Page 15

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rumor has it he took all her belongings as collateral.

Maverick

“ W here’s all your shit?”

When I get back from lunch, Ainsley is sprawled across the sofa with a blanket and a stuffed—is that a sea lion? What the fuck is she doing with a stuffed sea lion?

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that she’s been lying on the couch for the past three hours watching some aquarium reality show when she should be unpacking.

See, my ass could not find her a fucking apartment, and to make matters worse, the favor I pulled only got me a “Dude, my dad said that girl is banned from nearly all the complexes around campus. It will take some time.” It was not the answer I was looking for, and that particular favor cost Mike, my mechanic and classmate, another goddamned IOU.

So I came home, ground out the news, told her to move in her shit, and then proceeded to toss my poker table and all my shit from the spare room into the living room where Ainsley has stayed, unmoving and grating on my last nerve.

“In my room,” she responds, never looking away from the TV.

I narrow my eyes, my cheek twitching in frustration. “There’s only three bags in your room.”

I know because I just looked while she did absolutely nothing. “I’m talking about your furniture. Where’s your bed? ”

Logically, I know she didn’t move it in the past two hours, but shouldn’t she be making plans, or does her plan include sleeping on the floor? Honestly, at this point, I don’t care either way.

She presses pause on the TV like my questions are disrupting the riveting penguin walk currently transpiring on my fifty-five-inch screen. “I’m going out later to buy an air mattress.” She presses a button on the remote, and her program resumes.

Don’t get involved, Maverick. Who cares if she sleeps on an air mattress or the floor? Her favor is a place to stay, and it doesn’t include a feather top and box springs.

“What happened to your old bed? The one you slept on at your other apartment?” I briefly wonder if my mention of her ex fucking her roommate on it turned her off. Again, it doesn’t matter. She’s only staying long enough until Mike’s dad, a realtor, finds me what I need.

She pauses the show again, but this time she sits up and faces me. “I didn’t realize there would be an interview about what I sleep on. I thought our deal was for the room, not the shit in it.”

Her words are harsh and biting.

My dick twitches.

I contain a smile, scrubbing a hand over my mouth, and nod firmly.

“True. Our deal is for a room that you don’t have the money for.

‘Yet.’” I quoted her words when I told her she would stay here for a few days.

She was scared she would owe me another favor when she couldn’t pay half of the rent.

I didn’t even mention rent. Our deal didn’t include money, just the place to stay, but since she was offering, I was willing to let it play out.

Who am I to tell her not to be a decent person?

Again, I make a living off fear, and that’s precisely what Ainsley needs right now.

I let the mask of The Maverick Lexington harden on my face just as my smile turns into a sharp line, my gaze holding her in a greedy headlock.

“The way I see it, Ms. James, your only luxury here is my mercy. You’ll answer my questions, or you’ll find yourself on the doorstep of a safe haven.

Tell me, do you prefer the church or a fire station? ”

She swallows thickly, her eyes darting around the room before they find their way back to mine—the fight in her wilting away.

Shame. I like her venom.

“I don’t need to go back for my bed. It’s just a bed.”

I stay quiet, holding her eyes, making the silence awkward so she’ll keep explaining.

“It’s a long story, but don’t worry. I’ll round up some friends and get it soon. The air mattress is only temporary.”

“So, it’s a matter of muscle?” I finally ask, relieved to know it isn’t because she doesn’t have one.

Her nod is slow, like she isn’t sure if that’s the answer I’m looking for. “Great. Call them.” I tip my chin to her phone on the coffee table, insinuating she do it now.

A sound, almost like a laugh and cry mix, bubble out of her throat. “They’re all at work. I’ll call them tomorrow. Promise.” She makes this crossing motion over her heart and flashes me a pleading smile.

I’ve encountered better attempts at persuasion. Sadly, I don’t win over that easily.

I shrug, tip my chin, and head back into the kitchen where I hear the sigh of relief before she lies back and presses play, resuming her ridiculous show once again.

Usually, I’m not one to get involved. I find it rather exhausting taking on other people’s problems, but for some reason, I can’t get those goddamned tears out of my head. I’m doing this for me. I lose enough sleep with my own problems. I don’t need one more thing to keep my head spinning.

With my back against the counter, I scroll through the numeric contact names based on status, favor, and initials of first and last names. I’m looking for someone in particular. Someone with a truck and more brawn than brains. Someone I paid off a gambling debt for . . .

