Bad Boy Rebel (Salma Rebels Book 1) Read online

  “We will.”

  Leon leans against his headrest. “Fuck.”

  “Is it getting dangerous for you at the casino?”

  “Spying on Resnik is always dangerous.”

  “Work with me here, Leon. How dangerous?”

  He rubs his neck. “No more dangerous than before. Although Titus has tightened security. He smells a mole.”

  “You want to stop doing this, just say so.”

  “I’m the only inside source you’ve got. How are you gonna get evidence if I stop?” He cracks his knuckles. “Besides, it’s good money working at Lucky Cherries. There’s something to be said about getting paid by the man you’re trying to kill.”

  “Keep looking for evidence,” I say, climbing out of the jeep. “Take care of yourself.”

  He waves me off. “My head is in the game. It’s you I worry about. What’s the name of that real estate agent again?”

  “I never told you her name and I won’t.”

  “Possessive are we?”

  “Go,” I growl.

  7

  No Turning Back

  Natalie

  My boss’s deadline to sell the Gatsby residence is in seven days.

  After two weeks of work, Asher’s lawn is almost presentable. You can see grass now. The picket fence has been repaired. But weeds remain a problem, and we haven’t planted the flowers yet.

  After that first day, Asher did most of the work. He follows directions pretty well.

  We’ve developed a routine. Every morning I’d drive out to Gatsby’s, park my Beetle, and walk over to Asher’s, where he’d be waiting for me on the porch. Shirtless.

  I’m used to it. A hot shirtless guy greeting you every morning isn’t the worst thing in the world. I’d tell him what to do, and Asher would get doing. Sometimes I try to help, but he insists I stay away from the sharper weeds and long grasses, the wildflowers with thorns. He can be very protective.

  Most days, I’d let him take over and work on my listing, or talk with potential buyers. Once in a while, I’d doodle.

  Branigan hassles me to no end, always sending me emails or texts demanding status updates. If it weren’t for Asher I’d get no work done.

  He makes lunch for me every day, and we’ve moved way past steak and microwaved vegetables. I swear he’s either ordering out behind my back or watching the Food Network for recipes.

  I like to watch him cook. I like to watch him do anything, really. He gets totally focused on whatever job at hand. Intense. Almost angry. Maybe it’s his military training or whatever, but when Asher Wade sets himself to a task, he’s absorbed completely. I wonder if he’s the same way in bed.

  But enough of that.

  I’ve never been with a guy in bed and I’m not starting with him. No matter how sexy he looks.

  I have standards.

  I can imagine though. Nothing wrong with that.

  He still calls me doll face every chance he gets, and he likes to brush up on me. Bumping into me. Putting his hand on the small of my back, tucking my hair behind my ears, and finally yesterday, he gave me a shoulder rub out of the blue.

  I didn’t complain.

  He also gave me a spare key to his house and told me I could drop by whenever I wanted. I don’t know how I feel about that.

  This morning, I arrived thirty minutes before my usual time, thinking to get some extra work done. I don’t know if he’s sleeping in or whatever. He’s definitely not a nine-to-five guy.

  I use the key he gave me, turn the knob, and it works. Maybe I should announce myself, but he’s probably not even up.

  Hansel is nowhere to be seen, and I manage to reach the living room without a sound.

  My face heats as I peek around the corner. Asher’s stretched out on the sofa, with the zipper of his jeans open. His eyes closed.

  He’s jerking off.

  Eww, gross. I should’ve knocked first.

  But I can’t stop watching, my breath in my throat.

  I’ve seen stuff on the internet before. I’m not a prude. I like to think of myself as quite worldly. Men get horny, duh. It’s biology. But . . .

  His cock is thick and very long, the veins puffing out around his fist as he strokes. The top of his jeans is pulled just to below his balls, and I can see everything.

  Oh my God can I see everything. The muscles straining in his hips, the knobs of his abs flexing. He looks as if he’s in pain, except he doesn’t stop. He strokes his cock faster, his feet pushing against the sofa’s armrest at the other end.

