Page 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Dasha

I couldn’t stare at the damn paperwork for another moment.

I’d gotten good at spreadsheets quickly. The problem was, none of it was making any sense.

I had lists upon lists.

Small cars that cost hundreds and hundreds for oil changes or the replacing of a fuse. Then large vehicles that cost a third of that price for the same work. And vice versa.

But they were done by all different mechanics. And, as if that wasn’t confusing enough, there were also tons of instances where they seemed to charge the right amounts for whatever work had been done.

The best conclusion I could come to was that they were giving breaks to friends and family. Then, I don’t know, overcharging regular clients to make up the difference, so the bottom line still appeared to be what it should be.

The thing was, I had no proof. I couldn’t exactly confront the guys about it with what I had right then. They would all just get testy like Ren had and toss me some excuse about how there was other work done to excuse the overcharges.

I’d even scrolled through the reviews online, checking to see if there was anyone complaining about being overcharged.

Sure, there were a handful of bad reviews—like any business got—but not enough that I felt like people were onto some kind of scam being perpetrated.

“Enough of that,” I grumbled, gathering my incriminating paperwork and tossing it all into my purse.

I hated to admit it, but I wouldn’t put it past the guys to search my office when I wasn’t around. The last thing I wanted was for someone who was behaving badly to know I was onto them.

I didn’t want to believe any of them would actually try to hurt me, but they were still a bit of a mystery to me. I didn’t want to take any chances.

“Taking off early?” David asked as I moved out into the garage. Three cars were still on lifts. Several others were being worked on on the ground.

We were busy.

That was good.

The way things were looking, we were just barely making enough—after bills and paychecks were handled—to pay the Grassi Family what I owed them. And that was with me taking just the salary of one of our lowest-paid mechanics. Hardly made me feel boss-like. But I was just going to have to put some of my house projects on hold for a while.

“I’m just going to bring some of this junk to my uncle’s storage locker,” I told him, jostling the two boxes I was carrying.

I hadn’t been lying to Santo; dumpster rentals were insanely expensive. It was actually cheaper to just start shoving all the junk that I wouldn’t be able to sell or give away in the storage locker until I saved up enough for a dumpster.

I had some stuff in my trunk from the house to shove in there. But there were things that I’d gathered from around the office and the waiting room that I needed to sock away for a while too.

“I’ll be back later,” I added. “You good here?”

To that, David waved a hand.

Taking that for agreement, I left out of the garage doors, shoving the boxes in my passenger seat, and heading in the direction of one of the several storage facilities in the area.

It wasn’t the easy little errand I’d been expecting when I was faced with a locked gate that required a code I didn’t have.

So I needed to park, talk to the brand-new girl at the desk who had no idea how to give me access, so a manager had to be called.

Until, almost forty-five minutes later, I had a new code and my name on the paperwork, and I was driving through the open gate.

The place was like a labyrinth of white buildings full of orange doors. I felt like I drove around forever until I found the right building. Then I walked around even longer until I realized—with no small amount of embarrassment—that my uncle’s unit was one of the ones inside the building.

“Oh, this isn’t creepy at all,” I grumbled to myself as I stepped inside, the door making a cracking noise behind me as it slammed closed.

Ahead of me was another maze with a long central hallway and several others that spliced off from the main one.

Likely in some attempt to conserve energy and keep costs down, the overhead lights worked on a motion sensor. So the only lights in the entire area were the ones directly above me.

I didn’t move for a couple of minutes.

Sure enough, the light clicked right off.

“That’s just asking for trouble,” I decided aloud as I waved an arm out, waiting for the light to go back on, then started forward —lights flicking on as I went, and off behind me—until I got to my uncle’s unit.

It was one of the bigger ones in the building, and there was dread in my stomach as I unlocked it and placed the deadbolt in one of my dress’s handy-dandy pockets. Knowing him, this unit was going to be filled to the absolute gills with stuff I would eventually need to get rid of if I wanted to stop paying for the unit.

