I shake my head, my stubborn streak popping up. And I don’t smell that bad. I sniff my right armpit to prove my point. Okay, I smell. “No time, I have to finish.”

  “You won’t be finishing shit if you kill yourself in the process,” Daysha says. “Now go. Becca, think you can take care of the pups?”

  “Of course!” Becca cheers, in love with my dogs. She looks at Nut and Juice, who are staring up at her like she’s their new favorite person. “I’ll take care of these adorable babies. Who wants to go for a walkie-walk?” she says, baby talking to them.

  “I’ll finish cleansing the house’s energy,” Aleria says. “After your shower, I’ll cleanse your aura too, and then you’ll truly have a fresh start.” She begins to walk around the room, chanting, “Release, renew, reside in respect.” And then her whispers become too quiet for me to hear as she closes her eyes. I hope she doesn’t walk into the coffee table, but she seems pretty sure-footed.

  I can see that I won’t get these women out of my house without swinging Gary around. Sighing, I agree. “Fine, but I’ll be back in a flash.”

  I go to the bathroom and hop into the shower, sighing in unexpected pleasure as the pulsing hot water hits my shoulders.

  I try to rush, but the feeling of shampooing my hair and letting all the sweat, funk, and dirt sluice their way from my body is refreshing. Getting out, I catch a blurry glimpse of myself in the foggy mirror. I wipe the condensation away and am surprised at what I see. The circles under my eyes are deep purple, and my bags have carry-on luggage that would require an oversize fee. And when I pull on fresh clothes, they’re a bit baggier than usual.

  Back in the living room, I find Jasmine’s happily puttering around the kitchen, watching over something on the stove that smells delicious, while Daysha and Aleria wash and put away the dishes. I guess Becca’s still out with Nut and Juice.

  As I pad in, Daysha gives me a much more welcoming smile. “She’s alive.”

  “Barely.”

  “Well, Jasmine’s making her famous spaghetti sauce, so you’ll be refueled with yummy carb-a-licious goodness soon enough,” Aleria says, leading me back over to the couch where she pushes me down, forcing me to sit.

  “Fill us in. Is it the book?” Aleria asks, perching on the edge of a chair across from me. It feels vaguely like therapy, and I expect her to ask me how I feel next.

  “No, it’s not the book,” I reply, taking the silently offered hairbrush and getting to work. There are a lot of tangles, but I work at them carefully as I answer her. “The writing is actually going pretty well. But that’s only because I’ve been floating on cloud nine while I was writing the characters’ relationship building right along with mine and Connor’s.”

  “While you were hunting the laptop down.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “It’s all seamless now, and I’m working on the last chunk of plotline.”

  “That’s good,” Aleria says positively. “A few weeks ago, you couldn’t write a single scene, so that’s progress.”

  “But now that I’m mad at Connor, I’m writing the characters blowing up too. I’ve been taking out my anger on Ryker and having Amber say all the shit I want to say to Connor. Like, ‘How could you? Were you using me the whole time?’”

  “I take it that’s not going well?” Jasmine asks from the kitchen.

  “Or it’s going really well?” Daysha adds, drying a glass I don’t remember using. “Turmoil makes for good books. But I can’t tell if you’re using your real life as inspiration in a good way or in a ‘you’re gonna get sued for defamation’ way.”

  “Maybe both,” I confirm, sighing. “I’m just . . . I’m mad because he’s had to leave for a little while.”

  “Why?” Aleria asks, and I see Jasmine and Daysha give each other a pointed look. But before I can answer, Becca comes back with Nut and Juice, who are panting hard alongside her.

  “Hey, ran them hard to get out some of their pent-up energy,” she explains, grinning and pink-cheeked. “Ooh, that smells good, Jasmine!”

  “Becca!” Daysha shouts. “You were saying, Poppy? Something about Connor leaving?”

  “Oh, shit,” Becca hisses, plopping onto the other end of the couch. Nut and Juice, the traitorous fiends, curl up at her feet.