  My heart hammers against my chest. I should back out, but I’m rooted to the stupid floor.

  His cock has a curve to it, the head swollen and ruddy, and every time Asher’s hand touches the groove around that head, he groans. The tip looks wet.

  Heat pools between my thighs.

  Asher groans, his hand moving faster.

  What’s he even thinking about? Some cheerleader probably. A supermodel. Or cartoons? You wouldn’t believe the stories I heard in college. Boys have dirty minds.

  That’s no college boy on the sofa though.

  That’s Asher Wade, and I can’t look away, my body drawn to him by some force I can’t shut off. I feel my panties stick to me as my legs turn to jelly.

  He starts to arch off the sofa, his half-exposed buttocks squeezing together, that hard cock jutting up even higher.

  My mouth hangs open.

  His whole body shudders as thick ropes of cum shoot out of him, dripping off his hand, and a thick blob lands on his stomach.

  “Right there, doll face,” he groans, eyes still squeezed.

  My cheeks flush hot and my hand goes to my mouth. Doll face? He’s thinking about me? That dirty, disgusting man is thinking about me in his daydreams? Doing what? What is he doing to me? What am I doing to him? If he thinks I’d let him touch me with that thing in his hand, he’s lost his freaking mind.

  What am I doing standing here?

  He hasn’t stopped. He keeps going, lathering the cum into his grip. He doesn’t even go soft. Abnormal, that’s what he is. A sex fiend.

  The tug between my thighs pulses.

  This is ridiculous.

  Happy barking sounds from upstairs. Must be Hansel. That dog always seems to know when I’m around.

  Walking on tiptoes, I backtrack out of the hallway, out of the front door, and I push the door shut. I count to thirty, gulping deep breaths, squeezing the strap of my bag until my palms hurt.

  Then I ring the doorbell.

  Once, twice.

  I knock three times.

  Hansel must’ve made it downstairs because I hear him scrabbling on the side.

  A few minutes later, Asher opens the door with a shirt on.

  Hansel leaps out at me.

  I kneel and rub his flanks like I always do. Hansel gives me his morning dog kiss. “Good dog,” I manage to say. He bounds onto the lawn.

  When I stand up, Asher’s staring at me. His hands smell like soap. His jeans are buttoned and zipped, but there’s still a noticeable bulge, and the heat in his eyes hasn’t gone.

  “You just got here?” he asks.

  “Yep.”

  He looks me over. “What do you want me to do today?”

  “Finish clearing the weeds,” I murmur.

  “You got it.”

  He walks past me with his expression blank.

  “Hey Asher?”

  “Yeah?”

  I bite my lip. “Forget it.”

  He steps off the porch and stretches, then turns around. “You should knock next time. I gave you that key for when I’m not around.”

  His face is still blank.

  Where’s the nearest hole? “Well you shouldn’t jerk off on your sofa!”

  “I’m a jerk-off, doll face.”

  I huff. “Whatever.”

  “I’m sorry if I ruined your innocence.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” I pull out a lawn chair. I get my notebook and scribble lines until h
e disappears into the toolshed.

  By late afternoon, Asher’s lawn looks almost as good as Gatsby’s. All that’s missing are some flowers.

  I get out of my chair as he walks over to me, clapping the dirt from his hands. We haven’t spoken much all day, even during lunch. He ogled me though. I caught him doing it twice when I ogled him.

  “From now on you can park in my driveway,” he says.

  “That’s a change. You were ready to run me off when we met.”

  Asher rakes a hand through his hair. “Sent you to Juno didn’t I?”

  “You did. Thanks.” If nothing else, I’ve made a friend in Juno Newlin. Cora’s adorable too. And responsible. After the mishap with Eli, she’s never stayed out past her curfew again.

  “C’mon,” Asher says. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  He’s been walking me to my car every day, and I was starting to enjoy his company, but once you see something you can’t unsee it. I don’t know how I can be around him again without thinking about you-know-what.

  “No need,” I say.

