Page 14 of Casual Felonies (Wildlings #1)

TRUETT

I retract my statement from before. Rami Bash is tracking me and… wow . He is nothing like his fathers. Jesus.

I’m at my favorite coffee shop, and he’s in the back corner of the shop, wearing a pair of glasses. Does he think the glasses render him unrecognizable? Invisible?

Clark Kent, he is not.

I mean, it’s kinda hot that he’s been basically stalking me, and I wouldn’t throw him out of bed for wearing those sexy glasses, but that’s not the point.

Wait, what was the point?

Whatever. I’m not so full of myself as to assume that an accidental run-in is the equivalent of spying, and I am in no way endangered, given I can see him coming from a mile away, but he’s been following me—badly—for a little over a month.

I’ve spotted him around the corner from my shop, on my morning run in his eye-catching EV, and at the tiny house build near Decker Lake. He wore neon-pink sunglasses and a baseball cap, thinking that would somehow make him less recognizable.

Today is the closest he’s gotten to me, and I’m inclined to go over there and ask him why he’s doing this. Maybe I’m a sucker because I can’t find it in me to burst his bubble. Also, I can admit—at least to myself—that I like the attention.

Lingering over my coffee by the window, I sit with my back to Rami while monitoring him in the reflection of the glass.

Only… What the fuck is he doing? He keeps messing with his glasses and then pulling up his tablet to type something out on the screen.

Now, he’s just pulled the glasses off and is staring at them like they hold the secret to the universe. I take an embarrassingly long time to figure out the score, and by then, I have to stop myself from laughing into my coffee.

He’s wearing smart glasses.

How fucking adorable is that? Honestly, I should put him out of his misery.

I’m about to do just that when two handsome and terrifyingly familiar men enter the shop. I freeze, heart in my throat, willing the Fathers Bash to look past me. Maybe forget my entire existence while they’re at it.

“Rami? What are you doing here? I thought you only liked the coffee shop in your building?”

“Oh, Baba. Hi. I, uh…”

He’s looking in my direction to see if I’ve noticed him, and his fathers follow his line of sight. Shit.

“Someone you know?” Anders asks in an improbably kind tone.

“Oh, no. Thought I recognized him, but I don’t.” He rips off his glasses. “Anyway. I’ve gotta, uh, go. Charity things. You know how it is.”

“Of course,” Omar Bash says, his voice so warm and sweet.

No wonder their son has no clue. They sound like absolute marshmallows when speaking to him. Honestly, now I just hate Rami for having good parents.

Who happen to be serial killers.

Rami makes his way out of the shop, and I let out a breath.

I’ve enjoyed whatever this is, but I don’t need this kind of stress in my life.

Next time he follows me, I’m going to call him out on it.

That decided, I grab my lukewarm coffee and take a sip, then nearly choke on it when Anders Fucking Bash sits on the chair in front of me.

Playing it cool, I send him a friendly nod and start to stand. A large hand grips my shoulder and pushes me back down.

“Please. Sit ,” says Omar Bash, his accent at once hypnotizing and terrifying.

He remains standing with his hand on my shoulder while Anders leans forward, scanning my face. Double shit.

“Why is our son following you?” Anders asks. His relaxed drawl sends an icy chill down into my guts.

Keep it steady. Admit to nothing.

“Who’s your son?” I ask, though the warble in my voice kinda gives me away.

The hand on my shoulder tightens. I take a painful gulp and chance a look up at the man standing next to me. I recognize those blue-green eyes.

“Something tells me you know better than to pretend, yes?” Omar asks, his mouth tight. “That you know who we are?”

I suck in a breath and then nearly choke on my own spit.

Amusement lights Anders’ eyes and, gotta say, that’s the fucking scariest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Even scarier than the look he gave me in the mirror.

Omar lifts his brows, as if to remind me he’s still waiting for my answer.

Fine. I go with the safe answer.

“You’re Rami’s dads.”

Anders tosses a listening device onto the coffee table between us. “Try again.”

Triple fuck with a cherry on top. I knew I was playing with fire, going after a bad hunch like that. Also, I thought the listening device had died. Shit .

“You’re Anders Bash, and, uh…” I look up and gulp again. “You’re Omar Bash.”

Anders sits back, his handsomely lined face disgruntled. “Why the fuck are you more afraid of my husband than me?”

People are lining up right beside us to order coffee, and if I had to guess, we look like some bros hanging out. I could call for help, I suppose, but I don’t really want to know what Anders Fucking Bash does in a public confrontation.

I hold up my hands. “I, uh, I’m afraid of both of you.”

