Lock You Down Read online

  "It's my hip," I admitted, voice a growl.

  "Yeah?" Atlas asked, lips twitching. "What happened? You sneeze too hard, old man?"

  "Fuck off," I grumbled, slapping the file I had been adding pages to onto a pile with all the others. "I got hit by a car."

  "What?" he asked, a hair more serious. Which, for the normal person, would be nothing. But for Atlas, it was practically grave.

  "I was on a case. Trying to talk to this stalker chick. She peeled out, and hit me with her back quarter panel."

  "You've always had such a way with the ladies," he told me, lips curved upward.

  "I wasn't trying to fuck her, At, I was trying to tell her to fuck off."

  "But she told you to fuck off instead."

  That she did, actually.

  And in as many words.

  Repeatedly.

  Then with action.

  With more than sufficient force.

  I was half pissed and half impressed.

  It wasn't often someone was willing to hit you with their car.

  Sure, it wasn't on purpose. She seemed to be a complete shit driver, to be honest. And, to her credit, she had paused to make sure she hadn't done any serious damage, before she disappeared.

  Though, what she thought she was accomplishing by racing off was beyond me. Her plate was on her car, traceable.

  One could go ahead and assume she wasn't a pro. Unless the plates were fake. But judging by her reaction to me, I thought not. She was some normal, garden variety stalker.

  Usually, with women, it wasn't that big of a deal to handle. They tended to be pissed about some cheating or a lack of child support or some other domestic issue. You went ahead and had a talk with them--with King, or Atlas, or Rush, likely a talk about how they deserved better, that they shouldn't waste their time with such a piece of shit, etc. etc. etc., while I told them to fuck off and move on with their lives already, always being the more blunt out of all my siblings--and they let it go.

  Not like the guys who couldn't accept that some woman didn't belong to them just because she once dated him or simply smiled at him at the grocery store.

  So I figured that as soon as King's contact at the DMV got back to us with a name, it would likely just be another day, then I could close the case, move on. Maybe catch a couple easy cases that just involved updating security systems or something like that.

  "Can't imagine why she'd be stalking the prick she has been staking out. He hardly seems like someone a woman would feel attached to."

  "Oh, women. Such mysterious creatures," Atlas agreed.

  "Speaking of mysterious creatures," Kingston said, walking in, glancing at Atlas lounged on the couch in my office. "What brings you back so early? Did you hit on some cartel guy's woman again?"

  The fact that he had to add on 'again' told you a lot about Atlas and his tendency toward getting himself into interesting sorts of trouble when womenfolk were involved.

  "I had my heart stolen by a rich divorcee," he told us, clutching his chest, eyes closing.

  "And then?" King prompted, brow raised.

  "And then... she transferred her affections to a cabana boy in a banana hammock." He was clearly real hung up on it. "I was out of cash, so I headed back home. Figure you can always use some extra hands around here. Got any new cases?" he asked. "Aside from the one that has women running over Nixon with their cars, of course. Because he is clearly doing a bang-up job there on his own."

  "You got run over?" King asked, slipping effortlessly into dad-mode.

  "I got clipped when I approached the target. Not a big deal. I have Shelly running her plate numbers. It will be over in a day or two."

  "Her?" King asked, lips twitching as he tried to hold back a grin.

  "I know, right?" Atlas asked, not bothering to hide his smile. "I mean he has an awful track record with the fairer sex in general. But he must have been extra charming to get hit by one."

  "Are you guys done?" I asked, yanking open my top desk drawer, grabbing for a bottle, pills dancing around before I uncapped it and threw back a few.

  "Yeah, King. Geesh, ease up on the guy. Can't you see he is late for his cane-fitting appointment? Fuck, leave a guy alone, would you?" he asked, unfolding from the couch, clapping Kingston on the shoulder before moving off into the main area of the office.

