Page 6 of Protecting His Brat
Tracey, a woman I’ve talked with several times about maximizing where I am putting my money and how to split it between different funds, clears her throat. I can almost picture her squirming in her seat. “Yes, Miss Falluci. I am sorry to inform you that your accounts have been temporarily frozen by the FBI. This means you cannot take any money from any of your accounts until they release it. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but there is nothing I can do.”
“This can’t be happening.” My body loses the ability to hold itself up, and I slump against the kitchen counter. I haven’t cried since my Dad dropped me off at boarding school when I was eight. The current situation doesn’t feel all that much different, though, like my whole world is coming apart at the seams. My free hand covers my face, hot tears welling behind my eyes.
The banker begins to apologize once again, but I just don’t have the patience for it now. Dropping the phone on the counter, I then make my way toward the huge fridge and heave it open. Leftover take-out. The entire fucking thing is filled with take-out containers. No wine. No beer. Checking the freezer, I see he doesn’t even have a spare bottle of vodka chilling.
“Where the hell is all the booze? I need to get wildly drunk immediately.”
Scott laughs, rubbing the back of his too long hair with his palm as he looks at the floor. “You picked the wrong guy to room with then, eight years sober. You’re not going to find anything harder than orange juice in there.”
I don’t know why, but the injustice of not even being able to get blitzed is what pushes me over the edge. I slump on the ground and let me head fall into my hands. Which is a mistake, because the heel of my palm hits the big goose egg left over from the attack last night. A hiss sprays from my mouth. I sound like a pissed off cat, and I can’t even bring myself to care. Or to care that I’m sitting on unfinished wood floors in a men’s button-up shirt and nothing else. God only knows the kind of show my squatter hero is getting at the moment.
Gingerly, he walks over and plops right down on the floor next to me. “What’s going on? Other than getting attacked, being stranded with a stranger, and finding out your dad is possibly a criminal? That is all totally normal.”
Laughing is the last thing I want to do, but somehow, this guy pulls it out of me. “You forgot the part where all of my assets have been frozen by the government pending a criminal investigation. I’m going to make a horrible poor person. I can’t sleep on anything less than five-thousand-thread-count sheets, let alone a cardboard refrigerator box.”
His big, warm hand squeezes my knee once before returning to his lap. I’m weak enough right now to wish he would have left it on my leg. Once I get my sass back, I’ll go back to wanting him far, far away.
“I won’t let you sleep on the streets. You have any other family? Friends?”
I shake my head. For the first time in my life, I feel truly alone. Father is the only family I’ve ever known. Friends came and went, never sticking around unless I had something to offer them. Except Marci. She’s always been there, never taking anything except my time, which I wanted to share with her. But even she’s lost her patience for my antics.
Scott points to the loft bedroom I slept in last night. “You take the master bedroom. I have a spare twin bed in the storage room. I’ll pull that into the unfinished bedroom and sleep there for the time being.”
The place has potential. Behind the plastic sheets and bare walls. Not my taste, but still, not the worst either. “Ugh, I guess I can put up with living in a construction zone until this gets straightened out. But so help me, if we get arrested for squatting, I am kicking your ass.”
“Not a squatter.” Scott laughs and shakes his head. “How about I order dinner, and you try calling that investigator. Maybe he can get your accounts turned back on.”
I pull the card from the shirt pocket where I had tucked it earlier. As you’d expect a government employee’s business card to be, it is a plain white card stock with the FBI logo and Agent James Rose’s contact information listed.
A deep sense of foreboding sweeps through me just looking at that plain card. Just like fear, doubt has never been an affliction that plagued me. I don't like it. I don’t like any of this. And I’ll be damned if I take it sitting on the floor of this hell hole.
My cheeks burn as a single tear tracks down my cheek. I hate crying. Crying is for people who don’t know how to get what they want. Crying for my father to let me stay with him didn’t do a damn thing when he dropped me off at Mary Teresa’s School for Young Ladies. And it won’t do a damn thing now.
Plus, this strange man witnessing my top five most embarrassing and pathetic moments in the span of twelve hours pisses me off to no extent.
Scott slings his arm around my shoulders and pulls be into his side. “I promise, we’ll figure this out.”
I close my eyes and allow myself exactly five seconds to enjoy his warmth. The spicy scent of his cologne and natural masculine pheromones. The restrained strength evident in the press of his fingers into my biceps. I indulge in the sweet burn of arousal that zaps between my legs. For exactly five seconds, I give into every forbidden thought I’ve had about this man so far below my status. I let them fill me up, entertain giving into them.
After those five seconds pass, I steal my spine, climb to my feet, and do what I’ve done my entire life. No matter how much I want to lean into the safety he naturally provides, I have to rely on myself and block his misplaced hero complex with a snarky comment.
It would be so easy to ignore the red flags my mind is throwing up left and right. To just let him past the walls. But going down that path leads to nothing but disappointment and smudged eyeliner. “Thanks, I’ll let you know if I need a jar opened or tips on how to buy second hand. Leave the planning and negotiating to me.”
Scott’s disappointment in me is a living beast stalking me back up the spiral staircase to the loft. I ignore it and the spike of pain stabbing me in the chest as I sit on the edge of the bed. Phone in hand, I make one of what turns out to be many calls to fucking Agent Rose.
Chapter Four
Scott
My brain spins the entire cab ride back to Scott’s apartment. How could my Dad be involved in any of this? It’s not that I hold him to some higher standard than other people. I don’t idolize him or anything like that. We’re not even that close.
I had nannies and chauffeurs to take care of me growing up. Then boarding school and college. We saw each other on holidays and vacations. But even then, he was always busy. Hell, so was I. I’ve always had a busy social life. Hanging out with my Dad was never a priority. Though, at one time in my life, I may have wanted more than the absolute bare minimum from him.
But human trafficking?
That’s like literally lower than low. That’s worse than assholes making knockoff Chanel bags with child labor in third world countries. I can’t picture my image obsessed Dad stooping to something so despicable.
“We’re here, Lacy.” That deep growly voice which always sounds half a second from pissed off interrupts my thoughts. Looking around, I see we are indeed back in front of his place. The brick box of a building not giving even a hint that someone lives inside.