With no small amount of grumbling, the garage door lifted up and I reached inside to flick on the overhead light.

To find… a mostly empty unit.

“What the hell?” I said, stepping inside.

The walls were lined with black metal shelving units and there was a row right down the center of them as well.

The thing was… there was next to nothing on them.

There were a handful of those plastic garage totes with the black bottoms and yellow tops.

But that was it.

Why did this man’s house and office look like a not insignificant tornado had blown through them, but the unit was perfectly organized and mostly empty?

“You were a real puzzle, Uncle Phil,” I murmured, feeling a little guilty about my boxes of junk as I put them on one of the many empty shelves.

Finished with that, I turned my attention to one of the plastic totes.

But before my fingers could unclasp the top, there was a familiar clicking noise that accompanied one of the motion lights turning on.

My heartbeat tripped into overdrive, and my chest went immediately tight as I inched toward the open garage door.

There was nothing to panic about.

Other people needed to access their units too.

There was no reason to assume anything scary was going on.

Sucking in a shaky breath, I leaned outward to find one of the cross halls had a bit of light glowing somewhere down at the end.

Nothing.

Just another person accessing their unit.

Or, like, a rat or something.

Steadying my nerves, I went back out, leaving the unit open since there was nothing important in it, then went back to the car to grab another couple of boxes.

As I came back in, though, I noticed the lights rapidly turning off.

Leading away from my unit.

Like someone had come from that direction.

My stomach twisted as my heart punched against my ribcage. Adrenaline surged through my system, making my skin feel like it was sizzling.

What was I panicking about, though?

This was a public storage facility. Literally hundreds of other people had units and needed to access them. I had no reason to assume I was alone here.

And there were, like, security cameras.

Sure, the girl at the desk was likely scrolling on her phone and not watching the footage. But if something creepy happened, the footage could go to the cops, and they could find the person. Especially because there was a secure, coded gate.

Who would risk that?

I was being silly.

Taking a deep breath, I forced my feet to move forward toward my unit, ignoring the way it felt like a hand was closing around my throat with each passing second.

Diligence was good, I reminded myself; paranoia was not.

No lights other than the ones above me clicked on, so by the time I rounded my unit, my shoulders weren’t up by my ears anymore.

And there was no one in my unit.

I shook my head at myself as I brought my boxes over toward the others I’d brought in.

Everything was fine.

Until I turned to walk away again, and something nettled at me about the unit. Like something felt off. When I turned in a circle, though, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

Chalking it up to some lingering paranoia, I made my way back out to my car, fighting to get the boxes out of the cramped back seat without its own doors for a minute before making my way back in.

I paused this time, looking around. But the whole building was dark, save for the lights directly above my head.

Still, I couldn’t shake that little sliver of discomfort sliding down my spine as I made it to my unit once again.

I put my boxes down.

But when I turned, I knew immediately what was wrong this time.

One of the storage tubs was missing.

My belly flip-flopped.

And I suddenly realized what had felt wrong the last time that I hadn’t been able to pinpoint.

That same box, the one that was now missing, had the top askew. When I’d touched it, I’d just barely unclipped the top from the handle. I definitely hadn’t knocked the lid loose.

So when I’d seen those lights coming from the unit, it hadn’t just been someone passing by. Someone had come in, had touched things that didn’t belong to them.

Then, when I’d left to get more boxes, they had come back… and taken the same box.

What the hell?

Who would do something like that?

And, maybe more importantly, what was in the boxes?

I mean, they’d come once to snoop. Then they’d come back again to steal. Clearly, there was something valuable in the box. Possibly in all of the boxes.

With a cold sweat inching down my spine and goosebumps prickling up on my bare arms, I made my way over toward another of the plastic containers while trying to keep an ear out for any sounds in the building.

