Menace (Scarlet Scars #1)(49)

Tapping echoes through the library just when I’m about to call him out on it. Seven stands there, yet again.

“I thought I told you to leave us,” I say loudly, my voice cutting off Ricardo’s blubbering.

“You did,” Seven says, “but somebody’s here.”

“There are quite a few people here,” I say. “Me, you, Ricky… Pretty Boy is upstairs with Firecracker… and the rest of the guys, you know, Two through Six and Nine, they’re all around, but that doesn’t mean you should interrupt me when I’m in the middle of something.”

“I mean somebody else.”

“Who?”

“A woman,” Seven says. “Young, brunette… I think it might be the one you were looking for.”

“She’s here?”

Seven nods. “She’s outside.”

“Why haven’t you let her in?”

“Because she hasn’t knocked,” he says. “She’s kind of just lurking, you know, looking around.”

“Huh.” Dropping my feet down again, I stand up, strolling toward the doorway. I slap Ricardo on the shoulder, squeezing, before pushing him toward my chair. “Have a seat, I’ll be back.”

Seven eyes the guy warily before following me into the hall. “I don’t trust that guy, boss.”

“You probably shouldn’t,” I say, turning to him. “Where’d you last see her?”

“She was out front,” he says. “Saw her lingering near the gate.”

“Good.” I motion toward the library. “Keep an eye on him, will you? I’m going to go check on our other guest.”

“Yes, boss.”

Seven goes to the library as I make my way to the back of the house, opting to go out that way and make my way around. The air is frigid, dusk growing close. Sunset. My footsteps are silent, my combat boots squishing into the damp earth, the snow finally melting. I creep along the side of the house, pausing when I hit the front corner. I zero in on her, catching subtle movement in the bushes. She’s squatting down beneath the living room window, completely cloaked in black—sweats, hoodie, and sneakers.

She’s watching through the window, watching my men as they do what they do, so consumed by whatever she sees inside that she doesn’t sense me approaching. I pause behind her, watching her as she watches them.

It’s like the Inception of f*cking spying here.

I try to wait her out, but she proves to be patient. Minutes tick away. Tick. Tick. Tick. As much as I’d love to stand here forever, it’s getting dark, and it’s too damn cold for this nonsense.

“Are you going to come inside or what?”

As soon as my voice rings out, she tries to turn, caught off guard, but she loses her balance, planting right into the bushes on her ass. “Shit.”

I laugh as she scrambles to get to her feet. She quickly moves away from the window, away from the house, keeping some distance between us. The woman is sly, without a doubt... so sly Seven’s the only one who noticed her, the rest of my men oblivious, but still, she’s a bit wet behind the ears.

Eyeing me warily, she shoves her hands in her hoodie pocket and says nothing, not answering my question, like maybe she doesn’t have a response for it.

“Well?”

Still no answer.

Just a blank stare.

“Fine.” I turn to leave. “Stay out here.”

I only make it a few steps before her quiet voice says, “You’ve got a white picket fence.”

That stalls me. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s the words. Maybe it’s her tone. Something about it makes me turn back around. She’s still just standing there, eyes past me, gaze trailing the fence along the property.

“What did you expect, barbed wire?”

“I don’t know,” she admits, looking at me again. “Just not a picket fence.”

She seems almost in awe about it, but it’s a fence. Just a f*cking fence. I get the feeling, at the moment, that it means something more to her. But it’s too cold for me to riddle that out, too cold to be metaphorical.

“Come on.” I don’t ask this time. “Come inside with me.”

I head for the front door. She hesitates, eyes trailing me, before she finally follows without argument. The moment I open the door, the noise inside grows quiet, the little party in the living room coming to an abrupt halt as my men are on guard. Intruders.

“Put your dicks away, fellas,” I say when guns are drawn, aimed my way in alarm. The ‘no bullets’ rule doesn’t apply to them, either, but times like this I think it ought to.

They lower them so fast it’s damn near comical, eyes bugging out like it’s the f*cking Looney Tunes.

A haze of smoke lingers in the room, the woodsy, musky scent strong in the air. Half-empty bottles of liquor are scattered over the coffee table. Strolling over, I snatch up a bottle of rum, taking a swig straight from it before pointing to Scarlet.

“Fellas, this is Scarlet. Scarlet, this is Two through Six, and Nine.”

She blinks a few times but says nothing as the men mumble awkward greetings, like the motherf*ckers have never met a woman before.

I walk back out, still clutching the bottle, and Scarlet follows me into the hallway. “You numbered them?”