Still wearing the blush of sleep on her tall and very naked body, Amber slipped from the bed and stretched. She scrubbed a manicured hand through her bed head, disappeared into the closet, and emerged wrapped in a frilly blue robe.
“Hey, shug, is this yours?” A lacy white square stained with blood dangled from her fingertips. “I found it when I was washing clothes last week. The initials say S.M.B.”
Shannon Marie Bradford. It was the hanky she’d given me in the limo, a hanky that had accidentally landed in my pillowcase. Since then, I’d taken a few whiffs of the faint scent that still lingered on it—accidentally, of course.
“Uh, that’s nothin’.” I snatched the thing, shoved it in a drawer. “Just an old rag.”
Amber’s lips pinched. “An embroidered ‘old rag’ smelling of Poison? That’s the name of the perfume, in case you’re curious.”
Heat climbed my neck. Before it could reach my face, I shrugged and escaped down the hallway to the bathroom.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In The Lion’s Den
SHANNON
____________________________
Nothing could have prepared me for Darien’s fax. A week had already passed, and I was still at a loss for words.
The day I’d gotten it, I scoured the first page and barely stomached the second. Reading the rest was sheer torture. After obsessing for days, I finally found the courage to show it to Trace. I just prayed I’d find him in a reasonable mood.
The sky had turned a wicked shade of gray once I got to Temptation. I purposely parked two blocks from Fontana Exxon. Last thing I needed was for someone to see my car outside Trace’s job. Darien’s words hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. He was right. Tongues were still flapping. I’d be darned before I’d give anyone more ammunition.
I threw my hood on, tugging it over my brow. I had to do something, what, with my own face towering over me a block away. No matter how many times I saw those billboards, I’d never get used to them.
The car alarm’s chirp bounced off the ugly fleet of concrete buildings that dotted this busy road. Even the halfhearted Christmas ornaments decorating some of the storefronts couldn’t lift the gloom. Temptation needed a serious face-lift.
I covered the two blocks in record speed, and like a diamond on a gnarled finger, the newly renovated gas station stood out in relief against the dreary backdrop. Twin mounds of black snow walled both sides of the pavement, which lay smothered in dirty slush. Flicking a wary glance over my shoulder, I gathered my coat and trudged up the crudely shoveled footpath to the entrance.
Frost and Christmas garland bordered the building’s storefront window, and inside, behind a long, slate-colored counter, Cholly Fontana sat with two other men, their backs to me. They all wore matching gray shirts with Fontana Exxon written in bold script on the back.
Their attention was riveted on a TV they’d set atop a file cabinet. The wadded tin foil crowning its makeshift antenna didn’t help the basketball game’s grainy picture.
Christmas lights framed the two-way mirror that centered the cinder block wall to their right. Photos and certificates lined the other walls. A cracked flat screen TV peeked out from a box in the corner.
Cologne, burned coffee, and prehistoric BO were just a few of the odors that assaulted my nose upon entering. I stomped the sleet from my boots, but the noise, along with the clang of the jingle bells against the glass door, didn’t rouse the men. They were too busy yelling at the TV.
I tugged off my hood and cleared my throat. Nothing. Who could hear with all that racket? Rap music, a blasphemous tune featuring a chorus of ‘Hail Mary’ complete with an assorted collection of swear words, blared from the sound system.
Face burning, I stepped up to the counter and tapped my keys on the Formica, but the chaotic din drowned me out.
This time I raised my voice. “Excuse me.”
Three sets of eyes swung my way. The blonde, stringy-haired man on Cholly’s left gave me a lecherous smile that revealed a yellow corncob of misshapen or otherwise, missing teeth. The one seated next to him with the red Mohawk and skin that resembled a sausage pizza, let out a wet-sounding belch.
It took all my strength to keep my lunch down.
My eyes widened when Trace’s best friend uncoiled from his chair. At six-foot-six, Cholly Fontana looked like a formidable giant. His short afro was cut into a fade on both sides of his head. Butterscotch-colored arms that had scored many a three-pointer were covered in tattoos. He was quite handsome, despite his trademark scowl. He’d played for the Washington Wizards until a tragic knee injury ended his career a few years back.
The hostile ex-ballplayer and his aftershave approached the counter, but I’d smelled him ten feet ago. Using my brilliant powers of deduction, I determined the BO wasn’t Cholly’s. His cohorts were the proud owners. Not that it mattered. Cholly’s cologne, plus the stench from his pals, equaled nausea.
He stabbed a button on the wall and the music stopped. Then he plopped a king-sized forearm on the counter and glared down at me as if I were a succubus from hell. “Yeah?”
“Um—” I glanced off, distracted. Corncob man was leering at my breasts. I looked away just as pizza-face gave another liquid belch. Horrified, I focused back on Cholly. “I, ah, understand you’re still doing renovations on your club. Trace said you’re having some contracting issues. Do you need me to look into anything for you?”
Fontana raised his brows and his hairline slipped back half an inch. “Now why would you do something like that?”
His hostility felt as oppressive as his cologne. “I sold you the building. Why wouldn’t I be concerned?”
“I can handle it.”
“O-okay.” When he just stared back at me, I blurted, “Is Trace here?”
He cut his eyes from me, sauntered around the counter and strolled to a metal door marked ‘Employees Only.’ Its handle thumped the wall after he yanked it open. He ducked beneath the arch, disappearing from the chest up behind a late model gray Porsche suspended atop a hydraulic lift. The door smacked shut.
“Hey, man,” Fontana called. “You got company.”
A muffled curse followed. Next came a loud clank. After that, an earsplitting crash reverberated. The other two whispered behind me. I refused to ponder their remarks.
Something vulgar, no doubt.
Fontana reappeared, dropping into his former seat on the other side of the counter. He focused on the TV again. “Trace says he’s busy.”
Okay, so he wasn’t in a reasonable mood. I drew a strengthening breath, and stalked to the metal door, ignoring Cholly’s, “I wouldn’t do that.”
Petroleum-scented heat and a musical mash-up of Christian Bale’s profanity-laced tirade hit me once I stepped inside. The techno-ripped dance track blared from hidden speakers. I couldn’t be sure, but I suspected Cholly’s dreadful song choices were his way of telling the town what he thought of their boycott.
The air was hothouse humid, and beads of condensation wept down the row of windows on the bay doors. After I hung my coat on a peg, I glanced around. The garage was larger than it appeared from the outside. What looked like kitty litter blanketed the concrete floor. My boots made a crunching sound as I ambled along.
Toward the rear, right above a shelf crammed with tires and hubcaps, a circular fan spewed hot air from a corner perch. Three orange strings were tied to the fan’s silver cage. They waved furiously while the powerful head rotated back and forth.
“Trace?” I called, but the music drowned out my voice.