“Um, yes.” I clear my throat. “And you are?”
“Ryker,” he grunts.
The name Ryker fits him to a T. He’s tall – way taller than me and I’m five-foot-nine. He must be at least six-six. He’s also wide as a linebacker. And it’s all muscle, not an ounce of fat to be seen on this man. His long-sleeved Henley is pulled taut over his chest and stretched to the limit on his biceps.
He’s handsome in a rough, outdoorsy way. He sports a scruffy, dark beard, and his hair is a bit long and out of control, as if he couldn’t be bothered to waste any time on it. My eyes land on his and I swallow before I can gasp. They are bright, mossy green and I swear they can see right through me.
My body warms and I nearly stumble when I realize I’m interested in this man. I haven’t been interested in any man in such a long time I barely recognize what the warming in my belly means.
“Can I help you?” I ask after I wrestle my hormones into control. I am cool and collected. I am the ice queen after all.
“Yeah.” He leans closer. “Do you want to go out with me?”
Go out with him? Whether I want to or not is immaterial. I can’t go out with him. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that men cannot be trusted. Which is why I’ve sworn them off, except for book boyfriends. Book boyfriends are the only boyfriends in my future. I look up at him, determined to tell him no, and my body starts to tingle from the heat in his eyes.
“I …”
Suzie comes barreling around the corner. I never thought I’d be excited to see her.
“This is a private party. What are you doing here?” She’s a foot and half shorter than him, but she has no problem getting right up in his face. I should take lessons from her.
“My mistake,” he says with a shrug. “I’ll see you around.” I’m not sure if his words are a threat or a promise.
Suzie watches him leave. “Wow. The man is h-a-w-t. Hawt.” She fans her face. “You should totally go to bonetown with him.”
Go to bonetown? I’ve never taken a trip to bonetown. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a virgin, but bonetown sounds like way more fun than I’ve ever had in the sack. Unfortunately, I will not be going to bonetown with him or any other man. Sigh. My life sucks.
“Come on.” I put my hands on her shoulders and steer her toward the bar. “Let’s get you a drink to celebrate.”
At the word drink, Suzie forgets all about Ryker. I shudder. His name is as sexy as the man himself. I better not see him again or I’ll be in trouble. And I’m already in enough trouble to last a lifetime.
Chapter 2
If you decide you want to become a kickass PI, do not wear dry clean only clothes to work. ~ Phoebe’s rules for becoming a better person
I study the boring beige suburban house. According to the case file, Stan Brown lives here. Except Mr. Brown is supposed to be dead. Supposedly, he was killed in a work-related accident. I flip through the file as I keep one eye on the house. Brown is a highway construction worker who ‘died’ when a car smashed into a barrier he was standing next to and went up in flames. His body was never recovered. Shiver. How horrid.
Well, it would be horrid if it were true. Because Stan Brown is apparently alive and well and living in suburbia. Due to rumors, the man was planning to fake his death, the insurance company is dragging its feet paying out the widow. But so far, no one has been able to prove Brown is alive. You Cheat, We Eat is the third investigative firm the insurance company hired.
I never thought I’d be working at a place called You Cheat, We Eat, but I have to admit I kind of love the name. Hailey says since she makes most of her money chasing cheaters, she might as well advertise the fact. Plus, there’s no better way to get revenge on cheating men than by making money on outing them.
I don’t chase after cheaters, though. When Hailey and Suzie agreed to take me on as a future investigator, we decided I would concentrate on insurance fraud cases. Apparently, I’m not inconspicuous enough to chase cheaters. Yeah, right. In my old life, I was practically invisible.
But wearing the clothes of my previous life makes me stick out in my new life. Yeah, yeah, I get it. The Furstenberg wraparound dresses and Louboutin high heels are a bit over the top. But those are the clothes I owned. I wasn’t going to throw an absolute mint in fashion clothing away just because I ran away from my old life. Instead, I brought it all to my new life. Except the clothes make me stand out like a blinking road sign in my new life.
Suzie claims you could wrap me in clingwrap, and I’d still stand out. She’s the queen of exaggeration. Yes, I’m five-foot-nine and I’ve got the requisite curves. Unlike Hailey, I was first in line when boobs and bootie were handed out. But I’ve spent my life starving myself to ensure those curves don’t go out of control. It’s hard to appreciate your body when you’re always hungry.
In addition to my curvy body, I’m blonde with green eyes. I think my eyes look exotic with a slight slant to them, but according to my mother, I’m one in a million blonde-haired girls. There’s absolutely nothing special about me or so she’s told me a million times.
I shut thoughts of my mother down. Thoughts of her will lead to thoughts about the rest of my loving family. Sarcasm intended. Thinking about my so-called family is akin to jumping the fast train to depression. Been there. Done that. Have the bruised heart as a souvenir.
I lean my head against the headrest and force my eyes to stay open. This is my third day of surveillance on Stan Brown’s supposed house and I am bored, bored, bored. Hailey warned me when I begged her for a job that being a PI was boring. I should have listened. What am I saying? I still would have taken the job.
I straighten when I hear an engine. Is Brown finally leaving his home? The garage door hasn’t moved an inch in the past three days. Come on, come on. I cross my fingers and zero in on the garage door. It doesn’t move. Darn. My shoulders drop and I sigh.
A delivery van passes. Ah, that explains the engine noise. I watch as the driver slams on his brakes halfway down the street. The obnoxious beeping sound delivery vans have when reversing starts up and the vehicle backs up the street.
When the van stops right in front of the Brown residence, I squeal and pull out my camera to start taking pictures. As the delivery man slams his door, I keep my camera trained on the front door of the house and wait for someone to open it. Fingers crossed it’s Stan Brown.
The door opens and a woman steps out. Darn. Not Stan then. I take several pictures anyway. I zoom in to get a closer look. The woman resembles Melanie Brown, the widow. At least I’m at the right house. The delivery man approaches dragging a trolley holding the world’s largest television. How in the world does the widow of a construction worker have the money to afford such an obnoxiously sized television?
Melanie ushers the delivery man in. Before she slams her door, she scans the neighborhood. Huh. In my experience, you want your neighbors to know when you’ve bought a big-ticket item. Bragging rights and all. Melanie’s behavior is more than a bit suspicious.
I need to take action. Sitting on my butt in a vehicle parked outside of the Brown residence for days on end isn’t going to prove Stan Brown is alive and well. And I don’t get paid unless I get the proof. I hook the strap of the camera around my neck and exit the SUV. I start tiptoeing down the sidewalk but stop when I realize I look suspicious, not to mention stupid, tiptoeing in broad daylight down an average street in suburbia.