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CHAPTER TEN

Dasha

I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

There was no way I was going to be careless enough to go to the storage unit straight from work or from my house. Where anyone could, you know, track me.

Was that borderline crazy?

Yep.

But so was having twelve storage units.

So I went from work, driving around until I was sure no one was following me, then took myself two towns over, going into the office, showing them the death certificate and proof that I’d inherited my uncle’s estate, being given the code for the gate, then taking myself in.

This town was a little seedier than Navesink Bank. And after the incident at the last unit, my nerves were all jangly as I drove up to the appropriate building.

I grabbed the keychain and the golf club I’d found in the garage, figuring it would work as a solid weapon if that became necessary.

This storage facility had neon green doors but the same frustrating motion-activated overhead lighting.

Luckily, this unit was closer to the exit, so there wasn’t a whole lot of time to work myself up into a panic as I squatted down, trying to figure out which of the eleven keys I didn’t know opened this particular unit.

Adrenaline surged through my system as the right key finally turned, freeing the padlock, and allowing me to push the door up.

These units had no interior light.

But I didn’t need it to see the same setup as the other unit.

Black wire shelving.

Black totes with yellow lids.

Only this unit had twice the number of them as the last one.

Paranoia had me glancing both ways before stepping into the unit, my hand clutching my golf club, but my grip was crummy as sweat soaked my palm.

Taking a deep breath, I made my way toward the center row of shelves, going to the first tote, and reaching to pull it down.

“Jeez,” I grumbled, surprised by the weight of it.

I ended up half dropping it rather than lowering it to the ground.

There was a sick feeling working its way up my throat as I reached to unclip the top.

But there was no going back now.

I pulled off the lid.

And nearly freaking fainted.

“What… the hell?” I gasped, sure I wasn’t seeing what I thought I was seeing.

Perfectly stacked little plastic bags full of white powder.

I mean, I was no expert or anything, but I was reasonably sure my uncle wasn’t storing baby powder or powdered sugar in super secret, crazily organized, storage units all over New Jersey.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” I yelped, using my skirt to grab the lid of the tote to clip it back into place, then using the same skirt to wipe the hell out of the handle and tote, making sure there was no way my fingerprints could have survived the friction.

“Okay. It’s alright,” I murmured to myself as I grabbed my golf club and quickly made my way back into the hall.

I dragged down the door, wiped the spot I’d touched, clipped the padlock into place, then wiped that down as well.

Then, forcing myself not to run, I got myself the hell out of there, worrying the whole way back to Navesink Bank that there was surveillance footage of me laying claim to that unit, that I could be seen going in and rushing right back out again.

It was fine , I assured myself. There was no reason for anyone to assume there were illicit substances in the storage units. And so long as no one went into them—including myself—I had plausible deniability.

So I had to, what? Make sure the units stayed paid. That way, no one had to go into them to clear them out, find the drugs, and call the cops.

If, eventually, I did personally go to the cops about what I found in that one unit, I could always say I had no idea what was in the units, that I was simply paying for them as I sorted out my uncle’s affairs, that the drugs were clearly, well, his.

Even if the idea of that had my stomach twisting.

First, because it felt just so… wrong. Sure, Uncle Phil clearly liked to have beers after work—judging by his fridge half full of bottles when I’d arrived. But there was no evidence in the house that he did anything harder than that.

Second, well, weren’t drug dealers, you know… wealthy? Uncle Phil owned a home and business, but nothing about either building implied he had a spare two nickels to rub together, let alone was sitting on top of some giant drug empire.

Could he maybe have some sort of gambling addiction? Some other real estate somewhere?

No.

No, all of that would have shown up in his final documents. Right?

None of this made any sense.

I knew that, logically, the right move would be to go immediately to the cops, to give them access to all the units and let them sort it all out.

The thing was… could that impact my inheritance? The house? The repair shop? Would I have no safety net anymore? No job, no income, no place to live? I mean, if he supported the shop or house with drug money, it could get caught up in the legal proceedings, right?

I had to find a way to research that. Anonymously. The last thing I needed was some sort of evidence linking me to illegal activities.

Maybe it was time to get a library card.

Move up my plans to sell the house and business.

Get that money in hand.

Then I could figure out the drug thing.

Decisions sort of made, I turned down my road, promising myself a calm evening where I was not going to obsess over the whole situation. Though, let’s face it, I was totally going to overthink it to death, work myself into a strong panic, and eventually fall into a fitful sleep.

But as I drove closer to my house, it seemed like there was going to be a change to my plans.

There was a car parked on the street out front.

A very familiar car.

With a very familiar man leaning against it.

Waiting, it seemed, for me.

I just barely resisted the urge to fly into the driveway, rush out of the car, and throw myself into his arms.

Of all the things I needed right then—food, sleep, answers, a break —what I really wanted most was a hug. Someone to wrap me up tight and tell me that everything was going to be okay.

But Santo, as much as I liked him, was not my support system. He was just a guy. Technically, one I was indebted to.

