Rock Chick Renegade
Page 33
“Well, are we gonna go?” I asked.
“You got a jacket? We’re on the Harley.”
My stomach fluttered, not butterflies, just excitement. I loved motorcycles.
His forcefield intensified when he caught sight of my obvious excitement and he moved in so our bodies were now touching.
“You like bikes?” he asked.
I nodded, trying to be cool (but probably failing).
“You got a jacket?” he repeated.
I nodded again.
He grabbed my hand and moved away.
“Let’s go,” he said.
* * * * *
He took me to The Broker Restaurant.
I’d been there only once before. Nick had taken me there for my sixteenth birthday.
The Broker had been around for years, a fancy restaurant built into the bank vault in the basement of the old Denver National Bank building. You even had to walk through the cage and round steel door of the old vault to get into the seating area. It had burgundy leather, button-backed booths and rich cream tablecloths and napkins. They gave you a big bowl of huge steamed shrimp as a complimentary appetizer.
I was pleased that I was wearing something nice. One didn’t do jeans at The Broker, unless one was Vance Crowe who looked in jeans like most men looked in a tuxedo.
We were shown to a half-oval booth. I stared at it and bit my lip. This meant we’d be sitting side-by-side and I wasn’t sure this was a good thing.
I didn’t say anything and slid in. Vance came in after me and settled, arm along the back of the booth behind me. I leaned forward, slipped off my blazer style black leather jacket and threw it to the side of me with my purse and kept my body forward, the better to stay out of reach.
The waiter asked what we wanted to drink. I wanted tequila neat with a side of Valium and a time machine that took me back to that moment when I shot out Sal Cordova’s tires so I could rethink my actions.
I ordered a cosmopolitan.
“Sir?” the waiter asked, his glance going to Crowe.
Vance didn’t reply. I looked over my shoulder at him. His eyes were looking down and toward my bottom. I glanced around, saw my skin exposed, my torso shot straight and I leaned back against the seat.
Fuck.
Vance’s eyes came to mine. They were soft and sexy and a little amused.
His look scored one for the good butterflies.
Then his gaze moved slowly to the waiter. “Cranberry juice.”
The waiter nodded and walked away.
Vance turned back to me. I snatched my napkin out of the wine glass and arranged it on my knee with obsessive attention to its placement and smoothness.
“Jules.”
“Mm?” I asked, still smoothing at my napkin.
“Jules.”
I looked at him.
“Relax. I’m not going to tear your clothes off in a booth at a steak joint.”
I stared at him.
The Broker Restaurant was hardly a “steak joint”. It was a well-established, highly-rated gourmet restaurant. They had more than just steak, they had fish and lamb and pasta too.
And complimentary steamed shrimp. No one gave you complimentary steamed shrimp. They weren’t rinky-dink shrimp either. They were the good shrimp, the big meaty ones.
I shook off thoughts of defending The Broker’s greatness. “I came here for my sixteenth birthday,” I told him in an effort to lead the conversation away from tearing my clothes off.
He got closer and gave the impression he was supremely interested in this trivial comment. I didn’t realize that it was the first time I’d shared anything personal with him that he hadn’t had to force out of me.
“Yeah?” he asked.
I nodded. That was it. The extent of my conversation.
“What are you doin’ this birthday?” Vance asked.
I was so nervous without thinking I blurted, “Going for drinks with Heavy and Zip.”
It was his turn to stare at me and he did so as if I’d just announced I was going to hula dance on the moon.
“Heavy and Zip,” he said.
Damn. Not good.
“They’re –” I started, thinking fast for a lie. I didn’t figure there were dozens of men in Denver nicknamed Heavy and Zip but I was going to make two of them up, no doubt about it.
“A retired PI and a gun shop owner. I know who they are. Jesus, Jules,” Vance shook his head.
Too late for the lie.
“They’re my friends,” I said.
“They’re in on this with you.”
“They know what they’re doing,” I told him.
“Yeah, Heavy knew what he was doing about five years ago when he should have retired. Instead he retired last year when he was well passed it. Zip’s just a lunatic,” Vance said.
I felt my blood pressure rise. “Zip is not a lunatic. He’s a good shot.”
“It all comes out,” Vance muttered.
“And Heavy used to be a cop before he was a PI. He still has friends on the Force and his ear to the ground. Not to mention, he was a semi-pro boxer.”
“And his wife was a speed freak and he couldn’t get her clean so he scraped her off to save himself even though he didn’t want to and it f**ked with his head. Now he’s using you to exact vengeance.”
Wow. I didn’t know that.
I didn’t let Vance in on the fact that this was a revelation.
“That isn’t true.”
“Which part? Her bein’ a speed freak or you bein’ his instrument?”
I turned my body to him and my eyes narrowed. “Me being his instrument.”
Vance’s head went around and he watched the waiter putting down our shrimp bowl. Then without a word to the waiter, he turned back to me when the waiter moved to leave.
“Jules –”
“Vance, we’re not talking about this,” I warned.
“We are. You want to get serious, you come into the office. Mace or Luke will work with you.”
That was not going to happen. “I’m fine with Zip, Heavy and Frank,” I said, not wanting to work with Mace and Luke mainly because they’d kick my ass.
I looked at Vance and saw his expression had changed from just disbelief to disbelief mingled with anger.
“Frank?” he said low.
Whoops.
“Um…” I stalled.
“Please tell me you are not working with Frank Muñoz.”
“He’s a good guy,” I defended Frank.
“He makes Zip look adjusted.”
“Okay,” I gave in a smidge, “so he’s a little intense.”