  "Nice to have some levity back in the office," Kingston admitted. It bothered him, I knew, to have Atlas gone a lot of the time. Not because he wanted his help at work, but because he liked having his family close by. He liked to watch over everyone. That was just King.

  "But only when the jokes come at my expense, huh?" I asked, rubbing my hip.

  "All jokes aside, did you get checked out? Nothing serious?"

  "It's bruised to high hell. I went down on it hard. The side she hit is fine."

  "So I'm assuming the case isn't going as planned?" he asked, sitting on the couch Atlas had vacated.

  "The plan was there was no stalker. But I'm figuring this will be easy enough. The female stalkers usually aren't that dangerous."

  "Except when they whack you with their vehicles."

  "Well, I probably freaked her out," I admitted, knowing it was never a good move to approach a woman all alone at night for any reason. Even if it was to tell her to stop being such a fucking creep.

  "She was hot, wasn't she?" Atlas asked, appearing in the doorway again, taking a bite out of a piece of sub. My sub. That I had brought in with me.

  "She's a stalker," I reminded him.

  "You notice how he didn't answer my question?" he asked King, shaking his head. "She must be a hottie."

  Fine.

  She was.

  It hadn't exactly been the best lighting, but what I had seen was, yes, hot.

  She seemed long and lean with deep eyes, golden undertones to her Asian skin, and a shock of nearly white-blonde hair. I couldn't imagine how gorgeous she'd be in good light.

  And that voice.

  She had a voice you could only describe as sultry.

  Fiona would have begged her to work for her phone sex business with a voice like that.

  "You're an--" I started, cut off by the deep vibration across my desk from my phone.

  It was just a text.

  The one I had been waiting for.

  Shelly was quick this time.

  Name: Reagan Amida Hoffman.

  "Got a name? "King asked as I turned to my computer, tapping the information I had into one of the best trusts of personal information. Facebook.

  She popped up quickly, her profile a picture of herself with her arm around a slightly darker-skinned man, both of them beaming at the camera. And, judging by the glassy looks to both their eyes, a little drunk.

  "Told you she was a hottie," Atlas said, coming up behind me. And I could hear him devouring my fucking lunch. "Why is she stalking your client if she's got a man?"

  That was a good question.

  The two in the picture had their arms around each other. Close. Happy. Possibly good friends. But if a woman had a man in her main profile picture, it usually implied more than friendship, didn't it?

  "She have her work address listed?" Kingston asked, checking the time on the wall.

  "You're gonna love this," Atlas told him. "She's a hottie. And she works at a whiskey company," he volunteered. "Gee, King, do we know anyone who is really into some good whiskey?" he asked, and King let the smile spread that time.

  "Shame he already made such a shit impression, huh?" Kingston asked.

  "Right. Because I should be dating a fucking stalker."

  "I mean, with your moody ass, you can't afford to be picky, can you?" Atlas asked, dodging back a foot to avoid my arm that flew out toward him.

  "I think I've had enough brotherly love for the day," I declared, annoyed that I had to plant my hands on my desk to pull myself onto my feet. "I am going to confront her so we can close this case."

  My gait was stiff and slow as I made my way across the office
. It didn't get any better the more I walked either, but I figured that once the case was done, once the client was happy with the results, I could spend some time on the couch with an ice pack and a bottle of whiskey, give myself a chance to recover.

  Reagan Hoffman worked at a place called Devil Tears Whiskey, a luxury brand that I hadn't tried yet since it had a three-digit price-tag. While I enjoyed a good glass of whiskey, I didn't feel like any bottle of booze should go for well, well over a hundred bucks.

  There were two main headquarters, I learned when I sat in my car researching on my phone to avoid my brothers. One was in California. The other was right here on the outskirts of Navesink Bank.

  I figured it was safe to assume Reagan worked at the local one, so I set my GPS, and made my way there.

