much like captivity if Sam and I weren't so tense around each other. I know what my issues are. It's his that concern me. Why has he grown distant and uneasy? Is it just the situation with Marissa? Does he feel guilty? Is he worried about giving up the books and losing the only means he had of helping his father? I'm sure he's feeling all those things. But the question is: Is there more? Does it have anything to do with me?

As I finish getting ready for work, I grumble silently over this strange new predicament and how selfish I am to be so focused on my relationship with Sam when there are more important things at stake. When I've threaded thin gold hoops through my pierced ears, I shut off the bathroom light and made my way to the living room.

"Okay. I'm ready whenever you are," I say to Sam where he's sitting on the couch, pretending to watch television. I can tell by the way he starts when I speak that his mind was elsewhere. Deep, deep, deep in elsewhere.

He smiles. And my heart skips a beat. Just like always. "I guess it's working out perfectly that you wanted to work tonight, huh? Now we both have reason to be there. You can make some money and I can keep an eye on you."

"You don't have to keep an eye on me. In fact, we don't even need to stay here, probably. They have Marissa. You're taking them the books. This should all be over with tomorrow, right?"

I'm not sure what to make of Sam's expression. But even if I did, I wouldn't trust that I'm interpreting it correctly. I think I'm just too sensitive right now. To everything about him.

He nods and smiles, but the smile is tight. "It should be, yes. Just bear with me a little while longer. Please." The last word is added with a hesitant sincerity that makes me feel bad for…something. Like I've wounded him somehow. But I can't imagine that's true. Still, it seems that way.

"Of course. Whatever you think is best. I mean, come on. Room service and marble bathtubs? What's not to love, right?"

"Precisely." His grin still doesn't reach his eyes. "Let's go make some money."

Ten minutes later, as we zip through the streets of Atlanta on his bike, I revel in the feel of having my arms wrapped around Sam's waist. It's the one time I can hang on to him without giving thought as to why I'm holding on or if I'm holding on too tight. Or if I should be holding on at all. I wish I had a giant rewind button. I'd take us back a few days, to the day he came to Salt Springs to find me, to the day I felt like I was his and he was mine, to the day I stopped thinking about everything else. To before I talked to Taryn. And she reminded me that leopards don't often change their spots. They're beautiful as they are, but they should be admired from a distance. Where they can't reach you with their claws, claws that could easily tear a girl's heart out.

Duel comes into view, my heart sinks. Taryn is already here. And she's sitting in her car, no doubt waiting for someone to unlock the doors and let her in. I heard Sam call Gavin, the part-time manager, and tell him not to worry about opening up, that he'd be in.

Holy crap!

I didn't even think about that. As Sam drives past her car and around the building to his garage, I see her eyes follow us. Even through the tinted face shield of the helmet, I can feel the sharp tips of the daggers she's throwing my way. I assume that this will bring an abrupt and likely ugly end to our truce. The garage door opens with the push of a button on Sam's bike and he guides us inside and cuts the engine. I hop off quickly, hoping Taryn doesn't come around and make a big scene.

"I'd better get in and get to work," I say, handing Sam my helmet.

Slowly, he reaches out to take it from my hand, eyeing me suspiciously. After several uncomfortable seconds, just when I think he's going to make an issue of keeping our relationship (whatever it might actually be) from the others, he nods. I give him a quick smile and dart into the apartment, through the office, and out into the bar itself, stowing my purse safely behind the counter. I waste no time getting to work, uncapping liquor bottles, making sure the coolers are stacked, and then setting about to slice lemons, limes, and oranges.

I see Sam cross the room to unlock the doors, but rather than going back to his office, he goes outside. It's a good fifteen minutes before he comes back in. And the thing that irks me most? About sixty seconds after he comes in, Taryn finally makes her appearance. And she's smiling. Broadly. Now what the hell does that mean? The lump of nausea in the pit of my stomach tells me it means nothing good. At least not for me. I blink away the tears that sting my eyes. How could I be so wrong? Again! It felt so right. I was so close.

