Page 16

Mike told me all about the rumors. Ainsley James, the psycho pyro who almost killed her boyfriend and roommate just because he was there waiting for her to get off from work.

“You had no idea they were having an affair right under your nose?” I probe for no other reason than to see that spark of fury again. She needs to be tough when she sees them. I don’t want any of those annoying tears when we’re moving her shit out .

She snaps around to face me. “No! If I knew they were having an affair, I wouldn’t have walked in on them fucking!”

Women only go crazy for two reasons: a sale and a man, but Ainsley . . . I think she’s just being herself. Not crazy, just extremely passionate.

“They were even using the condoms from my room.” She leans back with a huff just as we pull into the complex, and I spot Logan’s truck parked in one of the visitor spaces.

Parking, I turn the car off and stuff the key fob in my pocket. “He’s a piece of shit. Now, come on.”

Her eyes go wide. “But they’re home,” she argues. “Tucker’s car is right there.” She points to an old BMW sedan.

“Get out.” My tone holds no room for negotiations. This Tucker asshole is making my days hell just by breathing.

I get out, and a few seconds later, I hear the passenger door close. “What floor?”

“Second.” The fire is gone from her words.

Grunting, I slam my door and round the car, walking toward Logan and the ten guys he brought with him. I give the parking lot a bored gaze before I find who I’m looking for. Rowan. He’s perched on the steps with one knee bent and a lit joint hanging from his lips.

“Come here,” I snap, aiming my words at Ainsley but my glare at Logan. “Apartment number. . .” I look at Ainsley to fill in the number.

She mumbles out, “It’s 201.”

Good enough. I focus on Rowan, who takes one last drag and tosses the blunt on the sidewalk, smashing the lit end with the toe of his boot.

“Follow me,” I say, brushing past him and leading them all up the steps. I offer no opportunity for questions. Instead, I take the stairs as if I have nothing better to do. I do, and that only adds to my annoyance. This Tucker bitch better steer clear. My mood is not to be fucked with.

The corridor’s walkway is short and narrow, and if I were the one moving the furniture, I would have groaned at the sight. It’s going to take some maneuvering to get the pieces out and down the stairs without a back injury.

“Do you have a key?” I ask Ainsley, who is lurking behind one of Logan’s roided-up friends.

“Uh—”

I bang on the door with my fist until the door is yanked open and I’m face to face with angry eyes. “Who the fuck are?—”

I shove past the girl who I’m assuming is Taylor and tip my head as an instruction to the idiots behind me to follow.

“Ah! What are you doing? This is my apartment!”

I pluck the phone from her hand and hand it back to Rowan. “Ainsley,” I yell. “Show me to your room.”

I don’t bother looking back at Ainsley. My focus in on the aghast tart in front of me. “She doesn’t live here anymore!” she screams. “Tucker!”

And . . . I’ve had enough. I only have so much tolerance for bullshit, and I’ve reached my limit.

“Scream again, and you’ll be the one banned from this complex.

” It’s not a threat. It’s a fucking promise.

I may not know the owner of this particular complex, but I have a contact list full of eager clients ready to pay up.

It won’t take me long to find who I need.

Taylor’s annoying whine is silenced when Tucker comes into view, quickly realizing who’s at his front door.

“This is the guy from Studs and Spuds,” Rowan whispers. I know who he is and what favor he asked for, but still, I find it amusing to pretend I can’t remember his name.

I nod, acknowledging Rowan, and hold my hand out, looking at Ainsley. “Do I need to repeat the instructions?” It’s a total dick move, but we’re in public, and I am in front of clients. She gets the public Maverick today.

My comment seems to snap her gaze away from Tucker, and she starts walking forward. I follow, right behind her, leaving Rowan standing guard.

Her room is light and airy with a lot of blues and yellows. And sea lions. I need to ask her about that. Who still has stuffed animals on their bed?

“I don’t have any boxes,” she says softly.

I smother a groan. Why must this be so fucking difficult? “It doesn’t matter. They will carry it piece by piece until it’s all out.” Or I lose my patience and decide to leave it. It’s truly a gamble at this point.

I wave Logan in, who hovers at the door. “Start taking it all out. Every piece you lose or damage is another favor.” I don’t have time for incompetence.

He nods curtly. “Understood.”

Thank fuck. Now to deal with Ainsley, who’s just standing, staring at a picture frame on her dresser. Not again. I take the frame and smash the glass and rip out the photo and shove it in my pocket. “Get your shit, and I’ll let you burn this when we get home.”

She grins, and something in my chest deflates even though the word home tastes sour coming from my mouth.

It takes almost three hours before we have all of Ainsley’s shit packed up and moved into my apartment. Tucker and Taylor had sense enough not to speak as we proceeded to clean out anything that Ainsley thought she paid for. We even took the bread from the pantry.

I thought it was a bit excessive, but it seemed to make Ainsley happy and therefore, would make my night a little less awful.

“You want a sandwich?” she calls from the kitchen.

I look at the time on my computer screen. “It’s seven o’clock.”

She drops the butter knife onto the counter, the clanging sound pulling my gaze from the work I desperately need to get done.

“Are you too good to eat a sandwich for dinner?” Ah, the fire is back. I was wondering how long it would take .

I shut my laptop. “No, I’m not too good, but I don’t typically eat after six.”

Her nose scrunches. “Why? Are you afraid you might get fat?”

Who can I fucking call? Hugh? Would he know how to bribe someone into letting her stay with them?

“I get indigestion if I eat too late, if you must know.” Why? Why am I telling her this? I don’t owe her an explanation. She’s a guest.

“But it’s only seven.”

I let out a deep sigh.

“A sandwich is fine.”

She smiles casually as if she won some internal argument. “Okay. I’ll leave the stuff out for you.”