  “Yeah,” I reply, not mentioning the details. They know he swiped my laptop, but fine art theft? Nope, I promised Connor I wouldn’t tell, and I’ll keep that promise no matter what. Even with the girls. Even when he’s pulled a disappearing ghost act.

  Right now, I wish I hadn’t told them about his stealing the laptop because that could get sticky. Especially if they hear about The Black Rose going missing from the same event. It wouldn’t take any of them longer than a split second to put that together and come up with Connor.

  This is fucking complex. And dangerous.

  “Look, I need you girls to promise me something,” I tell them quietly. “About Connor . . . what I tell you is a secret. You gotta swear.”

  Bless them all, my friends immediately all swear without even questioning. Aleria even places her hand on her heart, a signal she doesn’t take lightly since she follows her heart always.

  “Okay,” I whisper, taking a deep breath. “He's had some trouble. And I don’t know where he went, how long he’ll be gone, or even if . . . if he’s coming back.”

  I expect pity, maybe even a bit of blame for losing my heart to a criminal. What I don’t expect is the universal anger around the room.

  “Men are pigs.”

  “That’s why I write aliens!”

  “That’s why we all write fictional heroes.”

  “True that.”

  It helps, even if I think they’re wrong. Or at least I’m hoping they’re wrong. Because I believe deep in my heart that Connor is worth this pain . . . and not lying to me about a secret wife and kids he’s got hiding out in another town, which was Daysha’s twisted thought.

  For the rest of the afternoon, the girls help out. Jasmine makes me a delicious bowl of spaghetti while Daysha and Becca go through my rough draft with a fine-tooth comb.

  My backup computer and thumb drive come in handy as I get into the swing, sprinting through scenes and chapters while my W3AS sisters help.

  “Open wide,” Becca orders at one point, popping a donut hole into my mouth. “Good girl!”

  “What’s that for?” I mumble around the mouthful of donut.

  “Every ten pages, you get a reward,” Becca tells me, patting my head. “Now back to it!”

  “You know you’re treating her like the two rug rats,” Jasmine says, looking over at Nut and Juice. “You going to take her for a walk later, too?”

  “If I have to.”

  The moonlight shines through my window as I sit on my couch. It’s long after the girls have left, and I’m sipping decaf. Frankly, stripping coffee of caffeine is an affront against nature and downright evil as far as I’m concerned, but the bitter coffee suits my mood and I do want to sleep tonight.

  Suddenly, Nut and Juice go crazy, growling and barking at the door. I didn’t hear anything, but they’re obviously riled up at something.

  “Connor?”

  I peek out and see a vehicle in his driveway, but it’s not his big King Ranch truck. This one is a black Suburban. And the front room light is on, glowing warmly.

  “Fuck no. I will destroy you before I let you hurt him,” I vow to the empty room. Surging off the couch, I don’t bother tying my robe or putting on reasonable shoes. Nope, I run right over in my fuzzy slippers with my robe flying out behind me like a cape. I’d look like an avenging angel if I weren’t wearing cartoon character PJ pants and carrying Gary the Golf Club.

  I don’t knock. I swing the front door right open, Gary on my shoulder and ready to swing as I stomp into the living room.

  “Who the fuck is in here?”

  A man, tightly built with blond hair and all black clothing, whirls, aiming a small handgun at me. “Freeze.”

  “Back atcha, asshole.” Gun versus golf club doesn’t put me in the winner’s column, but I’ve got fury and concern on my side. Plus a considerable lack of self-preservation. “Who are you?”

  “Hunter.”

  Well, we’re on first names, it seems. “Poppy.”

  The gun doesn’t move, but his eyes scan down my body and back up. It feels like an assessment, not particularly personal. More like an android scanning a human to compare to their data banks or something. “You’re her, the woman he met.”

  “I can neither confirm, nor deny, that allegation. Until you tell me more than your first name.”

  I’m afraid he’s an officer sent by Detective Carter, though I don’t know how he would’ve linked all that together. Carter’s all badge, no brains. And he definitely would’ve come himself if he got a hot tip on The Black Rose thief’s location. He’d want all the credit and wouldn’t want to share it with anyone. After all, the hero gets all the good press.