I tried to assure myself that if someone had stolen something, surely they’d already cleared out, gotten the hell out of there before I could go to the office and complain, had the police called.

I sucked a slow, deep breath in as I unclipped the lid.

But it was right then that I heard a door somewhere in the building slamming.

My stomach twisted.

Screw this .

I could come back some other time. Maybe with a bat. Or ask the staff to escort me. I dunno. All I did know was I felt like I was about to throw up. Whatever was in those boxes wasn’t worth a panic attack.

I rushed out of the unit, the padlock in my hand.

Reaching up, I dragged down the door, wincing at the racket it made.

I’d just gotten the padlock into the hole when the lights started rapidly clicking on.

Someone was coming toward me.

At a damn run.

My hands shook on the lock.

But before I could even say ‘to hell with this,’ and turn to run, a body rammed into me, sending me flying onto my butt on the hard floor.

Pain ricocheted from my butt and up my hips.

I couldn’t stop to feel the pain, though, as I scrambled onto all fours, pushed myself up to my feet, and ran.

I felt like I was choking on my heart that was suddenly wedged high up in my throat, making my head feel light and my chest tight.

I was forced to go in the opposite direction I was familiar with, further from my car, from safety.

My heartbeat was thundering in my ears as I threw myself down one of the cross hallways, then—sure I heard footfalls behind me—I made the mistake of running down another hall, one I figured would have a glowing Exit sign at the end, like all of the others.

But there was nothing but a blank wall.

Shit, shit, shit.

My heart crushed in my chest as I looked around, praying for a fire extinguisher or one of those hatchets in a glass box. Did those still exist? I had no idea. All I did know was there was nothing around to use to defend myself with.

Why hadn’t I taken the damn padlock with me? One of those things could do some damage if whipped at someone’s face.

Even as I thought that, though, I turned to find an empty hallway stretched out before me.

I’d been imagining those footsteps behind me. Or they’d decided to give it up and leave me alone and get out of there before there was any real kind of trouble.

I stood there for a moment, feeling a strange sort of comfort when the lights slowly clicked off because I knew I was temporarily invisible.

I let myself take a few slow, deep breaths. I rolled my shoulders. I swallowed past that lump in my throat.

Then, sure there were no sounds around to worry about, I started moving.

I paused at the end of the hallway, looking for any signs of light or life. Finding none, I went back toward my unit, squeezed my padlock closed, then said to hell with decorum and ran my ass off toward the exit.

“Of course,” I grumbled as the rain spat down when I made it outside, dashing to my car, throwing myself in, and locking the door.

I didn’t even close my trunk as I sat there, hands shaking, glancing around the lot.

But there were no other cars.

If it weren’t for my sore ass, I would have assumed I’d let my overactive imagination get the better of me, that I’d been running from shadows, not an actual person.

There was no denying how much my butt hurt, though.

With that in mind, I turned over the car, reversed out of my spot, and made my way to the gates, stopping immediately on the other side of them, ready to go in and demand to see the security footage and call the police. Only to find the office was closed for the day.

“Sounds about right,” I grumbled, pressing my head back into the rest.

I had a car still half full of junk, a missing box from my storage unit, a bruised butt, and something wrong with the books at work.

I moved around my car, the rain plastering down my hair as I slammed the trunk with more force than necessary.

By the time I got back into the car, I was soaked, shivering, and stewing in my own sour mood.

I mean, really, what had I been thinking? Picking up my whole life, leaving everyone I knew and cared about behind, to move to some random town in New Jersey to live in a messy, run-down house that perpetually smelled a mix of dusty and musty, and working at a repair shop. When I knew nothing about cars. And was painfully aware of how unwelcome I was.

I mean, really, what was I thinking?

I guess I felt like I, I don’t know, owed it to my uncle to take over things since he’d left it all to me.

And, fine, my life had become a bit stagnant in Washington. I was hanging with the same friends, doing the same things, living in the same apartment, dating the same losers.