Taryn starts to whistle as she gets her station set up. Whistle, for God's sake! Call me crazy, but I think she's gloating. Can whistling sound like gloating? I'm pretty sure it can. And I'm pretty sure this does. I grit my teeth and ignore her as best I can. I'm thankful when Sam turns on the music and it drowns out her obnoxious happiness. With a ruthlessness that feels like it's directly linked to my survival, I put every ounce of my focus into work. I can't stand to be inside my own head for one more second.

SAM

I get up and walk to the bookcase across from my desk for the third time. I've left my office door cracked so I can make sure Taryn is behaving herself. When I went outside after unlocking the front doors, it was with the intention of admitting that Mercedes and I are seeing each other and then giving Taryn an ultimatum. I didn't want her coming in and giving Mercedes a hard time. But I think I underestimated just how big a role Taryn's ego would play. She beat me to the punch on being the first to speak and, in the process, gave me the perfect out. Mercedes's secret is still safe.

"That girl really needs a new car," she said cheerfully, glancing back at Mercedes's car as she walked across the parking lot toward me.

"She can't afford one right now. And you don't need to be giving her shit. That girl's having it pretty rough. I feel sorry for her, and if you knew what all was going on in her life and with her family, you would, too. So do us all a favor and keep the claws in, okay?"

She stopped in front of me. Looking hard into my face, she stared for at least a minute or two before she said anything. Even now, I wonder if she was looking for the truth. And I wonder what she ended up finding. Whatever it was, she never let on that she didn't believe me.

She laughed and shook her head. "So what was it this time?"

"Spark plugs, I think."

"I guess I could start giving her a ride, since we'll be working the same shift for a while."

"Yeah, 'cause that wouldn't make her feel worse or anything," I said sarcastically.

"What? I can be nice."

"You can be, but you haven't been. That would be like rubbing salt in a wound if you offered her a ride to work because her car's a junker and she can't afford anything else right now. Especially after the way you've treated her."

I had to grit my teeth. Just thinking of Taryn mistreating Mercedes was enough to make me see red. But I couldn't let her see that. So I hid it all behind the mask that my face has become.

"Are you kidding me? I bought her a shot last night and offered to take her out after work. What else do you want me to do? Donate my blood to help her pay for a car?"

"Don't be a smartass. I didn't ask you to be her best friend. That's on you. I'm just telling you not to give her so much shit. She's having a tough time."

Taryn smiled in that vampy way she has, a way that used to end up with us getting naked somewhere but now does absolutely nothing for me. I hoped she saw that, but her next action assured me she didn't.

"Anything for you, boss." She leaned in toward me as she spoke. Not enough to rub up against me, but enough that her ample chest was just brushing mine.

"Now that's the attitude I like for my employees to have," I said nonchalantly, turning to head back into the bar. I purposely didn't glance at Mercedes on my way back in. I didn't want her to think I'd betrayed our secret. Well, it's not really our secret; I don't care who knows. It's more her secret. Now, as I glance out at the bar, I see Taryn smiling and tending her customers. I haven't seen her antagonizing Mercedes at all. Of course, I haven't really seen her pay much attention to her either way. I'd much prefer her to just ignore Mercedes. That would be best all the way around.

I'm sitting down at my desk when my phone beeps, the notification of an incoming text message.

Is this the number for help wanted in the twin cities?

My pulse picks up. It's a response to the ad.

Yes.

My reply is short. I don't really know what else to say.

You're lucky I'm in town. I'll be there in 3 hours.

My first thought is to wonder how a perfect stranger would know where to find me. The only thing listed in the online ad other than my phone number was the short two-sentence blurb my father had me post: 'Urgent help wanted in the Twin Cities'.

Stop. It says nothing of my location. Maybe the area code of my phone could be used to get a general location, but nothing specific enough to actually find me. Unless there is tracing involved. You know where I am?

The reply makes me uneasy.