  Asher steps in front of me. “Could be bears out there. Let me walk you over.”

  “Um, bears on a road?”

  “You never know,” he says without the hint of a smile.

  And there he goes, putting his hand on my lower back. My knees go weak.

  “Whatever,” I whisper.

  We walk down his driveway, past the dented mailbox, and turn left onto the two-lane road. I see the stone siding of Gatsby’s Victorian through the trees up ahead. It’s a two-minute walk at most. There’s not a car on the empty road. Birds chirp in the woods around us, and the sun is an orange disc. Two deer munch on wildflowers by the roadside. It’s been like this every afternoon.

  Bears? Right.

  But Asher’s face is strung tight and he keeps looking up and down the road.

  “What are you really worried about?” I ask. “Please don’t say bears.”

  “Coyotes then.”

  I roll my eyes. “Seriously.”

  He shifts closer, hand brushing past mine with every step. “Mountain lions. They’d see you as a tasty little morsel.”

  “Very funny.” I clutch the strap of my bag. “Are you sure you’re not traumatized or something? From being a soldier, I mean. You’re always so on edge.”

  The only time I’ve seen him relaxed was that night at the waterfront restaurant and it didn’t last long.

  “Did Juno call me traumatized?”

  “Not really. The first day I was here, I told her how crazy you were, barbed wire on your fence and everything. She said you were pretending, whatever that means. I didn’t pry.”

  I didn’t pry about his sister either.

  “We’re all pretending,” Asher says. “You pretend you like selling houses every time you meet with one of your buyers. Right?”

  He’s good at changing the subject.

  Asher brings up his arm and stops me midstep. We’ve almost reached Gatsby’s driveway and I see my yellow Beetle twenty feet away, just how I’d left it.

  Asher holds me back.

  “What’s up?” I say.

  He steps in front of me, slightly hunched. “Your tires are low.”

  My front tires are flat on the pavement.

  Asher reaches for his ankle. I spot a holster under the leg of his jeans and he pulls out a pistol.

  “What are you doing?” I hiss.

  “You had flat tires this morning?”

  “No—”

  “Someone popped your tires.”

  My heart races. If I were in the city I’d think pranksters or vandals, but this is Salma’s Hope, a picturesque small town. Then I remember the drug deal at Ruby’s Motel and rethink my opinion.

  “Still think I’m paranoid?” Asher says without taking his eyes off my car.

  He stalks forward, and I follow.

  When we circle to the passenger side, I suck in my breath. The fuel door is open, the cap unscrewed, and a rag hangs out of the tank.

  “If they’d lit the rag on fire,” Asher says, “your car would be fireworks. But they didn’t. It’s a warning.”

  I open the driver’s side door and shirk away. On the seat is a dead fox with glassy eyes, its fur matted with blood.

  Panic cuts to my bones as I stumble back into a solid wall. Half a heartbeat later I realize it’s Asher’s chest, and his gentle hands hold my arms until I stop shaking.

  “Easy,” he says.

  “Who would do this—” I start, then clamp my mouth shut because I don’t want to scream. It’s not fear. The fear has passed. I’m mad as hell.

  Asher lets go of me and lifts the fox out of my car, setting it on the ground. The animal’s throat has been slit.

  I feel violated and hate the feeling. The last time I’ve felt this way was in November of last year, in my boss’s office, when Branigan told me to sit before he locked the door.

  That was bad.

  This is worse. Like something a serial killer would do.

  Asher sighs. “They want you to leave, Natalie. They’re trying to scare you away. It’s a warning to me as well.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “Better you don’t know.” His eyes scan the road. “We’re not safe here. Let’s go.”

  We return to his Colonial, walking quickly. I feel a knot between my shoulder blades and keep looking over my shoulder, expecting any moment to see a masked lunatic leap out of the trees and chase after us.

  Asher puts his arm around me, and I let him.

  “You’ll be fine once you leave town,” he says quietly. “That’s what they want.”

  We reach his driveway and I shake off his arm. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Natalie, listen to me. What happened is no joke.”