I press his contact name, and it rings once, twice—“Maverick.”

I spare Logan no pleasantries. This is not a social call.

He’s not my friend, and since he’s already paid me for the loan, he’s only one favor short of being paid in full.

“Meet me at FallsPoint Apartment complex. Bring your truck and some friends.” I hang up before he can blubber out a response and text one more person. Rowan.

Me: Meet me at FallsPoint Apartments in 15.

PIF-owehim-RM (Aka Rowan): Need to bring anything?

Me: No.

He doesn’t text me back, and I don’t expect him to. Rowan will be there—he and Sebastian are the only loyal friends in my life.

I slide my phone in my pocket, walking over to Ainsley, who has resumed her fetal position and vacant stare at the TV.

“Give me your hand,” I bark out, startling her.

She messes with the blanket, pulling it up to her chin as if it were a shield between us.

I almost smile. Nothing will protect this girl from me now.

“I thought you were in the kitchen.” Her shocked expression is cute.

“Tsk, tsk.” I admonish her. “You should always be aware of your surroundings.”

She narrows her eyes, a small crease forming in the corner. “But I’m at home.”

Exactly.

I snatch the throw from her chest and toss it to the ground, getting my first glimpse of her bare legs. “You should always be aware. Especially at home .”

I’m the shark, and she’s the unsuspecting sea lion floating lazily in the ocean.

Eyeing her bare feet, I let my gaze travel slowly up her body, hesitating at the tight clench of her thighs.

“What are you doing? Give that back!” she shrieks, sitting up and kicking at my legs in anger. Spoiler alert: I like it .

Grabbing her knees, I hold them still, leveling her with a stern look and trying like hell not to think about the smoothness under my palms. “Are you finished?”

She swallows. “Yes.”

I let her knees go and straighten, towering over her. “Give me your hand.”

She does as I ask, albeit shakily, and extends her arm toward me.

I hesitate, waiting for more yelling, kicks, or tears.

When all she does is hold her chin higher and her arm out taut, I smother my approval and take her wrist. Silently, I reach with my free hand into my back pocket and produce an eight of spades and a Sharpie.

“I didn’t ask for another favor!” Her eyes are wide and sharp—the braveness dissipating.

She may not have asked me for a favor, but she’s getting one anyway. I ignore her and take her hand, flipping it palm up. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t live here and sleep on the floor. I won’t have people thinking you’re a fucking captive.”

She cringes. “Look, I promise. I will call my friends and get my furniture tomorrow.”

Too late. I place a card in her hand, sliding my hand along her wrist and then to her forearm, holding her still. “We’ll do it today.”

Her voice cracks. “We’ll?”

I take my time scrawling out the three simple letters that will leave her indebted to me even more. “Yes. Put some clothes on.” I close her fingers around the edge of the card and release her arm. “You have five minutes.” And then I walk the fuck away.

“So . . . I wasn’t completely honest with you earlier.”

The past few silent minutes have been blissfully appreciated while we head in the direction of her apartment. “About the friends or the furniture? ”

She chews the inside of her cheek, creating something almost like a dimple. “The friends?”

“Are you not sure?”

She sighs and looks out the window. “I don’t have any friends to help me move, but even if I did, I wouldn’t have gone back for my furniture.”

“Why not?”

She shrugs, clearly nervous about telling me. “I don’t want to see them right now.”

“The exes?”

I take a sharp left turn, not bothering with a blinker. The motion wrenches Ainsley off the window, grasping the console for support.

“Yes,” she says, giving me a side-eye. “Do you think you can get us there in one piece?”

I like this spunk from her. It’s the most fun I’ve had in a long time. No one gives me this much backtalk or stands up to me anymore. But this girl . . . This girl flips switches I didn’t know I had.

“Tell me the truth. You wanted to kill them, didn’t you? At least singe some hair.” I’ve seen scorned women. Trust me, Sebastian has evaded quite a few murder plots in his time at Havemeyer.

She sends me a glare. “I didn’t try to kill them—don’t arch your brow at me like you don’t believe me. You weren’t there! If I wanted to kill them, I would have used the gas from Taylor’s car and Tucker’s Vegas commemorative matches to burn the place down.” See? She thought about it.

I fight a smile at her descriptiveness. “So you were, what? Clumsy with the candle?”