Of course.

I've deduced that people from my father's past have been keeping an eye on us, but it seems like the group is much larger—and hopefully a lot friendlier, in some cases—than I'd originally suspected. Of course, I have a thousand questions, things like Who the hell are you? How are you associated with my father? And Why have you been watching me? I'm torn between asking now or waiting. In the end, I figure it's best to wait. Dad had me reach out to them. I have to trust that he knows what he's doing. I know he'd never get me hurt if he could help it. Still, the whole thing makes me nervous. Putting that out of my mind, I think about how grateful I am for technology. The online ad alerted somebody. Fast. Somebody my father thinks can help. And, judging by the short, gruff text, he's probably not the type of person most people would call a "pleasant" association. But that's the nature of the business my father was in. I've known it for a long time. I just never expected it to have such a profound and intimate impact on my life.

Pulling out the books for the club, I work on some accounting, hoping that will help me get through the next three hours. I can't really go out and mingle in the club—I can't keep my eyes off Mercedes—so that leaves me stuck back here. Waiting. Just over an hour later, something that's been niggling at the back of my mind rushes to the front. It's got its unpleasant aspects, which is probably why I haven't given it my full attention before now. It makes it seem like I don't trust my father. Which I do. But I guess I don't trust anyone one hundred percent, especially not with Mercedes's safety hanging in the balance. I pick up my phone and dial the one person I feel like I can trust with anything and who would do whatever he could to help me out in a pinch. In the absence of my real brother, he's stepped in to fill the void. He's the closest thing to family I have on the outside.

"Damn, you're needy!" comes the familiar voice of Gavin Gibson, my part-time bar manager and friend. His words still carry a little bit of a lilt from his childhood in Australia.

"This isn't about work, Gav. It's something else. I need your help." There's a pause.

When Gavin speaks again, all teasing is gone from his voice. "Anything. You know that."

"Can you come to the club for a couple hours?"

"Uh, yeah," he says uncertainly. "Just let me take care of a couple things and I'll be right over. Give me forty-five minutes?"

"Sure. See you then."

After I hang up, I realize this was a good decision. I feel better about the situation already. I need my own people, people I can trust, people I know. Going into this alone would be crazy and irresponsible, even though my father's directing the traffic. Still, I need to cover all my bases. And Gavin can be my secret weapon.

MERCEDES

Plastering on a smile, I'm fighting to keep my disposition light for my customers. I hear what sounds like a battle cry from the other end of the bar and I glance down to see Taryn happily celebrating … something. When she turns to change the music, I know by the first few notes what's going on. Someone is getting a body shot. Most of the crowd is familiar enough with Dual to know what the song means and what a body shot is, so they quickly scramble to Taryn's end of the bar to watch the entertainment. I think the only more effective way to clear out space in the room would be to start screaming, "Fight!" and point toward the door. The place would empty in four seconds flat.

The girl who will be receiving the body shot looks like the type that volunteers for them. A lot. I would be willing to bet she is made of eighty percent synthetic materials and that her clothes belong to her much smaller sister. The mass of white-blond hair atop her head completes the picture of a bimbo. She wiggles and jiggles before she lies back onto the bar. I find it amusing that no one has to adjust her clothing at all for the shot. An ample amount of her stomach is already exposed by her outfit. Taryn limes and salts her belly, and goes one step further by pouring the tequila into her navel, which only works for people with a fairly deep one. Oh boy! Some guy is gonna love sucking that out! I look into the drooling crowd for salivating idiot number one. He's easy to spot. He's all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the thought of licking something off this girl's body. All his friends are clapping him on the back and he's actually rubbing his hands together in anticipation. Try to hold it together there, quick shooter. I giggle at my thoughts. He's not so bad, but some of his friends look like they could be poster children for premature ejaculation. My bet is that a couple of them run off to the restrooms after they watch this little show. Ack!

