Page 14 of Splintered Security (Aspen & Evergreen #2)

zigzag through minefields

Ren

I follow Anni, but there’s no answer to my knock on the bedroom door. I’ll give her that play.

I’ve had a couple of friends with benefits relationships over the years, but nothing serious. There’s been no one I’ve committed to. I have no clue how to deal with relationship drama, even less so with a woman I care about.

I told her through the door to take whatever time she needed and escaped to my office. I’ve spent hours digging into what I can find on Giltenhouse’s crew with the leads Liam provided.

How he uncovered all of this in the less than eight hours since I messaged him is insane.

But Christian’s brother-in-law isn’t known for being level-headed or on the right side of the law.

The man is steady, but diabolical. No one wants him opposing them.

I didn’t even ask how he knew where I lived or why he was ballsy enough to pound on my door with no warning.

The data provided an infinite data trail.

Following the money is no easy feat with as much as has changed hands and as often, but the Lost Mountain Rebels will never be accused of being the smartest motorcycle club out there.

I hate when the enemy is stupid. It’s harder to plan an offensive when you can’t count on common sense or smarts to factor in.

It means any operation could go sideways with any or all members going rogue, and that’s more difficult to anticipate.

Smart people plan and have a back-up plan, and at least some sense of self-preservation. Those with no forethought zigzag through minefields just hoping. Hope is no strategy. Hope is a water gun in a firefight.

So I use the skills I haven’t in a decade to begin strategizing an operation—one against a known enemy. An enemy with soldiers who are of the ride-or-die variety and some who will bounce at first challenge.

The key is who Giltenhouse surrounds himself with and if I can control that. I need to distract the assholes who would go to their graves at his side, and keep the flakes and less enthusiastic members of the MC in play.

That means I need to be a buyer or a seller with enough product to warrant interest. The only in I can think of is the Troy Smith-David Rosen connection.

The question is whether Smith or Giltenhouse know that Rosen is dead.

The paper hasn’t released names yet, but it won’t be long, and all leverage I have is gone at that point.

I’ll have to wing that conversation, impersonating Rosen, and hope any omissions or missteps are overlooked. I hate leaving anything to hope .

I need Smith and Conyers out of sight with enough of the contingent that the numbers better favor me .

Murphy provided numbers and addresses. He also found patterns they must not consider liabilities, so we know who goes where and when.

It’s Saturday. Saturday night is the pool hall, followed by a little mayhem at the club house. They do their main partying there; all but a few have other places as well.

There’s a crew who are church goers, if one could believe that.

So it’s tomorrow or a week from now, and tomorrow’s a no-go.

But I can get some intel tomorrow that will help immensely if I want to peel off that contingent.

Heath isn’t one of those, but Conyers is.

And he’s the ride or die variety. He’s the one Liam said was smarter than people knew and operates as a mastermind while coming off dumb.

The sun has set by the time I’ve worked out what I need to do.

The op isn’t in motion… yet, but a quick Google voice number means I leave a message for Smith as Rosen, baiting him to return the call.

I need the two generals away from Heath Giltenhouse, leaving him vulnerable when he’d least expect it—a bright and sunny midday raid after a long night of partying.

No one attacks in broad daylight. At least I’ll have surprise on my side.

A week from tomorrow, I’ll make my move.

I’ve given Anni enough time to stew. Either she’ll be over her frustration or she’ll be in beast mode ready to shred me. Is it wrong to hope for the second one? Feisty Anni says what she needs, she owns her shit, and the passion in her makes her beauty that much greater.

She must be starving by now too. Coffee and no food since last night could work to my advantage .

I head to the kitchen and pull out some ingredients and get to work.

If the smell of frying bacon doesn’t lure her, the steaks on the griddle should.

I’m working on the salad when she pokes her head around the corner.

I don’t get spicy Anni, nor do I get an Anni who is past this morning’s argument.

I get one who has swollen eyes and a red, puffy nose. She’s practically… defeated.

“Hey, Sunshine. I have spinach salad with fried onions and bacon and a steak ready to go. Didn’t know if you wanted your mashed potatoes loaded or plain and was just coming to ask.”

She shrugs. Well, fuck.

“Trust me?” I don’t know why I ask it. I’m referring to my cooking, but it’s her downcast eyes and tiny shake of her head that gut me.

I leave the counter where I’ve been plating our dinners and move to her, crouching down to get face to face, lifting her chin to look her in the eyes. “Talk to me.”

She shrugs again and ever so quietly says, “Out of the frying pan and into the fire. Thought I could trust you of all people.”

“Baby—”

She continues as if I haven’t even spoken. “Thought you’d be the last person to betray me. And I’m stuck with you. Legally. Trapped in a web of my own making.”

“I—”

“This morning was the happiest I can ever remember being. And I came out here to find you discussing my brother, my August, with a guy whose eyes were so cold and who stared right through me like he was judging me. I was relaxed and happy, even … after everything, and you betrayed me by betraying August’s memory.

So I don’t care about how I eat the potatoes. ”

Even so, her stomach growls. She acts as if she doesn’t hear it and moves around me to the cabinet, grabs a glass for water, and chugs it all in one go. After a refill, she sits at the bar at what has become her spot. Her shoulders roll forward, and a lone tear streaks down her cheek.

I set a plate and fork in front of her and return with my own.

When she’s taken a bite of steak, I speak.

“Liam Murphy judges everyone and everything. He is gray in the extreme. You want him on your team, mostly because you don’t want him on your opponent’s.

