Rastor (Lawton Rastor Book 2) (11 page)

I was standing on the sidewalk in front of Chloe's place. I'd just passed her driveway when I heard something that made me stop dead in my tracks. It was the sound of a garage door opening. I turned and saw a slick black Mercedes backing out of Chloe's bonus garage.

The car looked a lot like a certain dark sedan that I'd seen outside her place a few weeks earlier. The driver of
that
car had been a total douchebag.

And somehow, I just knew it was the same guy. Same car, same location – it had to be.

The night I'd seen him, he'd given his name as Leo. Other than that, I still didn't know who the guy was, but I had pretty good idea that he was her landlord or something.

The one and only time that we'd talked, he'd spent half the time griping about the electrical system and the other half offering me honeys – as he called them – for a price.

Chloe had never mentioned the guy, and after the whole basement fiasco, I sure as hell wasn't going to be grilling her about him now.

But standing there on the sidewalk, a new thought hit me. Maybe I couldn’t grill
her
, but I could grill
him
. Hell, I wouldn't even have to be aggressive about it. From what I'd seen the last time, the guy loved to talk, especially about himself.

I stood where I was, betting on the fact that he'd stop the car when he spotted me. Sure enough, rather than backing out onto the street, he stopped the car at the end of the driveway and leaned his head out the open window.

"Hey neighbor," he said as I approached the car. He was an overly tanned man, maybe in his fifties or sixties. He had poufy blonde hair and big white teeth. He wore a shiny grey suit, but no tie. He was grinning. "You liking the hood?"

What hood? The neighborhood? I glanced around. If this was a hood, I was a housewife. I'd seen the real hood, and it looked nothing like this.

I shrugged. "It's alright. So, you're back in town, huh?"

The last time I'd seen him, he'd mentioned that he traveled a lot – for fun
and
business, or so he claimed. 

"Eh, just for the day," he said. "Gotta check on my investments, you know?"

No. I didn't know. But this would be a good time to find out. "Yeah? What kind of investments?"

He flicked his gaze toward the house. "Well, like
this
place for one."

I nodded. "So you're the landlord, huh? Renting the place out?"

"You could say that." His smile widened. "I got people lined up like you wouldn't believe."

I looked again toward the house. It was a two-story Tudor – the house of a banker, a doctor, or maybe a nice, respectable family of five, assuming they had a decent chunk of money.

It hit me all over again that the house was an odd place to find a single girl like Chloe. Sure, I knew she came from money, but the house was still way too big for one person.

Yeah, I realized that my own house was three times the size, but my own situation wasn't exactly normal.

"What kind of people?" I said. "You mean like renters?"

He laughed like I'd just said something funny. "Sure, if you wanna call 'em that. As for me, I call 'em clients."

Clients? What the hell did
that
mean?

Before I could ask, he motioned me closer and said in a low voice, "You give any more thought to my business proposition?"

I had a pretty good idea what he meant, but I wanted to make him say it. I shook my head. "What business proposition?"

He gave an oily laugh. "You know…the girls."

I recalled his words from the last time.
"If you call in the professionals, you get what you want – blond, brunette, bald, you name it. You pay for the stuff you want, and kick 'em to the curb when you're done. Easy-peasy."

Easy-peasy, my ass.

From the driver's seat, he grinned over at me. "I've got this one girl, she'll suck your dick like a fuckin' vacuum cleaner." He laughed. "I'm talking industrial strength. I call her Hoover. Swear to God, you'll be thinking, 'Man, is she gonna suck this thing clean off, or what?'"

At the sound of his laugh, I swear, I felt my own dick shrivel up inside my jeans. The guy had a messed-up vibe, and I hated the fact that he was here, where Chloe lived. Did she really know this guy? She must. This
was
where she lived, after all.

I stared down at him, wondering what the hell I should say to that. The plan had been to keep it civil. But the more he talked, the more I wanted to drag him out of his car and beat the answers out of him.

Right, because
that
would show Chloe that I wasn't a psycho.

I tried for a casual shrug and listened as he told me about this other girl who went by the nickname of Spanky.

I heard myself ask, "Giving or receiving?"

"That's up to you," he said. "So, you interested?"

I was a lot of things, but not interested. There was only one girl I wanted, and her name wasn't Spanky. Or Hoover, for that matter.