Since my customers are otherwise occupied, I use the time to wipe down my station, doing anything and everything I can to keep my mind on work. Periodically, I glance down at the commotion on Taryn's end. The crowd goes wild when the guy starts licking the salt off the girl's stomach. I shake my head and smile. It really doesn't take much to get this group fired up. Just as my eyes are moving back to the task at hand, I see a shadow move in the sliver of light coming from Sam's office. My senses are attuned to that corner of the room, no matter what I'm doing or how hard I try to ignore it. Sam is leaning up against the doorjamb, watching me. Even across the distance, I see the heat in his eyes. I feel it. He doesn't have to tell me what he's thinking. I know it as certainly as I can see it in the back of my mind. He's remembering the night this music played for us. Like instant replay, the scene—the smells, the sights, the sounds, the feelings—unfolds in my mind with perfect clarity. A slow burn starts low in my belly as I think of Sam draped over me. It spreads like fire as I relive his lips and tongue traveling over my stomach, dipping into my navel and teasing the edge of my shirt. I feel my pulse pick up when I remember the look in his eyes when he took the lime from my mouth. It's the same look I've seen there more than a dozen times since then. That's the way he looks when he watches me come. It's the way he looks when he's watching me undress. It's the way he looks now. It's a hungry look that says he wants me. Right this minute, with nothing between us but hot breath and damp skin, he wants me. Now. And there's no denying that I want him, too. Just as badly. The crowd between us cheers, but I don't look to see what's happening. I can't tear my eyes away from Sam. He's like the sun that my world revolves around—no matter how much I try to gravitate away from him, to set my heart and my body free of him, he draws me. Compellingly. Inexplicably. Undeniably. He arches one brow and I feel desire shoot through me. It almost takes my breath. Oh God, how I want him. I've never wanted someone this way. So deeply. So completely. So desperately. But that's the part that gets me into trouble. It's the part that scares me.

A group of guys moves away from the action, coming between us and breaking Sam's very disconcerting eye contact. The moment is gone. But not the effects. Every day, every hour, every minute I spend in his presence, Sam is getting further and further, deeper and deeper under my skin.

"You must be Mercedes," a lightly accented voice says, drawing my attention away from the door. When my eyes make their way to the owner of the voice, I know my mouth drops open. If the earth holds anyone who ranks anywhere close to Sam in good looks, it would have to be this guy. Holy crap! He's gorgeous! A thick patch of jet-black hair—cut close and styled like Tom Cruise's hair in Top Gun—sits above a very tan face that is the picture of classic good looks. Wide brow, high cheekbones, straight nose, chiseled mouth, strong jaw—he's just a man's man. That's all there is to it. But it's his great smile and twinkling ocean-blue eyes that turn him from great-looking into gorgeous.

Even while I'm thinking this, while I'm cataloging his attributes, I'm aware of a lack of any flicker of excitement, any glimmer of attraction. He's handsome, very pleasant to look at, seems to be a nice enough guy, but he's just not Sam. Plain and simple. My guess is there's only one guy for me. I just hope I'm the only girl for him. The guy I've been examining raises his eyebrows in question, and I remember what he said.

"Why must I be Mercedes?" I ask agreeably.

His grin widens. It's contagious and puts me instantly at ease. "Well, for starters, Mercedes is a pretty-girl's name. And you're a pretty girl. Secondly, you're the only employee I haven't met here, which means you must be Mercedes. Now," he says, leaning in and looking at me from the corner of his eye. "Be honest. You're impressed by my extraordinary powers of deduction, aren't you?" His eyes are full of mischief and I find myself laughing before I can even reason out what he's saying.

"Okay, you caught me. I won't lie. I'm terribly impressed by your extraordinary powers of deduction."

He nods. "As I suspected. I'm irresistible that way." Abruptly, he straightens and sticks his hand across the bar. "I'm Gavin. Gavin Gibson. I help Sam with the bar."

"Gavin Gibson? That sounds like the real identity of a superhero. You packin' a cape somewhere under that shirt?" I ask.