  “I noticed.”

  “You need to leave for your own safety. I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve . . . doesn’t matter now. I’ll drive you to Goldilocks. Is there someone you can call?”

  “I’m not going anywhere!”

  Even if my future didn’t depend on selling the Gatsby house, I still wouldn’t leave. Not after what they did to my car. I bought that Beetle right out of college, the first car I paid for using my own money. We’ve been through thick and thin. That car is my Ladybug.

  “I’m calling the police,” I say.

  “Wouldn’t do any good.”

  I look him in the eye. “You know the people who did this, don’t you?”

  Asher nods.

  “Who?”

  “Told you before, there are bad people in this town—”

  “Don’t give me that. Tell me who.”

  “The more you know, the worse it’ll get.”

  I stomp over to his porch and plop down on the steps, hugging my bag. Then Hansel shuffles over to me whining and rests his head in my lap. I hug him too.

  Asher holsters his gun.

  I fetch my phone. “I’m calling the police.”

  “Natalie, stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Bringing cops here will only draw more attention to yourself.” He touches my shoulder. “I’ll drive you to the station. It’s twenty minutes away.”

  “Fine.”

  Grim-faced, Asher goes into the house with Hansel. He returns alone and locks the door. He brings out his Mustang from the outdoor garage, and I get in.

  Traffic is light on the road into town.

  We keep silent, driving past Goldilocks, then the ice cream parlor where I’d spotted Cora all those days ago. A family of four is eating on a sidewalk table, and everything seems so peaceful and safe.

  We arrive at the police station, a small brick building with a small parking lot, and I’ve had enough. Getting out of the Mustang, I hold my elbows and stand in place.

  “Asher?”

  He walks around the car to stand before me.

  “You owe me an explanation,” I say. “Who did that to my car?”

  He meets my eyes. Anger and
sadness in his. “People from the casino, Natalie. They work for Verne Resnik, the owner. Resnik is a slimy fuck who murdered my sister Priscilla.” He pauses, takes a breath. “That red pickup truck you saw at Ruby’s? It belonged to one of Resnik’s men. They all drive red pickups. It’s like a fucking dress code for them.”

  When you work in real estate, you meet people who are less than truthful. Asher Wade doesn’t strike me as one. Deep down, I think that’s one of the reasons I was drawn to him. “This Resnik guy, he’s not in jail?”

  “Free and prospering.” Asher says. “The police found my sister in the river, not far from the waterfront. Drowned. The coroner ruled it a suicide. It’s bullshit. Pris would never kill herself.”

  “Why do you suspect Resnik?”

  The sky has darkened to a bruising purple. Asher’s blue-gray eyes shimmer in the dusk. “They were high school sweethearts, Natalie. Verne Resnik knew our family, we grew up together. Hell, he attended my brother’s funeral.”

  “Eugene?”

  “Yes. We were that close. And right before I left for Afghanistan, he proposed to Pris. She accepted. I was glad for them, had no reason to think he wouldn’t do right by her.” Asher’s eyes grow vacant. “I should’ve never left Pris in Salma’s Hope, I should’ve stayed here to keep her safe.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was stationed at a forward base. Hard to keep in touch with home, but Pris and I would video chat whenever I was off-duty. She looked happy at first. That changed after a while, and Verne Resnik was always in the room with her when we talked. One day, she stopped chatting. She wrote letters instead, about how she didn’t feel safe with Verne anymore. He wasn’t the man we thought he was. Resnik had come into an inheritance, wanted to build a casino, had even secured a license from the state. Resnik wanted to make Salma’s Hope the next Las Vegas.”

  Asher looks into the sky as if he can see some secret there.

  “I could’ve left the Army then,” he says. “Gone home to help Pris—but I didn’t. She kept writing letters. The casino had been losing money, but Resnik turned it around somehow. Pris suspected his men were selling cocaine and meth on the side, only to tourists at first, then locals. My sister was digging around his dirt. I believe she found proof of his crimes and he killed her for it.”