Surviving Ice (Burying Water, #4)(81)

He traps my hand beneath his before I have a chance to pull it back, curling his fingers between mine as he makes a turn into the neighborhood.

“You know, every time we turn down here now, I keep thinking that I hope whoever did this to the house found what they were looking for. I hope they never come back.”

“If they do, then I guess it’s good you have me here.”

I roll my eyes. “I told you, you’re not my bodyguard.”

“So you say . . .” The tiny smirk curling his lips is adorable.

“I’m not paying you.” I pause. “Unless you’re taking sexual favors for payment.”

His gaze veers off the street to settle on me for a moment. “I’m not opposed to that arrangement.”

A bubble of nerves bursts in my stomach. He doesn’t sound like he’s planning on leaving me anytime soon.

The bubble is quashed the second we turn the corner to find three guys on Harleys parked outside the house.

I recognize the blond beard immediately. “What the hell is Bobby doing here?”

“Stay put,” Sebastian says, throwing the car in Park. He slips his gun out from his boot and tucks it into the back of his pants.

I open the door and climb out, my adrenaline pumping. He sighs with exasperation, but he doesn’t scold me. He knows better.

We meet behind Sebastian’s car and walk together toward Bobby, who’s climbed off his bike.

“Nice shiner,” I say, nodding at the prominent black-and-purple bruise marring Bobby’s left eye. Curtains in several windows of wary neighbors across the street shift. I wonder how long I’ve had bikers sitting outside Ned’s house.

“What are you doing here?” Sebastian asks in an icy tone, his gaze shifting to size up the other guys—the two from yesterday. Another guy I’ve never seen before steps out from a pickup truck parked along the curb.

Four against one. I don’t like these odds.

“We came to offer a hand.” Bobby looks directly at me, ignoring Sebastian. “Ned was family to us, which means you’re family, too. Carl over there,” he points to the guy who got out of the truck, “does plaster. You need someone who knows what they’re doing for that.”

“Did Moe send you?”

Bobby’s lip twitches just slightly. “Maybe.”

I heave a sigh. I’m not in a position to tell them to go to hell, even though I’m still pissed at Bobby for leaving me in the dark about Ned’s gambling situation. “Great. We can use all the help we can get.” Spearing Sebastian with a warning glare and a whispered hiss of “Don’t beat them up again” just loud enough that Bobby can hear it—for ego-bruising purposes—we head into the house.





THIRTY


SEBASTIAN


It’s been a long time since I sat on a front porch with a cold beer, watching the sun set after hours of hard manual labor.

I forgot how good this feels.

Dean and Thomas—the guys I knocked out yesterday—are loading the last of the debris into the back of the truck. That’s the third trip to the dump for them today. They’ve stayed out of my way for the most part. All of them have.

“So, if we come back here tomorrow, will you be here?” Bobby asks.

I roll my eyes through another sip. Dakota showed up about an hour ago with a twelve-pack of Coronas and some homemade muffins that Ivy interrogated her over before allowing her to hand them out. Bobby and his guys have been trailing her around like lost puppies after their owner, and she’s happily let them, flicking her hair over her shoulder, showing off the tattoo Ivy just did for her.

“I guess you’ll have to come back and help Ivy to find out, won’t you?” Dakota laughs. It’s such a soft, seductive laugh. I have to hand it to her—she knows how to manipulate men into getting what she wants, and right now that’s helping her friend fix this house.

“Oh, we’ll be here until this place is as good as new. Don’t you worry.” The dumbass is falling right into her trap.

“Good.” Her sandals slide against the concrete steps as she makes her way down to sit beside me. “How’s that beer?”

“Nice and cold. Thanks.”

She smiles boldly at me. If it were anyone else, I’d say she was flirting, but I don’t think that’s the case with her. Glancing over her shoulder, she murmurs, “Who knew these bikers could be good for something besides causing trouble?”

“We should have the place fixed with a few days of solid work.”

“I think Ivy should stay in San Francisco. Don’t you?”

I blink at the sudden change in subject. “If she wants to, then yeah. It’s a great city.”

“She wants to. She just hasn’t admitted it to herself yet. But I’ve never seen her this happy.”

A sudden, angry holler of “Dammit, Bobby!” coming from inside makes me nearly spit out my mouthful of beer. “Is that so?” I ask with a wry smile. But inside, her words are resonating deep with me. I don’t think I’ve been this happy in a long time either. Even with all the guilt and worry that’s eating me up inside.

Dakota leans over to rub my biceps with her arm. “And she’s perfect for you. I can just feel it. It’s like”—she holds her hands in the air, her fingers rubbing together as if testing out an invisible fabric—“those first few warm days when the ice begins to melt. When you just know that the long, cold winter is over.”