"Nah, I stow my only superpower in my pants." He winks and I grin.

"Do you flirt like this with all the employees here, Mr. Gibson?"

"Mr. Gibson?" His expression shows he's clearly appalled. "Mr. Gibson is my father."

"Sorry, Gavin."

"Much better. And no, I don't. It's very unprofessional for one thing. But, far more importantly, none of the other employees look like you. If they did, I might have a problem on my hands."

"I never figured you for the sexual-harassment type, Gavin," Sam says, coming to a stop at the bar beside Gavin. Although his tone is light and playful, Sam's expression is anything but.

Gavin leans an elbow on the bar and turns to Sam. "You've never had an employee worth harassing before," he teases, looking over to wink at me. "But this one might be worth losing my job over."

"Oh, you'd lose more than your job if you ever laid a hand on her. Trust me."

Gavin's still smiling as he looks back at Sam. I see it slowly fade as he takes in Sam's very serious expression. Gavin straightens and his head turns from Sam to me and back again. He nods and claps Sam on the shoulder with one big hand. They're pretty close to the same size, but Sam is still a touch bigger.

"Got it, mate. No harm intended." He turns to me and gives me another charming smile. "Mercedes, it's been a pleasure. If you'll excuse me, we have some business to discuss."

Sam doesn't move until Gavin has already left the bar and is heading in the direction of the office. He looks at me, his eyes deep, fathomless pools of ink, and then he turns and follows Gavin, leaving me baffled as to what just happened.

SAM

It's all I can do not to slam the office door behind me as I follow Gavin inside. I'm seething. And Gavin knows me well enough to know it.

"I didn't know you were seeing her, bro. I meant no offense."

I know he didn't. But that does nothing to appease my anger. Watching Mercedes smile like that for someone else was…was…

"You can't act like that around employees, Gavin. Do you know the kind of legal shit storm you could cause?"

He holds up his hands in surrender. "My bad, Sam. It won't happen again. I just wasn't thinking."

"Don't let it happen again. I mean it."

"It won't," he assures me solemnly.

After a few seconds of silence, he makes mistake number two.

"But damn, that's one hot sheila!" His accent seems more pronounced, which only makes me angrier. It's like he's slipped into some mode where he's trying to be more appealing to the women.

"That's enough!" I snap.

Gavin grins and nods slowly, like he's discovered something. "Ahh, so you are seeing her."

"I didn't—"

"You didn't have to. Don't forget that I know you, mate. For a while now. I've seen you with your flavor of the month before and you've never given a shit if I flirt with them or not."

"You've never—"

"The hell I haven't! You've just never noticed before." I can't even clear my mind enough to think back and determine whether it's true. But I decide it doesn't matter. What matters is that he keeps his hands off Mercedes. His eyes, too.

"Mercedes's…she's…it's just…"

"Say no more. From now on, she's my little sister."

I look at him. Really look at him. In his eyes, I see my best friend. My business partner. One of the few people on the planet I actually trust. And I know he's telling the truth.

I nod, too. "Good enough."

Gavin sinks down in his chair a little, propping one ankle on his knee and lacing his fingers together behind his head. He's back to his old comfortable self.

"So, what's going on? From what I'm gathering, it must be pretty important."

I'm sure he's referring to my short temper. At least partly. Gavin is a very perceptive guy. His father was military and they moved around a lot. The family was stationed in Australia for several years when Gavin was young, which is where the trace of an accent comes from. By the time Gavin was a teenager, they were living in Ireland. His father somehow got caught in the middle of two nasty groups of rebels and ended up getting himself, Gavin's mom, and Gavin's older sister killed. It wasn't long after that that Gavin went on to serve in a different kind of military. The kind that doesn't go on résumés and that people sometimes die after finding out about. He was a mercenary for several years. He's a few years older than me—around thirty, I think—but he's got some of the best tactical skills I've ever seen. He's pretty badass and I'm glad he's my friend and on my side. Aside from his keen intellect and…other experience, he's a pilot. He can fly virtually anything, from Cessnas to small jets to helicopters. In fact, now that he's no longer a merc, that's what he does when he's not helping me with the club—he has a charter business for his chopper.