  The Devil Tears Whiskey building actually looked like it may have, at one time, been a barn. A very large two-story barn, but a barn nonetheless. There was the nearly rounded roof that met the reclaimed wood shakes, giant windows that had to have been more modern with their black dividers. There was a giant, barn door on a slider, leaving me to wonder how the hell they managed to lock the place down for the night.

  The grounds, yeah, they weren't your typical grass. No. It seemed they were either intentionally made to seem as though they were carelessly allowed to go crazy, or purposely left as a pasture, the ground speckled with wildflowers, bright pops of color against the lower greenery.

  The strangest part of the whole building, however, was the parking lot. Let's face it, businesses sprang for asphalt lots.

  Not Devil Tears Whiskey, though.

  Oh, no.

  They had a giant patch of what looked like clover interrupted by small strips of concrete pavers just wide enough for wheels to rest on.

  "Weird," I mumbled to myself as I pulled my car onto one of the sets of cobblestones. It wasn't hard to find a spot since the only car in the lot so far was a familiar black Tesla. It was parked in the only spot that also had a charging station.

  And from the new angle in the lot, I could see a giant patch of the field toward the back overtaken by gleaming black solar panels.

  "Alright then," I said, shaking my head, making my way toward the side entrance door. Finding it unlocked, I had to wonder why a woman who was clearly in the office alone would forget to lock the entrance.

  It worked in my favor, though, as I let myself into the lower level.

  Within, I found myself surrounded by a whole lot of nothing. Old advertising materials. Stacks of shipping crates. Five-gallon buckets.

  It was more like a basement than anything, but there was a stone staircase leading upward, and I continued up.

  The upper level was clearly the office space.

  It was one of those open concept type areas, but some of the desk stations had dividers set up, and I decided right then and there that I could never work in a place where you would never find any privacy.

  The wide-paneled floors were flat, the walls covered in wood very similar to the kind found on the outside of the building.

  Some of the six desks were immaculate. Others were cluttered and full of personal items.

  There were houseplants of all shapes and sizes scattered around near the windows, and the soft hum coming from a mostly-hidden air purifier in the corner. Beside it appeared to be an empty humidifier.

  On the far wall was a long table that looked as though it had once been a regular wooden door, but was painted a bright blue color, and was home to the office coffee machine. Not a pot and a burner, oh no, but the kind of industrial-looking machine you'd find at an actual coffeehouse. Beside it was a water purification pitcher, mostly empty, and a wooden rack lined with different sugars, teas, and what seemed to be spices.

  Weird.

  Interesting, but weird.

  Maybe they were the sort of people who put cinnamon and allspice in their coffee or some shit.

  There was a large stainless steel bottom fridge beside the coffee station where they likely kept their milk and all their from-home lunches.

  There wasn't a proper break room. And I guess that shouldn't have surprised me since we didn't technically have one either, always being the sort to eat at our desks or if we were feeling social, the seating area just inside the front door.

  There were two rooms leading off the common area. Only one had a door. Which likely made it the bathroom.

  The other was an open doorway into a room that didn't match the rest of the building, as it was painted a stark white.

  Music hummed from somewhere inside, a song that I was vaguely familiar with that likely topped the charts in the nineties.

  Moving closer, I got a better view of the room, with its long white table under the windows, compulsively neat with one large bowl full of fresh fruit, and one marble-colored cutting board with a black knife resting on it.

  Moving closer still, I saw all the way in. I saw the desk toward the far left--marble colored, but I had my bet on not actual marble, with a simple cream cushioned chair. There was another long table behind the desk, home to a neatly stacked file holder, a printer, and a small radio where her iPod was hooked in.

  The woman herself stood there as well, her back toward me, so I couldn't get a better look at her face. Her body that I had rightly called long and lean, had a slight flare of hip and high ass clad in high-waist pants that were a golden brown color. Her white tee was tucked in it. Her feet were bare, pink-nailed toes on full display.

  One glance told me her heels were tucked under her desk. I could hardly blame her for that. They looked like archaic torture devices, all propped up on toothpick-thin, sky-scraping heels.

