Page 34 of IOU

I let the mask of The Maverick Lexington harden on my face just as my smile turns into a sharp line, my gaze holding her in a greedy headlock. “The way I see it, Ms. James, your only luxury here is my mercy. You’ll answer my questions, or you’ll find yourself on the doorstep of a safe haven. Tell me, do you prefer the church or a fire station?”

She swallows thickly, her eyes darting around the room before they find their way back to mine—the fight in her wilting away.

Shame. I like her venom.

“I don’t need to go back for my bed. It’s just a bed.”

I stay quiet, holding her eyes, making the silence awkward so she’ll keep explaining.

“It’s a long story, but don’t worry. I’ll round up some friends and get it soon. The air mattress is only temporary.”

“So, it’s a matter of muscle?” I finally ask, relieved to know it isn’t because she doesn’t have one.

Her nod is slow, like she isn’t sure if that’s the answer I’m looking for. “Great. Call them.” I tip my chin to her phone on the coffee table, insinuating she do it now.

A sound, almost like a laugh and cry mix, bubble out of her throat. “They’re all at work. I’ll call them tomorrow. Promise.” She makes this crossing motion over her heart and flashes me a pleading smile.

I’ve encountered better attempts at persuasion. Sadly, I don’t win over that easily.

I shrug, tip my chin, and head back into the kitchen where I hear the sigh of relief before she lies back and presses play, resuming her ridiculous show once again.

Usually, I’m not one to get involved. I find it rather exhausting taking on other people’s problems, but for some reason, I can’t get those goddamned tears out of my head. I’m doing this for me. I lose enough sleep with my own problems. I don’t need one more thing to keep my head spinning.

With my back against the counter, I scroll through the numeric contact names based on status, favor, and initials of first and last names. I’m looking for someone in particular. Someone with a truck and more brawn than brains. Someone I paid off a gambling debt for ...

I press his contact name, and it rings once, twice—“Maverick.”

I spare Logan no pleasantries. This is not a social call. He’s not my friend, and since he’s already paid me for the loan, he’s only one favor short of being paid in full. “Meet me at FallsPoint Apartment complex. Bring your truck and some friends.” I hang up before he can blubber out a response and text one more person. Rowan.

Me: Meet me at FallsPoint Apartments in 15.

PIF-owehim-RM (Aka Rowan): Need to bring anything?

Me: No.

He doesn’t text me back, and I don’t expect him to. Rowan will be there—he and Sebastian are the only loyal friends in my life.

I slide my phone in my pocket, walking over to Ainsley, who has resumed her fetal position and vacant stare at the TV.

“Give me your hand,” I bark out, startling her.

She messes with the blanket, pulling it up to her chin as if it were a shield between us.

I almost smile. Nothing will protect this girl from me now.

“I thought you were in the kitchen.” Her shocked expression is cute.

“Tsk, tsk.” I admonish her. “You should always be aware of your surroundings.”

She narrows her eyes, a small crease forming in the corner. “But I’m at home.”

Exactly.

I snatch the throw from her chest and toss it to the ground, getting my first glimpse of her bare legs. “You should always be aware. Especially athome.”

I’m the shark, and she’s the unsuspecting sea lion floating lazily in the ocean.

Eyeing her bare feet, I let my gaze travel slowly up her body, hesitating at the tight clench of her thighs.

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