A little cash? She’d skimmed enough to buy a nice used car, and I’d been too trusting to even realize it until the numbers hadn’t added up in a big way.
She slowed near the guitars at the front of the store and malicious glee lit her eyes.
She wouldn’t.
Oh, but she did.
Bree grabbed a guitar and swung it toward the rack as the chimes above the front door jangled. Wood crashed against wood, and two female screeches erupted.
Shit … if she injured a customer…
I charged Bree and ripped the guitar from her hands before she could swing again. A swirl of red hair caught my attention as the other woman dodged out of the strike zone.
Bree struggled against my hold, and I wondered if I was going to end up with a face full of the acrylic claws tearing at my arms. “Let go of me, you asshole!”
“Whoa, boss. Getting the door for ya.” Mathieu bolted across the shop and yanked the door open again. I hustled Bree out and set her free on the sidewalk.
She spun to face Mathieu and me. “You’re gonna regret this,” she hissed. “I swear, you will.”
A soft laugh came from the open door. “From what I’ve seen, I highly doubt it.”
Bree opened her mouth to spew something else, but I shut her down. “Get gone. I don’t ever wanna see you near my shop again.”
Bree’s flinty eyes narrowed as she shouldered her purse. “Fuck you, Lord. You think you’re better than me? Not a chance. You’re just thievin’ street scum. Fuck you.”
“And now she’s getting repetitious,” the husky female voice commented from behind me.
Lip curling in disgust, Bree turned and marched toward the corner, never looking back.
“Her exit could totally use some work, but all-in-all, that was one hell of a welcome.”
I turned to survey the woman standing in the doorway of Chains. Even without a photographic memory, I didn’t think I’d ever forget this particular pose: one arm braced on the doorframe and the other propped on her hip, a green dress hugging curves that had my entire body sitting up and taking notice. Matched with her long, curling red hair, she was a goddamn knockout. What the hell is she doing here?
“You lost, sweet thing?”
She stepped onto the sidewalk and tore the HELP WANTED sign off the bottom corner of the front window. Holding it between two fingers, she smiled. “Nope. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. I’m your newest employee.”
The sign had been there since long before my brother bought Chains over two years ago, and it was faded to the point where you could barely make out the words. But still, I had to admit her move was slick.
“You’re in the wrong neighborhood to be looking for a job. I suggest you take your cute little ass over to Magazine and apply at one of those fancy shops. I’ve got nothing for you here.”
She flicked her wrist a few times, snapping the sign.
“It says ‘help wanted.’ I’m help, therefore I’m wanted.”
I opened my mouth to tell her no way in hell, but she spun on her blood-red, four-inch heels, grabbed the door handle, and let herself back inside.
Well, hell.
“She for real, boss?” Mathieu asked.
Through the barred windows, I watched as she studied the interior of the store, running her hand over the rack of guitars before stepping to the row of glass cases where the expensive shit lay—except the most expensive thing in the whole place was wearing a hot-as-fuck green dress and miles away from where she belonged.
Elle Snyder. Best friend to my brother’s girlfriend and born with a gold-plated spoon in her mouth—because silver probably wasn’t rich enough for her blood. Skip gold-plated, and make that solid gold. Some of us weren’t even born with a spoon. We’d had to claw our way to a meal and grab onto it with both hands before it could be ripped away.
There was no way she was actually here for a job. She had to be fucking with me. Might as well go in there, figure out what she wanted, and escort her fine ass right back out the door—all while keeping my hands to myself. I wasn’t about to go there, regardless of how sexy she was. She was in the no-go zone. You didn’t screw around with a girl who your family considered family.
“Boss?” Mathieu prompted.
“I don’t know what the hell she’s doing here, but I’m about to find out.” And that conversation didn’t need an audience. I pulled out my wallet and flipped off a couple bills. “How about you go grab us some food while I sort this out?”
“You just want to be alone with the rich bitch.” Mathieu winked and reached out to grab the money, but I yanked it back.
“What did I say about calling women—?”
He held up both hands in surrender. “I know, I know. Sorry. Chill out, man.”
I held out the cash again. “Just go get us some damn food.”
Snatching the bills and pocketing them, Mathieu asked, “How long do you want me to take? You going for a quickie or a long ride?”
“Go,” I growled.
Mathieu turned and strode off down the sidewalk, whistling as he went. “Little punk,” I muttered under my breath as I pulled open the door.
My annoyance bled away at the sight that greeted me: Elle leaned over the countertop, her dress clinging to her perfect peach of an ass. My cock twitched in my jeans, but I forced the reaction down. No. Ain’t happenin’, buddy.
“We both know you’re not here for a job. So if you’re lookin’ to pawn or buy something, you might as well get to it.” Even the thought of her pawning something was ridiculous, because, from what I’d heard, the woman was flush with cash.