We met through my father. Dad used Gavin's piloting services a few times when he first started getting things in order to break ties with the Bratva, the Russian mafia. Gavin was competent and discreet, and Dad learned quickly that he was a man who could be trusted, especially when it came to doing the right thing, despite the consequences. Gavin kept in touch with Dad when he went to prison, so when the economy tanked and Gavin's business started dropping off, Dad put him in touch with me for some extra work. We hit it off instantly. Since that day, Gavin has been my best friend and the closest thing to non-imprisoned family I've had for years. And now I'm going to need his experience and his discretion more than ever before.

"How much did my dad tell you about what happened to land him in prison?"

Gavin relays what Dad told him and I fill in the blanks. Well, most of them, anyway. I don't tell him about Cam's death, or that I'm living as both brothers and have been for seven years. That's information I'd like to keep to myself as long as possible. That's a level of trust I have in few people. Actually, more like one person. Mercedes.

"So, you have no idea who's gonna be showing up here in the next…" Gavin looks at his watch. "Twenty minutes or so?"

"Not a clue. Dad must think or know that they either have some kind of information that can help me or some way of getting us out of this without giving up valuable, one-of-a-kind leverage or somebody's life."

"Yeah, making a copy of the books is out of the question. If they ever found out, you know as well as I do, they'd kill you on the spot. If people like that give you one chance, they sure as hell won't tolerate any kind of betrayal."

"My concern isn't only with giving up the information that could get Dad off. It's as much about how these people work. They don't leave witnesses alive. Ever. I have to figure out some other way to make sure Mercedes is safe. Completely. Permanently. I either have to get rid of them or…I don't know what. But I have to do something. I have to make sure she's safe."

Gavin rubs his chin. "That could be tricky. These are dangerous people to underestimate. But you're a great strategist. One of the smartest guys I've ever met. And that's saying a lot. I've worked all over the world with all kinds of people. You'd have made an excellent merc. You might not have much to go on now, but once your dad's plan B person gets here, you'll know more. You're a lot like Greg. And, knowing what kind of guy your father is, this mystery person's gonna be a game changer."

I reach up to squeeze the bridge of my nose, hoping to stop the dull throb that's beating just behind my eyes. "I hope you're right. If not, I'm gonna have to come up with something pretty damn fast. I've only got until nine thirty in the morning. They're giving me thirty minutes after the bank opens to get in and get the books. Then I'll be meeting them."

"But the books aren't at the bank, right?"

"No, they're not." I trust Gavin, but I still hesitate to show my hand.

"Did you tell them which bank?"

"No. Why?"

"Well, that might play into it. Might help you on your time. Plus, they won't be able to meet you there. Try to pull any of their typical tricks."

"Yeah, the longer we have and the less they know, the better."

"Always."

Gavin and I spitball back and forth while we wait. It keeps me from pacing, which is what I feel like doing. I don't like waiting. I don't like not having all the facts. I don't like being the last to know. And, most of all, I don't like worrying about being able to keep Mercedes safe. There are too many unknowns, too many players, too many variables. What I need is for Dad's man or people to get here so I can regain some amount of control. For a while after the accident, I was bloodthirsty. All I could think about was getting revenge against the people who killed my mother and brother, and who framed my father for their deaths. But over time, the more I became Cam the law student, the more I realized there was a legal way to go about it, a way that could free my father. That alone would be worth going about it without bloodshed. So that's what I did. I set about getting my law degree and learning as much as I could about similar cases, so that one day I could use the evidence that my dad had sacrificed so much for to see justice served. But now all that is in jeopardy. Unless the ace up Dad's sleeve is a damned good one. Forty-four minutes later, an hour before the club closes, an ace walks through my office door.

And holy hell what an ace it is!