I’d seen the news of a new house, a new business, and new opportunities as some sort of sign from the universe that it was time to move on, to try something new.

Now, though, I wasn’t so sure.

I was barely keeping my head above water financially. I was working myself to the bone on both the shop and the house, but feeling like I was making next to no progress. I’d made no new friends.

And, God, I was so, so lonely.

I think I’d been expecting to form some sort of kinship with the guys at the garage, to be able to foster some built-in friendships there.

But in the face of their hostility, and with no money or time to try to join any clubs or something like that, I was really struggling.

“Stop,” I grumbled to myself as I felt water flood my eyes on my way home.

But by the time I was pulling into my driveway, there was no stopping the stream of tears. So I just sat there and let them come, knowing I always felt better when I let the emotions out rather than bottling them up.

It wasn’t all hopeless.

If I came to the conclusion that I simply couldn’t tolerate this new life, well, I was in a better position than I was when I came to Navesink Bank, right?

I had a house that I could finish fixing up and sell for a hefty profit in the current market.

Then there was the shop.

I had no idea what you could expect to sell a business like that for, but I imagined it was a nice chunk of change. More than enough, I was sure, to move back to Washington, but to do so with enough money to buy a house or condo, to maybe, I don’t know, go back to school or something. Figure out a new path in life.

I just had to stick it out for a little while. Suck it up and get the clearing out and cleaning up done, figure out the bones of the house, and give it some curb appeal. Then I could slap some paint on all the walls of the shop, thrift some nicer chairs for the waiting room, and bring in a real estate agent who could tell me what I could get for it all.

Feeling a little bit less hopeless, I wiped my tears and climbed out of my car, my dress sticking to my legs as I went, and I made a mental note to bring a towel with me to the car in the morning, knowing the fabric seats would likely still be wet.

At least the house was starting, little by little, to feel a bit like home.

Sure, the brown plaid wallpaper gave me a headache almost immediately, but the trick I found online for using fabric softener to get it off not only worked, but made the place smell a hell of a lot better.

I’d peeled up the run-down brown carpet to reveal… a slightly less hideous light brown carpet. And I’d rented a carpet shampooer to get the stains and stink out of that.

I had my cute pearly pink coffee maker on the kitchen counter, right next to my mug rack featuring all my favorites—minus the one David had stolen. There were light, airy drapes on the window to replace the thick, oppressive ones that had made the whole house feel like a morgue.

And, of course, there was my freaking amazing pink velvet couch. With my bunny lamp on one of the old end tables.

I twisted my wet hair up into an elastic band, then reached back to slip down my dress zipper.

Then, in my bra and panties, I dropped down on said couch, pulled down my blanket covered in little hearts, and closed my eyes to thoughts of cocoa coffee and warm brown eyes; to a bedroom-sexy voice; and warm lips pressing kisses to my neck, down between my breasts, up my thigh, inward.

It was probably not the smartest idea to let myself continue to have vivid, sweaty, panty-soaking fantasies about a man who was—essentially—extorting money from my business. And one I would need to interact with on a semi-regular basis.

But if he didn’t want me to have naughty thoughts of him, he shouldn’t have made that comment about being in bed with me. Or given me his jacket, all warm from his body still. Or leaned in like he was going to kiss me.

A girl could only take so much.

Especially a girl who hadn’t been with a guy for more months than I cared to admit.

If I let myself drift into the fantasy just right, I could practically feel his silky hair teasing over my skin, creating little sparks of need; I could feel it in my hands as I grabbed him while his face was buried between my thighs, driving me up relentlessly.

I was helpless but to let my own hand wander, to imagine his in its place, to bring myself up and through an orgasm that had me crying out in my empty house.

But I still felt achingly needy afterward.

Because, as I got up and took myself to the shower, I knew that no amount of self-pleasure was going to measure up to the real thing.

Not that the real thing was going to happen.

It couldn’t.

I mean… right?