Page 31 of Soulless Saint

I rolled my eyes, moving to slide into the seat I’d claimed as mine last year, but there was already someone there, typing his credentials into the system, either oblivious to my existence or doing a damn good job of ignoring it.

“Hey man, shuffle down one, this seat’s taken.”

The guy tipped his head to peer up at me through a mess of choppy blond hair, a wicked curve to his lips. “Sorry, bro, I’m already logged in,” he said, and something about the way he said it set me on edge.

I lifted my brows, realizing I didn’t recognize this guy. He was probably new. Didn’t know the rules.

I opened my mouth to tell him to move his fucking ass, but my phone chimed in my fist, and I caught the message lighting up the screen from the corner of my eye.

Hardin: Just asked Rook if we should plant something on her or if they already had. They haven’t. You sure it’s a tracker?

The blood in my veins ran cold.

If Hardin hadn’t planted the tracker and the Crows didn’t either, then who the fuck did?

I folded myself into the seat next to the new guy, the issue of dominance forgotten for the moment as I texted Hardin back.

Kaleb: I’m sure.

Hardin: That’s a fucking problem.

Kaleb: I’ll handle it. Don’t mention anything to the Crows. They have enough shit on their plates while Corvus and Ava Jade are on tour.

Hardin didn’t respond, but I didn’t expect him to. The several messages we’d just exchanged were the most he’d ever held up a digital conversation with me. Probably with anyone.

It wasn’t lost on me what the topic was, that he was so forthcoming because it had to do with her.

The ice in my veins thawed, replaced by something much much hotter.

I’d have been fucking lying if I said I wasn’t still wondering why the hell Becca Hart was in my brother’s bedroom last night. He might not tell me, but I’d make sure she did.

* * *

Hardin growled some shit about finding intel on what happened to Chief Andrews when we returned home after class, locking himself away in his room.

My brother was right about one thing: we didn’t have a lot of time to be looking out for Rebecca Hart. We were under a lot of heat and the meet with The Warden for our arms deal was in a couple days. The man was still acting squirrely when Dad contacted him to reconfirm, trying to wriggle out of the deal.

Not a good fucking sign.

Then there was some shit that needed tending at Saint’s Autobody. The shop was mine and Hardin’s baby. Born of my need for speed and his love of old cars, but fuck if she wasn’t a pain in my ass.

The main business wasn’t fixing mufflers and souping up engines, though. It was the wealth of stolen vehicles we had our discreet staff of Saints pull apart and put back together, selling the aftermarket products to savvy buyers.

The last batch of merchandise was spreading thin, and one of the dumbasses in charge of ‘scrubbing’ missed a serial number in the last sale. Now, somewhere out there, a car we sent out was one accident away from landing us with a massive lawsuit and possible jail- time.

Jail time we would never have to serve, but I didn’t want the fucking legal bills. At least when Hardin was finished getting his law degree he’d be able to identify the loopholes that could save our asses faster than a lawyer would return our calls.

I flipped the little tracking device around between my fingers as I left Saint’s Autobody—crisis averted for the moment thanks to my quick thinking to bring the customer back in for a free tune up—and drove to the coffee shop.

Squishing the little device between my fingers, I racked my brain, trying to think of any way to reverse track whoever planted it, but coming up empty. These types of devices only received information, they didn’t transmit it.

The Row was loud with the hustle of students running around, grabbing groceries and rushing to study dates that were really just booty-calls for smart people. I honked at a guy in a sweater vest who’d just pulled up to the last spot out front of Death Before Decaf.

He ducked back into his car with a nod and pulled back out, giving me the spot. I offered him a nod in return as he drove off, and I shut off the ignition, turning to look through the windows of the cafe.

It was getting near dark outside and the light within glowed warmly, or maybe it was just her. I wasn’t sure she’d be working, but there she was, her face twisted with concentration as she pulled an espresso shot and frothed milk at the same time, slinging caffeinated beverages down the serving line like some kind of machine.

I pawed my dick, telling it to settle the fuck down in my head because no man in his right mind talked to his dick out loud in public, and got out of the Bronco, Becca’s purse—sans tracker—in hand.

---