It was Chloe, the girl I loved. But standing there, my thoughts started churning with details that I didn't want to consider. Chloe wasn't just the girl I loved. She was a hot girl in a fancy neighborhood. She lived in a house that was off-limits for reasons that I still didn't get.

And now, looking at the guy in her driveway, a sick feeling grew in my gut. I tried to shove it aside. But I couldn’t. Finally, I asked myself the question that I'd been avoiding for too long.

Is Chloe involved with this guy?

No. She wasn't. She couldn’t be. Whether for business or pleasure, she wasn't like that.

The guy was an ass-wipe, plain and simple. Probably, he had a string of properties a mile long, all mortgaged to the hilt. I knew the type. I'd seen it before – guys getting in over their heads and trying all kinds of crazy schemes to claw their way out.

Fuck it. I was done listening to his bullshit. The way it looked, he wasn't going to tell me a damn thing that was useful – unless I went on the offense. And I couldn’t. Thanks to my own stupidity, I was still on Chloe's shit-list, bigtime.

As of now, I wasn't even her boyfriend. I was a guy who'd already messed up once. If I were smart, I'd end this conversation now, before I dug myself a deeper hole. "I don't need any girls," I told him.

"Well, sure you don't
need
any girls," he said, giving me a look this side of creepy. "I mean, look at ya."

Yeah. Look at me. Standing on the side of the road talking to a scumbag.

"I'm just saying," he continued, "sometimes we want something special." He grinned. "Like extra-trashy. The dirty stuff, you know?"

Been there, done that. Those days were over, and if I stayed one more minute, I'd be going for the guy's throat. "I've gotta go," I said, turning away.

I'd gotten maybe two or three steps when he called out after me, "Hey! What about nice girls?"

Slowly, I turned to face him. "What?"

"I'm just saying, if you like 'em sweet, I got them, too."

Through gritted teeth, I said, "Sweet?"

"Hey, don't get me wrong. I'm not talking kids or nothing. I'm talking college girls, high-end stuff." He gave a laugh. "Tuition is crazy, right? You wouldn’t believe the shit some chicks'll do for extra cash."

I gave him a long, cold look. "What chicks?"

"You know, regular girl-next-door types, the kind you could take home to mom." He was nodding now. "And hey, if your mom's into threesomes–"

"She's not."

But only because she was dead. Who knows the shit she'd do if she were alive. The way it sounded, she and this guy could've been best buddies.

"Hey, don't get all mad," the guy said. "I was just messin' with you." He laughed. "Not that the girls wouldn't do it. I'm just saying, most people moms aren't into shit
that
freaky, you know?"

I glanced at Chloe's house – except it
wasn't
her house, was it? It was
this
guy's house. Who
was
he to her? Just a landlord? Or something different? Was
she
the "something sweet" he was offering me?

No. I refused to believe that. But he was up to something, and suddenly, I knew that I couldn't let it go without finding out. It wasn't just for me. It was for Chloe, whether she got pissed off or not. Because when it came down to it, I'd rather lose her forever than see anything bad happen to her.

I mean, what the hell? The guy was flat-out pimping where Chloe lived. Even if she wasn't involved, how long would it take before someone showed up here, looking for Spanky or whoever?

No. That wasn't going to fly. Not if I could help it.

Deliberately, I moved toward the guy. "You conduct your business
here
?"

"Hell no," he said. "You think I’m stupid? I don't shit where I eat. Come on, man. Get real."

I didn't want the guy shitting
or
eating anywhere near Chloe. I leaned down until I was practically inside his car. "So then what's the deal with the house? You live here?"

He leaned back. "What?"

"You heard me." My jaw was tight, and my fingers were clenched. "Just what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Woah." He held up his hands, palms out. "No need to get all funny about it."

Funny? Like a head through the windshield? His head, his windshield, with some help from me. Right about now, it would be fucking hilarious.

Before I knew it, I'd reached in and grabbed the guy by the lapels of his shiny-ass suit. "Listen, asshole," I said. "You peddle that shit somewhere else."

"Hey!" He tried for another laugh. "We're just talking, right? No harm in that." He licked his lips like they'd suddenly gone dry. "Sorry man, I didn't take you for no choirboy, but hey, I got the message. Loud and clear. Alright?"

I stared at the guy, wondering if an elbow to the face would send a better message. I was still gripping his suit. "I've got a question," I said.

"Uh, sure," he stammered. "Anything."

I flicked my head toward the house. "The girl who lives here. You know her?"

"What?"

