“You’ve got the muscle,” Grady rumbles, his big hands clenched together in front of him. “I’ve still got the right guns and a good eye to cover you.”
“Trouble is, the man’s not stupid. We’ll need more than raw force.” Faulk leans back in his chair, stroking his chin dusted in a sandy five o’clock shadow. “Clay Grendal is experienced, highly intelligent, and dangerous. And if you’re thinking about placing an order for his goods to set him up, think again. If it comes from you or Tobin or some hired proxy out of left field, you’ll never make him do squat.”
“I know,” I tell them, taking a slug of my beer, the cool glass sharpening my focus. “Luckily, there’s one more person I think I can count on to have my back. She’s not here to talk details, but I think she’ll be persuaded to help.”
“Just tell us what you need,” Drake whispers, his eyes glowing with an excited fury I’m sure he thought was behind him.
With friends like these, this might just work.
An hour later, my last nerve wants to snap.
“Just do it, Bebe,” I say. “Please. How many times do I have to—”
“You’re crazy!” she snaps. “No way, buster. What you’re asking could ruin your career forever—could even damage mine. Have you lost it out there in the sticks? Has North Dakota and more oil pumps than people just scrambled your brain? Ridge, what you’re asking isn’t just illegal, it’s…”
I hold the phone away from my ear as she rattles on about my terrible, unreasonable request for another minute.
Let her vent.
Because it’s true. I’m putting her between a rock and a hard place.
If word gets out that she’s soliciting designer drugs for my engagement party, it could blow back on her a dozen ugly ways.
I don’t care what happens to me, but I have some sympathy for her.
Bebe was there when I needed her, but dammit, I need her more now.
I want Grendal to hear about my phony needs.
I want to play his greed.
Make him fly into such a snarling roid rage he tries delivering those drugs himself.
“Find someone who will,” I tell her. “I need this party, and it has to go off without a hitch.”
She’s silent for so long I wonder if she hung up, except for the fact that I can hear the music in the background. Classical. It’s always playing in her office.
“On one condition,” she finally says.
My muscles tighten even more. If she starts in on a woman—Grace—not being worth it again, I’ll lose it.
“What?” I ask, bracing for whatever bullet comes out of her mouth next.
“Three more movies,” she says firmly. “Start with the Western—the good one—the script I sent over last week.”
I hadn’t even opened her package. Hadn’t planned on it.
The air in my lungs burns hot as I heave it out.
“All right. Fuck. I’ll do it. Help me with this, and I’ll make you a rich woman. Richer, I mean.” I click off and drop the phone on my desk, hoping Faulk knows what he’s doing.
Hell, I hope I know what I’m doing.
I just keep digging myself deeper, and even if I line up a small army to help, there’s no guarantee any of this works.
But does it matter in the end? Does it make me think for a hot second about pulling back?
No.
The next couple weeks are heaven and hell.
Spring arrives in full force, banishing the last of the snow and beginning to paint the sprawling acreage around my place green. We take Rosie and Stern out for rides together.
They give me a special peace I’ve never enjoyed.
And the sex we have in the barn, in the bedrooms, bathrooms, and anywhere else we can be sure of not getting caught?
Fucking mind-boggling.
It never gets old. She’s so enticing, so eager.
Every glance as she transitions into lighter clothes with the changing weather destroys what little resistance and focus I’ve got during the day.
If Grace Sellers even hints at being naked, I’m hard, instantly ready to go.
Like right now.
I’m hard just thinking of her in the bedroom, where she’s busy trying on dresses for the big party this weekend. Bebe had half a dozen different knockout outfits sent to the house from the best designers in L.A., along with shoes that made her squeal and a whole mess of other packages.
Grace insisted she’s never looked at, let alone worn a three-thousand-dollar dress.
Exactly why I had Bebe send half a dozen more.
“Knock, knock,” I say, opening the door to her room.
She turns around, looks over her shoulder, and shakes her head, sending wisps of pretty blonde hair everywhere.
I hold my breath as my dick throbs without mercy.
Goddamn. Somebody stop me.
She’s wearing all black, a floor-length dress with a slit up one side. The V neckline plunges almost to her belly button, and the reflection in the mirror behind her shows the back of the dress has the same deep V-cut right down to her waist.