“A little? He has stockpiles of arms, water and canned goods in his basement.”
“You got a jacket? We’re on the Harley.”
My stomach fluttered, not butterflies, just excitement. I loved motorcycles.
His forcefield intensified when he caught sight of my obvious excitement and he moved in so our bodies were now touching.
“You like bikes?” he asked.
I nodded, trying to be cool (but probably failing).
“You got a jacket?” he repeated.
I nodded again.
He grabbed my hand and moved away.
“Let’s go,” he said.
* * * * *
He took me to The Broker Restaurant.
I’d been there only once before. Nick had taken me there for my sixteenth birthday.
The Broker had been around for years, a fancy restaurant built into the bank vault in the basement of the old Denver National Bank building. You even had to walk through the cage and round steel door of the old vault to get into the seating area. It had burgundy leather, button-backed booths and rich cream tablecloths and napkins. They gave you a big bowl of huge steamed shrimp as a complimentary appetizer.
I was pleased that I was wearing something nice. One didn’t do jeans at The Broker, unless one was Vance Crowe who looked in jeans like most men looked in a tuxedo.
We were shown to a half-oval booth. I stared at it and bit my lip. This meant we’d be sitting side-by-side and I wasn’t sure this was a good thing.
I didn’t say anything and slid in. Vance came in after me and settled, arm along the back of the booth behind me. I leaned forward, slipped off my blazer style black leather jacket and threw it to the side of me with my purse and kept my body forward, the better to stay out of reach.
The waiter asked what we wanted to drink. I wanted tequila neat with a side of Valium and a time machine that took me back to that moment when I shot out Sal Cordova’s tires so I could rethink my actions.
I ordered a cosmopolitan.
“Sir?” the waiter asked, his glance going to Crowe.
Vance didn’t reply. I looked over my shoulder at him. His eyes were looking down and toward my bottom. I glanced around, saw my skin exposed, my torso shot straight and I leaned back against the seat.
Fuck.
Vance’s eyes came to mine. They were soft and sexy and a little amused.
His look scored one for the good butterflies.
Then his gaze moved slowly to the waiter. “Cranberry juice.”
The waiter nodded and walked away.
Vance turned back to me. I snatched my napkin out of the wine glass and arranged it on my knee with obsessive attention to its placement and smoothness.
“Jules.”
“Mm?” I asked, still smoothing at my napkin.
“Jules.”
I looked at him.
“Relax. I’m not going to tear your clothes off in a booth at a steak joint.”
I stared at him.
The Broker Restaurant was hardly a “steak joint”. It was a well-established, highly-rated gourmet restaurant. They had more than just steak, they had fish and lamb and pasta too.
And complimentary steamed shrimp. No one gave you complimentary steamed shrimp. They weren’t rinky-dink shrimp either. They were the good shrimp, the big meaty ones.
I shook off thoughts of defending The Broker’s greatness. “I came here for my sixteenth birthday,” I told him in an effort to lead the conversation away from tearing my clothes off.
He got closer and gave the impression he was supremely interested in this trivial comment. I didn’t realize that it was the first time I’d shared anything personal with him that he hadn’t had to force out of me.
“Yeah?” he asked.
I nodded. That was it. The extent of my conversation.
“What are you doin’ this birthday?” Vance asked.
I was so nervous without thinking I blurted, “Going for drinks with Heavy and Zip.”
It was his turn to stare at me and he did so as if I’d just announced I was going to hula dance on the moon.
“Heavy and Zip,” he said.
Damn. Not good.
“They’re –” I started, thinking fast for a lie. I didn’t figure there were dozens of men in Denver nicknamed Heavy and Zip but I was going to make two of them up, no doubt about it.
“A retired PI and a gun shop owner. I know who they are. Jesus, Jules,” Vance shook his head.
Too late for the lie.
“They’re my friends,” I said.
“They’re in on this with you.”
“They know what they’re doing,” I told him.
“Yeah, Heavy knew what he was doing about five years ago when he should have retired. Instead he retired last year when he was well passed it. Zip’s just a lunatic,” Vance said.
I felt my blood pressure rise. “Zip is not a lunatic. He’s a good shot.”
“It all comes out,” Vance muttered.
“And Heavy used to be a cop before he was a PI. He still has friends on the Force and his ear to the ground. Not to mention, he was a semi-pro boxer.”
“And his wife was a speed freak and he couldn’t get her clean so he scraped her off to save himself even though he didn’t want to and it f**ked with his head. Now he’s using you to exact vengeance.”
Wow. I didn’t know that.
I didn’t let Vance in on the fact that this was a revelation.
“That isn’t true.”
“Which part? Her bein’ a speed freak or you bein’ his instrument?”
I turned my body to him and my eyes narrowed. “Me being his instrument.”
Vance’s head went around and he watched the waiter putting down our shrimp bowl. Then without a word to the waiter, he turned back to me when the waiter moved to leave.
“Jules –”
“Vance, we’re not talking about this,” I warned.
“We are. You want to get serious, you come into the office. Mace or Luke will work with you.”
That was not going to happen. “I’m fine with Zip, Heavy and Frank,” I said, not wanting to work with Mace and Luke mainly because they’d kick my ass.
I looked at Vance and saw his expression had changed from just disbelief to disbelief mingled with anger.
“Frank?” he said low.
Whoops.
“Um…” I stalled.
“Please tell me you are not working with Frank Muñoz.”
“He’s a good guy,” I defended Frank.
“He makes Zip look adjusted.”
“Okay,” I gave in a smidge, “so he’s a little intense.”
“A little? He has stockpiles of arms, water and canned goods in his basement.”