"It's a simple question, asshole."

"No," he said, trying to tug away from my grip. "Shit. I'm just the property manager."

"Yeah?" I gave him a hard look. "Just the property manager? I thought you owned the place."

"What? No? I mean, I'm gonna buy it. I'm just working to get the money together, you know?"

So much for Mister Bigshot. "So who the fuck are you?"

"Me?" He swallowed. "I'm just the guy who pays the light bill."

"Uh-huh."

He gave a shaky laugh. "Hard to keep a place rented when there's no juice, am I right?"

"And what about the girls?"

"What girls?"

Through gritted teeth, I said, "Hoover, Spanky, Whoever. Any of them live around here?"

"What? No." Again, he tried to pull away. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"
My
problem?
You're
the one selling pussy in my backyard." I gave another glance toward Chloe's house. "The girl who lives here? Is she for sale, too?"

"What? Her? No, never met her. Swear to God. My partner handles the rental stuff. You know, dealing with leases, credit checks, all that shit."

"So
he's
the property manager?"

"Well, uh, yeah. But I help. I collect and stuff." He gave another nervous laugh. "It's always something, right?"

Yeah, it was. I wasn't letting go. "And who's your partner?" I asked.

He blinked up at me. "What?"

"Your partner. Who the fuck is he?"

"He's a nice guy, totally legit." Again, the guy swallowed. "You got it all wrong. I don't know what you think, but I don't do my side-stuff around here." He made a show of looking insulted. "What kind of guy do you think I am?"

From the look on his face, he knew exactly what kind of guy I thought he was – the kind who peddled pussy in a nice neighborhood.

As I watched, his gaze shifted to something across the street. I looked to see some elderly lady walking out to her mailbox. Her steps faltered as she spotted us.

I knew exactly what she saw – some tattooed guy roughing up a man in a Mercedes.

Shit.

In a low voice, I told the guy, "If you're smart, you'll do your business someplace else."

With a push, I let him go. A split-second later, his car squealed out of the driveway and disappeared down the street, leaving me and the neighbor lady – whoever she was – staring after him.

Walking back to my own place, my thoughts were churning. I didn't regret running the guy off, but I wasn't blind to the downside. What would I say if Chloe found out?

And chances were pretty good that she would.

Screw it, I decided. I'd tell her the truth. That the guy was pimping pussy out of her driveway. If she blamed me for what I'd done, well, then we had bigger problems than I thought.

Back at my own house, I found Bishop in the kitchen, making a sandwich.

When he saw me, he said, "Thanks a lot, asshole."

"What?"

"Why'd you sic Amber on me?"

Like
he
was one to talk. "Why'd you sic her on
me
?" I said.

"Hey, all I did was open the gate."

"Yeah?" I crossed my arms. "And all
I
did was point to the house."

"You're still an asshole," he muttered, reaching for a loaf of whole-grain bread, uncut, straight from the bakery – or at least, that's what my housekeeper told me when she'd stocked the kitchen.

Bishop glanced around. "Hey, where'd you put the knives?"

I looked toward the usual spot and paused. Usually, I had a sixteen-piece knife set, right there on the counter. The block was still there. The knives were gone. I scanned the nearby countertops. No knives.

"Did you check the dishwasher?" I asked.

"Yeah. There's nothing in there."

Standing like a dumb-ass, I continued to look around. And then I spotted it – a handwritten note, taped to the fridge. It had two words, Suicide Hotline, along with a scribbled phone number and a smiley face at the bottom.

"Damn it," I muttered.

"What?" Bishop asked.

"You left Amber alone in here, didn't you?"

"Yeah. For maybe a minute." He laughed. "Why? You worried she'd make off with the silver?"

"Not the silver," I said. "The knives."

"The knives?" He gave me an odd look. "But why?"

I shook my head. "Don't ask." Besides, there was something else I wanted to talk about. I leaned back against the kitchen counter and told Bishop about the douchebag who'd just offered me pussy for pay. I didn't mention Chloe, or the fact that this happened right there in Chloe's driveway.

By the time I finished, Bishop was sawing into the bread with the switchblade he kept in his pocket. "Where was this?" he asked.

"Just down the street."

"Here?" He frowned. "In this neighborhood? What was he driving?"

"A black Mercedes."

"You get the plate number?" he asked.

I shook my head. At the time, I'd been so pissed off that I hadn't even thought of it. But next time, I would – except there'd better not be a next time.