Rumor (Renegades 3.50)

He paused, hand on the door, head hanging.

Please turn around.

Please.

But he pulled the door open and disappeared inside.

Josh balanced his cell between his sore shoulder and his ear and jotted down Carolyn Ashby’s address. “Twenty-eighth Street? Isn’t that on the east side of Balboa Park?”

“You got it.” Pete was an information broker of sorts. Josh used him for background checks on employees involved in any consulting job. “And I must say, a much nicer neighborhood than where her daughter resides.”

“Yes,” Josh muttered. “Yes, it is.” And he was damn well getting to the bottom of this. Grace didn’t have to like it.

Josh glanced down the street from Grace’s apartment building, where he’d been waiting for almost an hour. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said the neighborhood was ghetto. Every building needed work, junk cluttered yards, landscaping nonexistent or overgrown. Not one house was decorated for Christmas, and only a few apartment windows had been lined with lights.

At the corner, not a quarter mile from Grace’s car, three young men loitered. Josh was damn sure he’d seen half a dozen drug deals go down in the short time he’d been watching.

“How long has her mom been there?” He’d gone to the home where Carolyn had lived just last year, but, like her daughter, Carolyn had moved on. This time, the current residents didn’t have information on a forwarding address.

“Looks like…” Computer keys tapped in the background. “About nine months.”

The same amount of time Grace had worked at the club.

“Thanks, man. Talk later.”

He disconnected, dropped his head back against the seat as his stomach made another hard roll. He felt like a steaming pile of shit. And not just from the wicked hangover throbbing behind his eyes either. Or the way the rancid 7-Eleven coffee stewed in his gut like acid. No, it was his stupid-ass, bone-deep loyalty that was seriously fucking with him again.

He popped two more Advil, grimacing as he swallowed it down with the brown muck in his coffee cup. Checking the dash clock, he picked up his phone and called his mother.

“Ready to talk about it?” she answered.

“Good morning to you too.”

“So, why’d you miss your flight?”

He winced, wishing he could flop into the backseat, curl up,…and die. “Doing a favor for a buddy.”

“Mmmm?” she coaxed, her way of telling him she expected more information than that.

“Do you remember my teammate Isaac Beck?”

“Of course. I still send packages to your whole motley crew.”

Of course she did. Just like Carolyn Ashby did. Just like Grace used to—before the divorce.

God, even two cups of this mud couldn’t wipe her taste from his mouth. The sultry, lust-filled flavor of her tongue still haunted him.

“Well, he needed a favor. And it’s taking longer than I expected. I’m not sure what day I’ll come in, but don’t worry about it. I’ll catch a cab home.”

She snorted a laugh. “Your father won’t have that, and you know it. What’s wrong, son? What’s this favor Isaac needs?”

He winced. She always knew, dammit. “Nothing big. I’m just helping Grace out. It won’t take long.”

“Are they back together?” she asked. “I thought they got divorced.”

“They did get divorced. It’s complicated.” So fucking complicated it made him want to smash his head against a wall.

“Hmm.” Another one of her all-knowing hums. “Well, just so you know, Grace is always welcome here for Christmas. Carolyn too. Your father has more frequent-flier miles than we’ll ever use.”