So I took my time getting out of the car and started down the driveway. “Hey,” I called, head tipped to the side in a silent question.

“Realized something when you didn’t call,” he said, pushing off his car and giving me a boyish grin. “I never gave you my number.”

“You didn’t,” I agreed. “You know, you could have called me at the shop to give it to me.”

“And miss an opportunity to see you in person? Nah.”

God, how did he manage to make my belly somersault so effortlessly? A few tossed-out words and I was all weak-kneed.

“I’m going to invite you in, but that invitation comes with a giant warning for how rough it still is inside,” I warned.

“I don’t even have lamps in my living room,” he said, shrugging.

“No?” I asked, lips curving up, impressed with how easily he wiped away days’ worth of stress. “Well, I have eight. None are working. But they’re… here.”

We walked up my front path, and I was suddenly painfully aware of all the cracked and uneven bricks, the way weeds were clawing their way up between them. Then, as we got to the door, I noticed how the storm door had a ripped screen and a half falling off, rusted handle.

Santo, in his designer suit and wristwatch that likely cost more than I paid for my car—I mean, that wasn’t saying much, but still—was going to look painfully out of place in the shabby little house.

But as I unlocked the door, there was no going back.

“It smells like clean laundry in here,” Santo said as soon as we stepped inside.

“I’m using fabric softener to take down the old wallpaper,” I explained, waving over toward my progress.

I had to admit, my many sleepless nights were letting me get more projects done than I’d expected. Considering all the fancy new stuff I had to stress about, I had a feeling that there would be a lot of progress on the house in my near future.

“You know, I had a hard time picturing a pink couch in a living room,” Santo said, nodding at the sofa in question. “But it works a lot better than I thought it could.”

“It will work even more when the walls, drapes, and the rest of the furniture are redone. Well, if that happens,” I said, putting my purse on one of the many tables in the main living space.

“Why if?” he asked, turning back, watching me with curious eyes.

“Oh, um, well, I’m still not sure I am going to be staying,” I admitted, busying myself with the coffee pot, wanting something to do, and figuring it was the appropriate thing to offer a guest. Unless he had a thing for the cheap beer my uncle kept in the fridge.

“Really?” Santo asked, moving over toward the G-shaped kitchen full of impressively ugly puke-green countertops, a floral backsplash, and yellow-hued cabinetry.

At least the cabinets were old enough to be real wood. A little sand and a better stain, and they would be lovely. Definitely a selling point.

“Why’s that?” he added, leaning over the counter from the living room side, watching me with those warm eyes. “The assholes at work giving you shit?”

“No. Well, yes. But that’s not really the only reason. I think I just… jumped without really giving it any thought.”

“And now you’re doing a lot of thinking?”

“Something like that.” He had no idea. And I couldn’t exactly tell him about it, could I? “I’m just… very alone here,” I told him, feeling those words like a crack in my heart. “It’s been a hard transition. And on top of that… all of this,” I said, gesturing vaguely.

“And getting knocked on your ass and then stolen from can’t be helping your anxiety about a new place.”

“Yeah, those things are definitely a factor.” And, you know, the possible fifty totes full of drugs stashed at many different locations throughout the state. A possible drug bust. A prison sentence. No big deal. Not nightmare fuel or anything.

“If it helps at all, this area of Navesink Bank is safe. If you’re feeling weird about living alone.”

I hadn’t been. It had actually been one of the things I’d been excited about. No noisy neighbors. No intrusive roommates. Just me.

But now that he brought it up, I had a shiny new thing to worry about.

Because not only were those units full of drugs, someone knew that . Someone had taken the whole stash from one of them.

If they happened to know who I was, would they, I don’t know, come to my house? Demand access to the other units? Hurt me?

“Hey, you alright?” Santo asked, his voice softer than usual.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, taking a deep breath, but it made my chest shake.

“Hey, it’s gonna be alright,” he said, coming fully into the kitchen, nearly tripping over some peeled-back linoleum, but it didn’t slow him down.

I was in his arms within a moment, my face pressed into the crook of his neck, his strong arms wrapping me up tight. Just like I’d been longing for.

I expected the way I melted into him, how my arms went desperately around him. I hadn’t anticipated the way my eyes would flood with tears.

It just felt so good to be seen, held, understood. Even though he couldn’t actually understand when there was so much I couldn’t tell him.

“There you go,” he said, feeling the tension leaving my body. His hands slid up and down my back. It was meant to be comforting, but it wasn’t long before his chaste touch was making little sparks of desire course across my skin.

Santo cleared his throat a bit. “If you just want a friend and comfort, we’re going to need to let go now.”

Did I want friendship and comfort?

Yes.

More than almost anything else.

Almost.

Instead of doing the smart thing—letting go and nurturing a connection I so desperately needed—I let my hands slip from around his neck to go up the sides, then frame his gorgeous face.

Santo’s warm eyes were on me as I went up on my tippy toes so I could press my lips to his.

Just the first brush had little sparks coursing through me, catching fire, spreading.

