Page 4 of Casual Felonies (Wildlings #1)

TRUETT

After this morning’s social media scroll, I can’t decide what I want to do more with my next client: mock him or fuck him until his knees give out.

As much as I’d love to have Rami Bash spread out before me like a feast, I don’t have a death wish.

For one, his father is Anders Fucking Bash, who, at fifty-nine, is still one of the most unhinged and dangerous men on the planet.

I only know this because the circles I hang out with—mostly non-lethal hacker types with a penchant for cyber warfare—have known for a long time that the Bashes are well-funded vigilantes who don’t mind getting a little bloody to level the playing field.

To be honest, I’d assumed a lot of the bluster online about Anders Bash was just that: bluster. Then Bash showed up one day for a haircut, booked under a different name. He was friendly enough as I washed and toweled off his hair, but then he sat in my chair.

For one terrifying moment, he met my eyes in the mirror, letting me see who he was under the family-friendly facade he showed the world. I’ve never told anyone this because they’d haul me in for a grippy sock retreat, but I swear he was peering into my soul with a murderer’s eyes.

He didn’t say another word for the rest of our appointment and tipped me double the cost of the trim, but I felt a chill along the back of my neck for days after.

The next week, Rami Bash walked in, and I nearly turned him around at the door. He was charming, though, and made no reference to his dad’s visit. Bash had clearly been scoping out my shop ahead of Rami’s appointment, and it had felt like he’d been sending a message.

Two years on, I’m still not stupid enough to ignore it.

Unfortunately for me, Rami is a delicious confection of a man: ridiculously hot and achingly sweet with just the right amount of arrogance for taming. Even more torturous, last night was baby’s first charity event.

I checked out the gala socials—just keeping up with the trends, mind you—and Rami looked like he’d been poured into that expensive suit.

His hair was a little shaggy, but it was a nice contrast to his impossible eyes and pretty olive skin.

Tall, trim, and strong, perfect for fucking into a mattress.

Nope. Put that thought into a lockbox and throw away the key.

Rami’s co-chair, on the other hand, was high as a fucking kite in every goddamned photo.

Dude walked into the gala with sugar rimming his nostrils.

Then, when he got up to give that speech?

Nightmare. He would’ve rambled for hours and lost every single donor if Rami hadn’t basically shoved him aside.

The cops busting in to arrest him was just the cherry on top.

Can’t say I loved the anxious expression the paps caught as Rami watched the officers drag his buddy offstage, and it kinda pissed me off.

I know exactly how much work went into this gala, having gotten Rami’s hilarious updates at every haircut for the last several months.

Now that I think about it, Rami never mentioned his friend.

That doesn’t surprise me though. Rami Bash is one of the hardest-working rich boys I’ve ever met.

Sure, he’s occasionally useless—like that time he tried to help plant trees and couldn’t get his to stand up straight—but he volunteers across the city: sitting with old folks, spending time at soup kitchens, posting about fundraisers.

Every time he posts, the charity in question ends up funded for the next year, and then he skips off to some Tahitian retreat with his cousins like he hasn’t just changed a whole bunch of lives overnight.

Anyway, I’m sure he’ll shake it off. I mean, it isn’t like he’ll have to suffer alone. Lucky asshole has a stupidly rich and incredibly loving family who will break the laws of physics—not to mention any and every actual law—to help him.

Which is why I’ll stick with mocking.

Besides, there’s no family that’ll have me, few acquaintances outside of my online spaces, and no one I could call if Papa Anders shows up again with a set of knives and that dark look on his face.

I’m distracted from my mental rambling by the bell over the door.

Rami walks into my shop wearing broken-in blue jeans, a well-loved Harvard T-shirt that stretches across his trim muscles, and a pair of old-school Converse.

His hair’s a mess and his exhausted, hangdog expression is entirely out of place.

I wonder if he got any sleep at all last night.

“Hey there, big spender,” I say, taking off my trucker hat. He watches my hand as I run it through my hair. Pretty sure he likes my tattoos. “Heard there was some drama at your little gala last night.”

Rami’s blue-green eyes, usually sparking with light and fun, skitter off to the side.

“Oh, c’mon.” I gesture him over to the hair-washing station. “What’s this look about?”

Following my direction, he slumps down into the chair, spreading his legs as he lets his chin drop to his chest, his usually smooth voice uncharacteristically rough.