“But you’re more afraid of him, and I want to know why.”

My answer might get me killed, but there’s a good chance I’m not surviving this encounter anyway, so I go with the truth.

“He’s a Noorani. And they are no joke.” I clear my throat. “I mean. Obviously, the Bash family is no joke either. But you weren’t raised the same.”

Omar gently places his hand on the back of my neck. Not like a lover, but like someone who knows exactly how much pressure is needed to shear off one of my vertebrae.

“And how do you know that name?”

I eyeball the listening device.

“Asadi. He’s your brother. Or was. He was married to Rafi. Who later adopted your nephew Najim.”

Shit. Stop. Talking.

“How do you know that?”

I hesitate, and Omar tightens his grip on my spine.

“The tattoo shop.”

“And why did you bug Everett’s shop?”

“I had a hunch about something.”

“What was your hunch?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I answer carefully. “My hunch was wrong.”

“Still. I’d like to know.”

I’m going to end up in some dank underground dungeon, making friends with the rats while I develop scurvy from a stale bread-and-water diet until I finally succumb to death’s sweet embrace.

“Shit. Uh, well, I thought Everett was a human trafficker, and that he’d bought Rafi and Najim. But that’s just because I saw the three of them out and about, and Rafi looks so much younger than his actual age.”

“You thought Everett looked like a suspicious older white guy with two very young, possibly foreign companions,” Omar guesses.

Trying to lighten the mood, I hold up my hands, a nonverbal “whoops.” “After a little more digging, I found out that Rafi and Everett have been married forever, and they rescued Najim.”

Nobody laughs.

“No, they didn’t,” Omar says.

I blanch at his sharp tone. They’re gonna pull my spleen out through my nose, I just know it.

“Yeah, we’re the ones who rescued Naji,” Anders clarifies, still disgruntled.

“Habibi,” Omar says, his voice dripping with love and patience, “don’t you think the fact that Mr. Valentine successfully placed a listening device in Everett’s new tattoo shop is the bigger issue here?”

Fuck squared. Hearing my name in that warm, lilting accent sends ice through my veins. Also, Everett’s been at that same location for eighteen years. How the hell did I miss there was a new tattoo shop?

“Fine, but we’re gonna circle back around to who is the scarier one, and who goes on more missions, okay?”

“Yes, darling. You’re very terrifying. But now is the time to focus.”

With Omar to the left of me and Anders in front of me, my scary motherfucker card is understandably full. But then a third man pops up on my right, and my heart fucking stops. Like, flat line, kill me right now .

I’m a fan of the classics, and Reservoir Dogs is up there on my list of all-time favorites. “Stuck In The Middle With You” by Stealers Wheel fires up in my head, and it feels like my body is trying to tell me something.

Watch out for your ears, bud.

“Don’t let Anders get away with saying he’s the scariest one out there,” the man growls in my ear, his New York accent distinct. “That designation belongs to me.”

In my defense, I’ve usually got a better handle on my startle response, but I’m not too proud to say that my hand jerked, spilling room-temperature coffee all over my lap.

The guy with the New York accent snickers. “Works every time.”

Anders narrows his eyes. “You know what, Hop? The next guy you and I take down, we’re gonna do what we do, and then we’re gonna ask him—or her or them—who was scarier.”

Omar cleared his throat. “Habibi.”

“Yeah, Anders. Focus,” this guy Hop says.

For a second, I think they’ve forgotten I exist, but then he turns to me, his bright-eyed expression horrifyingly calm.

“My husband and I once had a surrogate. Things didn’t go the way we hoped, and that was way bad for the ol’ brain box,” he says, tapping his head.

Anders looks incredibly sad at this reveal, and I don’t know what to do with that information.

“I… I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks,” he says with a little bounce. “But now you understand why Rami—all of my friends’ kids, really—is so important to me. I call them my niblings, and I love them.”

This means that Hop is Hopper Hughes, renowned oil painter and—allegedly—a real serial killer’s serial killer.

There’s a rumor online that his husband, billionaire Liam Hughes, funds Hopper’s deadly little hobby .

He’s still waiting for a response, so I spit out, “Oh, of course.”

Hughes then smiles like I’ve just given him the best news, and I may never sleep again.

“You’re wise to be afraid of my buddy, Anders,” he says, still smiling. Leaning in, he continues, “But you don’t want to meet the version of me that comes out to play when someone has bad intentions toward my niblings.”

I have never meant something more sincerely than when I respond, “I can promise that my only intention is to stay as far away from Rami as possible.”

Hughes scrunches his nose as he rests his forearm on my shoulder. “Why? Does he stink?”