By the time Santo’s hand went to the back of my neck, fingers almost crushing as his lips slanted over mine again and again, desire was a coiled spring in my core; it twisted tighter with each passing second.

Santo’s teeth nipped my lower lip, and there was no stopping the needy moan that escaped me.

He made that delicious rumbling sound in response, his hands gliding down my back to sink into my ass. Fingers sinking in, he dragged me more fully against him, making me achingly aware of his desire.

We were moving then, Santo walking backward through my home, deftly sidestepping all the various junk lying around until he felt the couch behind him and lowered himself down. He pulled me with him until my legs were on the sides of his, and his hands were dragging me down to straddle him.

I’d never been more thankful that I preferred to wear dresses than I was right when I dropped my hips down onto his lap and felt his hard length against the line of my panties, pressing up against just where I needed the friction the most.

“Really fucking love these dresses,” Santo said, lips against my neck as his hands sank into my ass under my skirt.

“Because of the easy access?” I asked, tipping my head to the side to give him more room to explore, his lips and tongue and the scrape of his stubble making my sex clench hard as he moved over my skin.

His chuckle was deep and sexy and vibrated against the shell of my ear. “Well, that’s part of it… now,” he said, fingers teasing the line of my panties. “But I just like them,” he told me, running his tongue up the side of my ear, making my belly go liquid.

I liked that more than he could know. That he liked how I dressed. The last guy I dated used to complain, saying my dresses always made him feel like he wasn’t dressed nicely enough. Like it was my fault all he owned were ratty jeans and worn-out t-shirts.

Santo’s lips claimed mine again as his hands slipped down from the waistband of my panties, teasing over the bare skin of my ass before moving forward. Over my hips. Across my belly. Then down.

“Fucking drenched for me,” he said as his fingers pressed between my thighs.

The moan rose to meet the pleasure, but the sound got cut off, replaced with a gasp when there was a loud crashing sound coming from the other end of the house.

Santo’s body went as tense as mine, his eyes clearing of desire in a blink.

“It’s probably just an avalanche,” I said, but even I didn’t sound sure of that.

“I’m gonna check,” he said, his hand slipping out of my panties as I moved off of his lap.

I’d love to claim my desire didn’t ratchet right up at the way he jumped into action, how he so confidently strode through my house, ready to face whatever it was that he found.

My mind immediately flashed back to another guy I’d dated. I’d woken up in the middle of the night to a weird noise. And when I’d shaken him awake to ask him to go check it out, he’d rolled over and told me to do it myself if I was that worried about it.

Taking a deep breath, I climbed off the couch, following Santo’s path toward my garage.

It was still one of the messiest parts of the house—second only to the basement. But I had managed to create a walking path down the center. Only now, things were spilled into that path.

“Probably a raccoon or opossum,” Santo said, waving over toward the garage door. “You might want to make sure that’s closed all the way. Raccoons can be nasty.”

My gaze followed his gesture.

And, sure enough, the garage door was up a solid foot and a half.

The thing was, I hadn’t left that open.

I knew for a fact—with one hundred percent certainty—that I hadn’t left it open.

Because I hadn’t even been able to get it open.

I’d grunted and cursed for half an hour—wanting some fresh air while I worked—trying to get it to move with no luck.

I’d concluded that the springs must have been rusty or something and hadn’t touched it since.

“Dasha?” Santo asked as I stood there staring at the opening, my heart a drum in my chest, tapping out some erratic, unpredictable jazz beat.

“Can you close that for me?” I asked, hearing how choked my voice sounded.

My mouth was paper-dry, making it impossible to swallow past the lump in my throat.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, brows pinched before turning his back on me.

I watched as he brought the door down, but it wasn’t without some cursing on his part.

I needed that.

Some proof that I wasn’t losing my mind, that I hadn’t somehow left it open.

But if he could barely move the door, there was no way I could.

“Locking it too,” he added, turning the little metal handle. “I actually disconnect my door unless I’m actively using it,” he said, waving up toward a little red rope hanging down from the bar that went across the ceiling.

“Yes. Do that,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t sound as anxious as I felt. “It won’t open at all now?”

“Nope. Not until you reconnect the door. You okay?” he asked, finally looking more closely at me.

“What? Yes. I mean… I, uh, haven’t eaten,” I said. It was true. But definitely not why I was feeling so weird.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” he asked, throwing an arm over my shoulders and walking us back into the house. “How about we go check out my family’s restaurant?”

Part of me didn’t want to leave the house all alone with no one to keep an eye on it.

Then again, did I really want to be around if someone came back?

Because as Santo ushered me into his car, there was one thing I knew for certain.

Someone else had opened that garage door.

From the inside.

Likely looking for a quick escape when Santo and I came inside the house.

That was… terrifying.

And I needed time to figure out what to do about it.

So I let Santo take me to his fancy family restaurant, intending to let him wine and dine me while I tried to come up with some sort of solution.

But once we got there, everything else fell away but him.