  But Hunter scoffs and gives me a wry look. “I’m the closest thing to a friend Connor’s got. I help him with . . . his work.” His brow lifts at that, questioning what I know.

  “You work with Connor and he told you about me?” I repeat cautiously. When he nods carefully, I throw caution to the wind and unleash wildly, “Where is he? He hasn’t been here in days. Is he okay? Tell me where he is.”

  Okay, so maybe I get a tad bit hysterical and bossy. And I might be screeching loudly.

  Hunter holds up a hand, telling me to be quiet. Seeing his gun still in his hand, he slips it back into a holster at his side. “He’s taking care of a job,” he tells me. “For some very dangerous people.”

  “Where?” I beg. “I need him!”

  “What’s wrong?” he demands, instantly serious. “Are you in trouble yourself? Threatened? Or . . . uhm, pregnant?”

  I whirl, walking around in circles as I rant. “What? No, I’m not pregnant.” I repeat his last thing, shaking my head. “But what isn’t wrong? He dumps all this heavy shit on me and then ghosts like fucking Casper. No, not Casper. He’s a friendly ghost. Connor disappeared like a fucking poltergeist, leaving me jumpy and terrified.”

  As I pace, spinning one way and then another, Hunter ducks away from the golf club resting on my shoulder. Finally, he puts a hand on my shoulder, stopping me and making me face him. “What heavy shit did he dump on you?”

  He’s parroting my words back meticulously, which makes me suspicious as hell. Maybe he is one of Carter’s flunkies. Surely, somebody at the police department has half a brain and one ball between their legs.

  I lunge forward, shoving the head of the golf club to Hunter’s neck, wishing it were a fat, chunky driver instead of an iron. “What do you know about Connor? You say you’re a friend, but what if I don’t believe you?”

  He freezes, though I have every belief that he could push the golf club away easily. “He stole your laptop but helped you get it back. It was an . . . unfortunate collateral damage to another job. You got the jump on him, and somehow, he ended up taking you to his sister’s wedding. I’m still not sure how you managed that one.”

  I sigh, weighing his words carefully. They’re all true, but I’m trying to make sure there’s no other way he could know that other than Connor telling him. Hunter pushes the golf club away slowly. “Believe me now?”

  “Yeah. But you still haven’t answered my main question. Where is Connor?”

  “If I tell you, I’m going to need your word that you won’t hurt him. How ride or die are you?”

  “If he’s at a strip club, I will rip his balls from his body and stuff them down his throat until it’s so swollen he looks like a bullfrog,” I state flatly. I’m dead serious. “If he needs help, I’ll bring hell with me to protect him.”

  Hunter chuckles, his smile turning his hard face into something much warmer. “I can see why he likes you. No strip club, I promise.”

  “Then I’m totally riding, no dying.”

  Hunter takes a big breath and points to the kitchen table. “I’m gonna need to hold you to that. Have a seat, let me fill you in.”

  Chapter 23

  Connor

  Different coffee shop, same routine. Hunter and I never meet at the same place more than once every few months, but it’s always the same. Same franchise chain, same code phrases, same beverages just to make sure we’re in the clear to discuss things.

  Once we’ve jumped all the old, familiar hurdles and I sip at my black coffee, I lay it out for Hunter. “I’ve got a problem, man. The five-oh sort.”

  Hunter sips at his coffee, wincing. “How in the hell do they mess up black coffee? Shit, bitter is one thing. Burnt is another.” I agree with him. The coffee at this particular shop is terrible compared to some of the other places we’ve met. But that’s not really the point I want him to focus on. Finally, he sets the mug down, staring into its depths before scanning me up and down. “You’ve got more problems than that, but let’s start there.”

  I’m pretty sure that’s a dig, but I don’t have time to volley back and give him shit in return. I dive right in and tell him about Detective Jax Carter, his behavior, especially his coming to see Poppy, and that they’ve linked the missing laptop to the missing painting. “They shouldn’t have even realized it was a fake yet. Seriously, what happened?”

