His to Steal

Ch. 13: Reckless (Part One)

My mom was right; sometimes I just need to learn to leave well enough alone. I should have kept my mouth shut so I could stay around to protect Sutton. At least until I could get her out of there.

I step away from the carving and focus on what I'm there to do, pushing Sutton from my mind, at least for the next hour or so.

A crash to my right and muffled, angry voices draw my attention and I close the deal I've been making with a middle-aged man in a three-piece suit. Pocketing the cash, I mutter a thank you and make my way toward the sound.

"What do you mean, you're done?" a male voice asks, and I stop in my tracks and flatten against the wall.

"Just what I said. I'm done. I'm not going to be a part of this. And he wouldn't be either if he knew about it," the other man replies. Neither of them sounds familiar, and I strain to hear better over the music.

"Well, he doesn't, and you're not going to tell him, are you?" the first guy asks, his voice dipping low, suddenly far more menacing than before.

"What are you going to do if I do?"

Another loud bang, and I've roughed up enough guys to know what it sounds like when someone is shoved and pinned against the wall.

"Listen to me, asshole. If you fuck up this connection for the boss, he'll have your fucking head."

Connection? What connection? Nothing about this sounds good; the way the other guy talks, it isn't something he wants to be a part of. And who is he talking about when he says, "if he knew about it"? Anthony? Or Jason? Or fuck, is Jason running the show now and he's saying Xavier doesn't know what's going on in his own club.

Based on the conversation I overheard at lunch that day, the latter seems more likely.

And I know based on that conversation that Sutton is somehow wrapped up in all this.

I'm about to lose my shit. I don't know how much longer I can remain calm and collected. Jason Kincaid, and anyone else on the planet, should make no fucking mistake.

Sutton. Is. Mine.

And I won't let anything happen to her.

***

After that day at the club, I sat outside the Banks' apartment building for three days, and while I wished I could get a glimpse of Sutton, I was relieved that she didn't go outside one time. Her bodyguard must be taking things as seriously as I am.

Except she's still playing at the fucking club.

It's Friday night, and as much as I hate her being here, I have to admit I love watching her perform. I always have; her piano playing is truly something to admire—she may be one of Manhattan's princesses, according to the Wall Street Journal, but to me, she's a musical goddess who deserves to be worshipped, especially when her fingers are dancing across those keys.

I always hoped she'd end up on Broadway like she wanted, but I guess that was just another dream stolen from her.

I'm hanging in the back of the crowd, with my ball cap and sunglasses in the shadows like the creeper I have become, watching her play her last song of the night, and when she finishes in a flourish and stands to take a bow, the deep V of her velvet gown dipping low, the pervert next to me whistles.

I slowly turn my head to look at him and crack my neck back and forth. "Don't," I hiss.

His head snaps in my direction, and I can tell that he's Serbian immediately. "Excuse me?"

I run my tongue along my top teeth and say in a low voice, "Rekao sam da ne. Ne zviždaj je kao jebeni pas." Because my Sutton is no dog to be whistled at, and I am about two seconds away from knocking this fucker into next week.