Heartbreaker (Unbreakable #1)(8)

I shoved the thought from my mind.

I refused to think about Kiki.

“I need you to stop by Kiki’s.” Cade glanced up from where he stood behind the bar.

Fuck.

“What for?”

“The Industrial Grunge party this weekend. She needs to secure the metalwork she’s made to your equipment.”

Right. My brain pinged back to the email I’d gotten from him Friday about the latest party Invitation Only had hired me for. I’d fired off a reply with measurements. Then I’d totally spaced it.

He tore off the bottom edge of a paper pinned to his clipboard, scribbled something on it, then handed it to me.

I scanned the paper. “I’ve been there. Gave her a ride home a few times.”

“Only transportation?” Doubt weighed his tone.

“Yeah.”

Cade planted his hands on the bar top, then dropped me a hard stare. “Tread lightly there.”

“Can’t tread any lighter.”

“I mean it. She’s…” Cade lowered his gaze, then glanced up. “There are things she keeps inside. She seems tough. But more is there than meets the eye.”

“I know, man.” I gave him a hard nod. “Nothing to worry about. We’re just friends.”

He snorted. “Good luck with that.”

Why? Because Cade hadn’t been able to be “just friends” with Hannah? Night and day comparison: He’d been available then, I was nowhere close.

“Nah, I’m good.”

I drove the usual route from the bar to Kiki’s, but something nagged at me. When I turned down her street, I dug into my front jeans pocket, then pulled out the paper Cade had given me. The last number in the address was different. Same street. But instead of 2115 it was 2117.

I slowed in front of the picket-fenced house: not the address. Cruising past, I checked out the house numbers of the neighboring property. Too high.

How could her address be in between?

I stared down the alley—the one she’d been standing in thirty-six hours ago. Then I turned into it, following the fence line until white wood pickets ended and chain link began.

A large warehouse with corrugated sides and high glass windows towered in the back of a property littered with scrap metal. Walls made of mangled items stood four to five feet high in an undulating maze through about a quarter of an acre: a rusty oxygen tank here, a weathered motorcycle fender there.

Mounted into a post made of dozens of welded metal parts that now resembled a gnarled tree snag was a mailbox, camouflaged as a dark knot in the trunk. Out of the side jutted a four-inch iron “broken branch” with a red cardinal that pivoted up to indicate outgoing mail.

I glanced at the address Cade had given me. The numbers on the mailbox matched.

Confused, I pulled up beside a light blue Prius, then parked in a space just beyond it. “Kiki, what the hell?” I muttered aloud to the industrial area no girl should be hanging out in.

A glass-and-wrought-iron security door stood propped open a few inches by a good-sized rock. I rapped on the doorframe, then waited. After a couple of minutes with no reply, I let myself in.

A blower-like noise echoed off the walls as the door banged against the rock behind me. A second later, the sound stopped.

“Chip Monkey? Is that you?” Kiki’s voice echoed from somewhere ahead.

Before I had a chance to respond, the low-pitched blowing noise resumed.

I followed the odd sound, weaving through metal sculptures spaced a few feet apart that stretched from one wall of the warehouse to the other. After a dozen yards, all the metalwork disappeared. I stepped into an open area lit by several large skylights that were in the metal roof some thirty feet up.

To the left, a couple of worn couches faced each other, one green, the other yellow. Both had throw pillows covered in bright flowers in each of their corners. Clothes had been tossed haphazardly over the back cushions. A low metal table sat between them, fashion magazines scattered over its surface. Dead ahead was an enormous wooden worktable, rusted clamps and vices fastened to various edges, some gripped pieces of metal, others were screwed open, ready to be used. To one side sat two stacked piles of envelopes, a coffee mug, a plate with a half-eaten sandwich with sprouts spilling out between two pieces of grainy bread, and an unopened green banana.

Beyond the table, in a wide-open space surrounded by large pieces of equipment, the source of the sound became apparent: A bright white light glowed from a torch in Kiki’s hand.

I froze, not wanting to startle her.

And to just watch her.

Her face was hidden by a metal welder’s mask with a viewing slot, but wild pieces of black hair poked out from under the back strap, curling off in every direction. She leaned forward in steady concentration, applying a now-orange flame to the joint between a curving section of rebar and some kind of woven-metal latticework.

Sparks arced in all directions from the contact point. I winced, averting my eyes after I caught myself staring at the blinding core of the flame.

Seconds later, she turned her torch off again.

I cleared my throat.

She jumped slightly, rested the torch tip on the cement floor with a soft clang, then lifted her mask.

“Darren.” An instant smile curved her lips as she pulled off a pair of leather gloves.

And damn, if that bright smile didn’t warm a spot in the center of my chest.