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Gauging the man’s size in reference to the park bench he stood beside, she’d put him at a few inches over six feet and just shy of two hundred pounds—not exactly the kind of missing-persons case she was expecting.
“If you don’t mind me saying”—Rya
“Hardly,” the woman scoffed with enough disdain to officially put her on Rya
“How long has he been missing?”
“Officially? Fourteen months. But it was going on long before that, disappearing for days, missing important meetings—”
“It sounds like he’s on drugs,” Rya
“It’s not drugs,” the woman snapped.
She seemed awfully sure of that, giving Rya
“Listen, Ms. . . . ?” Again Rya
“Madeline Kruze,” she said with all the haughtiness of a woman dressed to the nines and trailing two bodyguards behind her.
Shit. Now the face co
“So, do you want the case or not?” she said impatiently.
No. She most certainly did not. But before Rya
“Why me? There must be plenty of private investigators in Manhattan you could hire.”
“Not with your specialty. Your knack for finding missing persons is . . . impressive.” The woman spit out the compliment as if it had been distasteful on her tongue. “As I said, I’ll pay double your fee, plus a five-thousand-dollar bonus if you can deliver him to me within two weeks.”
Wait. What? “Deliver” him? She wasn’t the freaking UPS. Her job was locating missing persons, not returning them home like little lost pets—and Rya
But she was offering Rya
After a moment, she lifted her head and met the woman’s determined stare. “Two weeks, you said?” That was a short amount of time to track down someone who obviously didn’t want to be found and bring him home—short of kidnapping, that is. And this guy didn’t exactly look like the abductable type. “What’s the rush? He’s been gone more than a year. What is happening in two weeks?”
“His wedding.”
“Get up!”
The metal rasp of curtains being yanked open sent a blast of bright Nevada sun beaming onto Aiden’s face. He squinted against the unwelcome light and lifted his arm, shielding his eyes from the blinding assault.
“What the fuck, Coach?”
“Don’t you ‘what the fuck’ me, boy. Easton’s at the gym waiting for you and he’s pissed as hell.”
“Aww shit . . .” he muttered under his breath and lifted his head, squinting to see the alarm clock on the nightstand—5:50 a.m. Trapped beneath a tangle of arms and legs, Aiden tried to wrest himself free without waking the women on both sides of him.
Marcus, his surly coach, wasn’t nearly as considerate. “Come on, ladies,” he a
They didn’t seem to care they were no longer alone. Apparently, modesty was a foreign concept to these women. Aiden, on the other hand, would have preferred not having a cranky Marcus glowering at him while the woman on his right slid her hand between his legs to grab his—
“Uh-uh!” Marcus barked, kicking the foot of his bed again when the blonde tried to slip her hand beneath the covers. “This disco stick is done dancing, sweetheart. Get dressed and get out—now.”
Damn . . . Coach must really be pissed. It wasn’t like him to be so gruff. The man normally had the patience of Job, which was something Aiden always admired about the guy—so opposite his own father. The girls booed and whined about getting tossed, but they were smart enough not to push the old guy, who looked like he was about to lose his shit. They began exchanging bras and sorting out whose clothing belonged to whom as they dressed, making no attempt to cover their nakedness from Marcus’s scowling view.
“It’s not even six a.m. yet,” Aiden complained, scrubbing his hands over his face, trying to wake up.
“Cole’s been at the gym since five.”
“He still bitchy?”
“As ever. He’s the jackass and you’re the jack-off. I swear between the two of you, you’re go
Once dressed, the blonde turned and kissed his cheek. “See you later, Disco.”
“Call me,” the brunette added, planting a lip-lock on his mouth. They took another moment to search the floor for their shoes. The girls held on to each other for balance as they slipped into their stilettos and wobbled precariously toward the door. Marcus stood by the entrance, ushering them out. Whether their instability was from sleep deprivation or intoxication, Aiden wasn’t sure. He tipped his head, his gaze following the girls as they walked away, appreciating how that black miniskirt hugged the blonde’s barely covered ass.
Once they were out of view, he glanced at a glaring Marcus, whose arms were crossed over his burly chest as he shook his head in disgust.
“What?” Aiden grouched.
“You’re better than this, Kruze. Getting trashed every night and crashing in hotel rooms with your latest piece of ass.”
Maybe he was better than this—once—but he left that guy back in New York along with the Armani suits and five-thousand-dollar-a-plate di
“Son of a bitch . . .” Marcus muttered under his breath, dragging his hand over his hairless head.
Once the topsy-turvys slowed down, Aiden made his way to the foot of the bed and snagged his own clothes off the hotel floor.
“You’re right,” Marcus snapped. “I’m not your dad—thank God. But I am your coach, which means you do what I say when I say, and right now I’m telling you to get your ass in that shower. Wash those women off and be ready to leave in fifteen minutes. You’ve got a fight in two days. What the hell were you thinking? I can’t believe you, staying out until God knows when, getting shit-faced, and whoring it up.”