“Last night was such a fucking embarrassment.”

Fuck, the things I would do to soothe him.

“Why are you embarrassed? You weren’t the one who was arrested.”

He looks up, devastated. “You saw that?”

“The gossip sites couldn’t get enough.”

“Wait—you read the gossip sites?”

“Shut it,” I throw back, lightly knocking his shoulder. “It’s how I keep up with the latest hair trends.”

He sends me a disbelieving look, sucking at his pouty lower lip.

“That’s great. Just… great .”

“Your family’s been paparazzi bait for years, man. You know the score. Rich? Check. Devastatingly gorgeous, every single one of you? Check. More altruistic than any family in history? Double check.”

That much was true. The Bashes worked closely with a group of New York trillionaires to fund the most critical areas of need in this country.

They’d all but rid vulnerable communities of childhood diseases, and that was only one of their success stories.

They were the blueprint for thoughtful oligarchs worldwide.

“Okay, fine, but did you see the headlines this morning?” He sketches an arching gesture through the air. “ The Wildlings Ride Again . You’d think I’d been the one who got arrested.”

Bringing his hands to his face, Rami folds inward. Unable to let him sit in his despair, I run my hand up and down his back, taking deep breaths, then letting them out slowly. It’s incredibly satisfying when he patterns his breathing after mine, the muscles in his back relaxing under my palm.

Confession: I know I turn him on as much as he turns me on, and I like it a lot more than I should. More accurately, I’m possessive of this version of him that only I get to see. It’s why I’ve never asked him to participate in the before-and-after videos I post on social media.

It’s also no accident that I book him when my other stylists are gone. I want the privacy to watch his chest rise and fall whenever I add a hint of bass to my voice. I don’t even have to get that bossy to make his eyes wide with want, and I feel like a king when he shivers at my touch.

No one gets to see this pretty flush on his cheeks except me.

“Don’t let it get to you, Rahm. Screw the headlines—everyone knows that the Whitakers are corrupt as fuck,” I say, finally turning on the water. “Besides, I know for a fact that you did all the work.

“I don’t know.” His admission is soft, as though he doesn’t want to own up to the doubt. “Brant ran on a platform against fraud and corruption. There’s no way he would…”

I keep silent as Rami struggles with the truth, while not acknowledging any of his hard work.

Finally, he gives a listless gesture. “I grew up with him.”

“Yeah, but Brantley Whitaker also grew up with his father . You remember who that asshole is, don’t you?” I ask lightly as I lean him back.

“Yes, I know who his dad is,” Rami responds with a huff. “Learned about him in history class and in government. But he’s never been arrested.”

I bark out a laugh as I wash his thick hair. “That’s right. If somebody hasn’t been put in jail, then they didn’t do it,” I tease, loving the disgruntled wrinkle of his perfect, never-broken nose. “They’re completely innocent.”

“Oh shut up. I just… Whatever.”

I hold up my hands. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to dismiss you.

” Returning my fingers to his scalp, I work the conditioning mask through his wet strands, shifting my hips back.

Standing over him like this, seeing more of his arrogance dissolve into vulnerability beneath my fingertips is way too fucking tempting.

“It sounds like you really thought y’all were friends. ”

“Well yeah.”

“Then—and I don’t want to be the asshole bringing this up—a bust that visible is sending a message, as is the judge denying bond.

It’s not a subtle message either. They’ve either got an airtight case, or he’s got cause to sue the hell out of them, and I don’t see the DA sticking her neck out like that. ”

Rami deflates a little more as I massage his head. Poor guy.

Poor sexy guy with down-turned eyes the color of the Caribbean.

Lock box, Valentine. Lock. Box.

“I’m just trying to figure out why he would embezzle money. His family’s way richer than we are.”

I snort. “I doubt that. They might have some impressive holdings, but I’d bet this month’s till that their liquid assets are scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

“Liquid assets? What, so you follow both the gossip pages and the finance pages?” he asks, and I’m glad to see him teasing me back.

“What can I say? I’m a renaissance man.” I joke, but I should be more careful with sharing what I know. Not all of my information is obtained legally. “With charges like embezzlement, it’s not that big a leap to infer that they’re unwilling to offload property to balance the books.”

“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “Selling off assets to free up cash looks bad, no matter how wealthy you are.”