you a top contender for banging the most women in any given year?”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Work your magic and tell me how Harlow Glass has been making money.” To survive as long as she had, she had to be bringing in a little cash from somewhere.
“All right.” Fingers click-clacked over a keyboard, one minute bleeding into another. “Okay, this is strange.”
“What?”
“My superpower is finding information—nice trust you’re setting up for her, by the way—but I can’t locate Harlow’s place of employment. Or where she’s been staying. She has no known address and hasn’t paid taxes. She has zero credit cards and no checking account. She doesn’t have a tag registered for a vehicle.”
Damn. “Thanks, West.”
“Anytime, my man. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
“No worries. Just...do me a solid and keep digging.” He hung up, mind racing. Where the hell was Harlow staying? How was she getting around? How was she eating?
The answer to that last one seemed an unequivocal she wasn’t, and for a moment, his vision went black, rage boiling to the surface. No one should have to live that way, and whether Harlow liked it or not, he wasn’t going to stand for it in her case.
* * *
LATE THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Beck was ready for a straitjacket and a padded room. They’d make a nice vacation. Harlow hadn’t shown up to work on the garden that morning, and he’d had no luck finding her in town. He’d asked around, but no one had seen her. A couple of people had offered to round up a lynch mob and go hunting for her, and he’d had to curb the urge to respond with his fists. She seemed to have disappeared into the ether.
Now he racked the balls on one of the most expensive pool tables ever made, the outer shell a limited edition 1965 Shelby GT 350. Normally he took great care with every inch of it. My precious. Today, he wanted to rip out the felt and pull the metal and wood apart piece by piece.
His date with Sandra...Sally?...could have made a Worst Ever list. He’d thought about Harlow all evening, wondering where she was and what she was doing. Frustrated with the lack of answers, he’d turned up the heat with S girl until she’d practically begged him to stay the night at her place. There was no better distraction than sex, but as she’d undressed, his mind had returned to Harlow yet again. He’d thought of the nice steak dinner he’d just enjoyed and wondered if she’d had any dinner at all.
Little surprise he’d failed to get an erection while a beautiful woman writhed on his lap.
He’d left without doing the deed, and the humiliation still lingered.
“Your turn,” Jase said, snapping fingers in front of his face.
Beck swiped up his cue and nearly broke the wood in two, so tight was his grip.
“Careful. What’s with you?”
“I’m fine.” No way he’d dump his problems in Jase’s lap. The guy had carried too many burdens for too long. Beck would die before he added another.
“Don’t lie. Not to us.”
The statement came from West, who rose from the bench press Jase had installed earlier in the week. Though he’d built a workout room in the back of the house, more and more equipment was migrating into other areas of the house, allowing anyone in the mood to exercise to spend time with those who weren’t.
Dark locks of hair were plastered to West’s face, and he used the shirt he’d discarded to wipe his brow. Sweat dripped down the ropes of muscle and sinew in his chest, bypassing his only tattoo: the name Tessa etched over his heart.
He snatched the cue from Beck. “Bad boys don’t get to play the greatest game ever invented.”
At six-two—two inches taller than Beck—West was his staunchest competition in the meat market. Not that they’d ever competed. West only dated for two months out of the year, picking one female and staying with her the entire time, only to dump her for some made-up reason when the clock zeroed out.
He had his reasons, so Beck didn’t fault him. “Okay, all right.” Beck held up his hands, palms out. “You got me. I’m not fine, but I will be. There’s no need to worry.”
“We’ll worry if we want to worry,” Jase said. “We haven’t seen you this worked up since you went parking with Kara Bradburry in the tenth grade.”
West barked out a laugh. “Dude. You were so nervous, shaking so hard, you couldn’t even unhook her bra.”
At the time, his only experience had come from a woman more than twice Kara’s age, who’d told him what to do every step of the way.
Great. Now he needed a drink.
He grabbed a beer from the minifridge and downed half. “Like you guys did any better with your dates.” Back then, the three of them had seen nothing wrong with semipublic make-out sessions, because they were teenagers and teenagers were stupid, the males most of all; they had two brains and the one down south usually made the most important life decisions. It went something like: Her. Her. Not her—fine, she’ll do.
West lined up a shot and with his gaze on Beck, sank a solid in the corner pocket. “Let me guess. This is about Harlow Glass.”
Just the mention of her name proved last night’s limp-wood experience had been an anomaly, and it pissed him off as much as it relieved him.
“She’s pretty,” Jase said, his tone conversational.
Pretty? Like calling an ocean a puddle. “She’s gorgeous.”
West straightened and grinned. A genuine grin, and it was good to see. The past few weeks had been rough for him, the anniversary of Tessa’s death taking a toll. “Are you about to wax poetic about Harlow? Because I don’t have bad poetry penciled into my schedule.”
West lived by the clock, and if he had his way, he would die by it, too.
“I wax poetic about nothing,” Beck said. “Except pie. And cake. Maybe cookies in a pinch, but that’s only on a case-by-case basis. Anything with raisins should be stuffed in a box and delivered to hell with Return to Sender stamped over the top.”
Jase snickered. “How’s this for poetry? ‘Roses are red, violets are blue. Beck wants Harlow, I know this to be true.’”
Beck, in the process of lifting the bottle to his mouth, went still, nearly swept away by a tide of shock. Jase hadn’t cracked a joke in damn near forever, and until that moment, Beck hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the playful side of his friend.
“Beck, my man,” Jase said, frowning at him. “Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of mythical creature. Not after I told you to let go of the past. I have.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I freaking love you, that’s all.” Beck set his beer aside and swiped his cue from West. He lined up his own shot...and like a loser, failed to sink a solid. Usually he could win the game blindfolded with both hands tied behind his back.
Yes,