  To the right of the door was a captain's chair the style of days-gone-by in a cream and green miniature leaf pattern. A tablet in a shatter-proof case was sitting a bit barely on the arm, and a small blanket in a hunter green color was folded on the seat. Directly in front of that, there was what looked like a treadmill on the ground. Just the tread, though. No sides, no top with the display on it.

  Just a tread.

  I'd seen an advertisement for them once, and had clicked it. They set you back nearly a grand.

  But, I had to admit, it looked a fuckuva lot better than a full treadmill jammed into an office.

  Turning back, I raised my hand, knuckles rapping softly on the doorframe, drawing her attention away from whatever was in her hand.

  When she put it down, I could see it was a picture. A large one framed in white, with her, the man from her Facebook picture, and a woman with dark skin and bright honey eyes, all of them beaming at the camera.

  "Oh... you," she said when she finally saw it was me and not one of her employees standing there.

  "Yeah, me," I agreed, giving her a nod, leaning back into the doorframe, so I didn't come off as intimidating. Well, any more intimidating than I already was, cornering a woman in her office when she was alone.

  "I guess I should have expected you."

  "Especially when you don't bother to lock the door," I agreed, trying not to notice the way her shirt neckline dipped low, showing the barest hint of cleavage, a bar-shaped golden pendant hanging between.

  She seemed to be a woman of understatements. There were no rings on her fingers, no watch, no bracelets, not even any makeup. Aside from the necklace, the only other adornments on her were a pair of gold stud earrings in the shape of little Xs on her earlobes.

  I found I liked that.

  While I couldn't claim to have much of a preference when it came to women in eye or hair color, or even body shape, I did tend to be more drawn to women with minimal makeup and only a small amount of jewelry.

  "My employees are on their way in."

  I couldn't tell if she was stating a fact, or if she was issuing a warning: Don't try to hurt me because you are not going to get away with it.

  "It's late."

  "It's ten a.m.," she corrected. "You can hardly call that late."

  "Why would you come in early, and let your employees
come in after ten?"

  "I read some studies that said people are more productive after ten a.m. I guess it gives them time to sleep in and wake up naturally. Or be able to take their time with their morning routines."

  "But you?"

  "Oh, I am up with the sun. Or before. Just how I am built. I get all my working out and such done before eight, so there is no reason for me not to come in and get started."

  "You should keep the door locked when you're in here alone."

  "Clearly," she agreed, giving me a small smirk. "Would you like to have a seat?" she asked, motioning toward the chair on the other side of her desk.

  It looked hard and uncomfortable compared to hers and the one in the corner. But my hip was still throbbing and I figured sitting might help, so I pushed off the wall and made my way over.

  "Oh," she said, her lower and upper lips thinning out, exposing her teeth, clearly contrite. "I did some actual damage, huh?" she asked, moving toward her seat, sinking down, hands spread wide to plant her palms on either side of the desk. "Are you going to sue me?"

  "For a bruise? No."

  "You're sure there's no real damage? You should have gotten checked out."

  "You shouldn't have hit me," I countered.

  "Obviously. It wasn't like I meant to do it. And you did startle and threaten me."

  "I don't remember any threats."

  "I distinctly remember feeling threatened."

  "Then you are not remembering things clearly. I never threatened to hurt you."

  "No," she agreed, nodding. "But you delivered an unfinished threat."

  "An unfinished threat," I repeated. That was a new one for me.

  "Yeah. You know. Like when you say something like 'I better never catch you around here again.' That is an unfinished threat. Clearly, the person speaking isn't about to say that 'Or I will buy you a giant cup of coffee and a full stack of blueberry pancakes.' Obviously, what is going to follow is going to be something, well, threatening."

  "Fair enough," I agreed, even if I wasn't too fond of the idea of any woman thinking I was threatening her.

  "Are you here to finish the threat?"

  "In a sense," I told her.