I asked him for information on the Lost Mountain Rebels, as well as the three guys who were at your house yesterday. ”

She tosses a bite of mashed potatoes into her mouth, and her eyes dilate, but she controls whatever moan she’d normally release.

“I asked about Aug as well because I need to know what word on the street is. It wasn’t to slander his memory, and it certainly wasn’t because I don’t trust you or what you’ve told me.

You’ll have to cut me some slack, Anni. It’s been three days.

Literally. I don’t know how to do this—” I flick my fingers between us.

“I’ve never had a long-term girlfriend, and now I have a wife. ”

I hope she can hear the smile in my voice. “I want you to trust me, Sunshine. I need you to trust me. Give me a chance to prove to you that I haven’t betrayed you. ”

We eat for a while in silence before I continue. “I need to handle some business. And I really need you to trust that I’m doing what’s best for you. I’ll be leaving very early in the morning and I’m asking you—no, I’m begging you—to stay here and not leave.”

She finishes everything I serve her and heads to the sink to rinse her plate. I keep going with my one-sided conversation. “I want to revisit happy and relaxed. I haven’t forgotten, but now’s not the time.”

A quick jerk of her head and she sets the dish in the dishwasher. She leaves the room before doubling back to offer, “Thank you for dinner.”

It’s no less defeated, but it’s more of the Anni I know, and less of the shell I sat next to for dinner.

Anni

I leave the kitchen and head down the hallway and back to my self-isolation. I’m cried out and ready to sleep. Mostly I’m ready to have this day behind me. From happy and horny to broken and bereft—story of my life.

But when I get to the end of the hall, I go left instead of right and move into the guest room. It’s functional, but definitely not lived in. It smells stale and unused. I slide under the covers and force my breathing to slow. In no time at all, the warmth of my swollen eyelids lulls me to sleep .

I wake briefly when cool air hits my skin. But the warmth quickly returns. Another cooling moment is replaced by warmth that reminds me of a hot bath. I’m weightless and cocooned.

There’s a kiss to my head, and from somewhere far away the words never again float toward me. But the dreams return to whisk me away.

I wake alone, in Ren’s bed, the sunlight streaming through the windows.

We’ll have to discuss our sleeping arrangements soon.

His bed is soft and huge, but it’s for the best if we don’t get comfortable with this pretend marriage.

I may be his wife on paper, but I’m not his wife between these sheets.

The clock on the nightstand reads eight twenty when I get out of bed and tootle to the kitchen. There’s no sign that Ren is home. I’d assumed he would tell me before leaving for his “business,” but I guess that’s not the case.

The coffee pot is on and the carafe is still hot.

The idea that Ren thought about this before leaving this morning makes me warm and fuzzy.

And I really don’t want to be warm or fuzzy thinking of him.

I wander to the pantry and find myself here yet again.

I’m glad he’s not home to discover me inside.

The shelves are lined and pristine. It’s not exactly Sleeping with the Enemy but close enough. In the back left corner rests a waffle maker, and I decide to try my hand. Worst case, it’s bad, and I can pitch it. Best case, I have waffles.

I grab the needed ingredients and dig through the cabinets until I find a bowl.

The batter looks fine, but the waffle won’t fluff up or crisp up.

Frankly, it’s inedible. I give up, wipe down the counters, and make myself a second cup of coffee.

I bail onto the sofa, curling up in the blanket from two nights ago, and flip on the TV.

I find a rerun of The Nanny and wonder if a show like this would fly these days.

Do people like cutesy and quick-to-resolve stories anymore?

My story doesn’t qualify as either, and I find myself wishing twenty minutes and a Hollywood writer were all it took to make the shit show that is my life into something lighthearted and fun.

On a commercial break, I head to the bedroom to grab my cell phone to find an app where I can have breakfast delivered. The coffee is good, but now I’m craving real food and can’t get the thought of waffles off the brain.

I slide my phone open to fifty-two missed calls and ninety-one text messages.

Panic overwhelms me that something’s happened to my mom.

She’s all I have left. Why else would someone blow up my phone?

I click on the phone icon and see Heath’s name on the screen.

Behind it is the number forty in parentheses. Forty missed calls. Twelve voicemails.

The text app is the same. He’s the only person who’s texted me.

Heath: Where are you?

Heath: Answer my calls.

Heath: Anni, don’t play with me. You won’t like the consequences.

Heath: Don’t you dare think you can run from me.

Heath: What have I told you, you little cunt? You should know better.

Heath: I’m getting angry. You don’t want me to be angry.

Heath: Don’t make me come after you. You won’t like what happens when I do.

Heath: Answer me.

Heath: When I find you, I’ll teach you a lesson you will never forget.

Heath: This is getting old, Anni.

Heath: Don’t make me play hardball.

Heath: Okay, I’m done. It’s time to pay your mom a visit. You can stop it with a quick call back.

Heath: Your mom says she hasn’t seen you, but I know better. Conyers saw you go into her house yesterday. I’ll make sure she doesn’t lie to me ever again.

I drop my phone and run to the toilet where I release the one bite of bad waffle and all my coffee. I never make it through all the texts. I stop somewhere in his Saturday morning rant.

I’m still heaving when a large palm lands between my shoulder blades and pulls my hair out of my face. “Come, Anni. Let’s get you taken care of.”

I have no more fight left in me and turn into Ren’s body, letting him lift and carry me. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I wish my biggest problem was a British man who needed childcare help and I was simply a fish out of water.

Instead, I’m on the hook…

And waiting to be gutted.