  “Word is Fox tried to get it insured right afterward. Guess she hadn’t done it before, and the lights-out deal scared her into doing it pronto, and Lloyd’s of London knows their shit.”

  I snort. “But how do they know it was a recent switch? It could’ve been that way for months, years, no telling how long.”

  “The ownership change was documented when Fox took possession, so the assessment of it was recent enough that they could narrow it down. Especially since it doesn’t go many places, mostly just hangs on the wall in Fox’s office as a trophy of sorts. Easy to pin down then.” Hunter shrugs, well aware that he’s telling me things I already know from my prep work research.

  Everything he’s saying is why it was best to steal the painting at the dinner, and if things had gone according to plan, I’d be in the clear. But the fake being discovered so soon makes things extra messy. “I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t either, but what are you going to do about it?” Hunter asks.

  I’ve been racking my brain for the last few days, doing more planning and recon on the statue job while looking into this Detective Carter. It’s been tough, with my mind working in two directions at once. It’s more than tough, it’s risky. I’ve always been single-minded before.

  Not now.

  “I don’t know. I’m so close to getting Mr. Big, but it doesn’t seem as important now. She’s all I can think about.”

  Hunter leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out. He looks me in the eye, but I feel like he’s looking deeper into my soul. Can he see that my heart’s not in this anymore? That whatever gaping wound I’ve been trying to fill with stealing stuff has been filled with Poppy now?

  Finally, he says, “You’ve lost focus. I never thought I’d say that about the great Connor Bradley, but it’s the fucking truth. You should’ve walked away a long time ago, but out of some misguided sense of obligation, you got the laptop back for this woman. But now, it’s time to drop her. Bitches get you stitches.”

  His voice is dead cold, and realistically, I know he’s right. But I shake my head, running my fingers through my hair. “I can’t. I don’t want to. She’s it, man. I don’t deserve her, but I want to. Whatever it takes.”

  Hunter’s voice doesn’t thaw a bit as he leans in, hissing sharply. “You know you can’t simply walk away from this. There are consequences to what we do! If you lose focus or fail at your mission, it won’t just be you paying the price. It’ll be her too.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” I growl. “But desperate times call for desperate measures. I have to figure out a way to walk away and to protect her at the same time. Things have changed too much now.”

  “Bullshit,” Hunter spits out, unswayed by my desperation. “You’ve changed too much, lost your edge, and a man with no edge in our world is a man on his way to a shallow grave. You know too much, have seen too much, and have done too much.”

  We meet eyes once more, the silence growing long as the truth sinks in for both of us. This very well may be the last time I see Hunter. He has a job to do, a role to fill in this madcap world, and if I’m stepping off our conjoined path while he stays on its rocky road to wherever he goes next, we may never see each other again.

  Hunter holds a hand out, and we shake firmly. “Honor among thieves, brother. If you need me, you know how to find me.”

  “Same, brother. Eyes open.”

  I don’t turn around as he leaves the coffee shop, but I do watch his reflection in the window in front of me. Both because I’m sad to see him go, but also to make sure he doesn’t double-cross me once he’s behind my back. Honor among thieves is a common motto, but the reverse phrasing, no honor among thieves, is just as prevalent. But Hunter is out the door without a glance back, joining the small crowd of people on the street outside.

  Once he’s gone, I finish my coffee, thinking and planning.

  My body is relaxed, my mind comfortable with my plan to steal the stone sculpture, but my senses are still on alert as I sit in the gathered audience at the auction. I’ve already scanned the crowd, noting two prominent millionaires who are known collectors, four assistants, and a small number of unfamiliar faces who are probably lookie-loos who won’t bid on anything. There are also a few people off to the side at a table, some on computers and some on phones to take bids.

  I see the woman who let me in for an impromptu preview as well. She offers a polite smile of recognition, which I return. But I’m shocked when I hear a voice behind me say, “You’d better stop smiling right the fuck now, mister, or I will knock every single one of those Colgate white teeth out of your head and leave you looking like a blow-up doll ready for a dick in your mouth.”