his ribs.
“Nice work,” he said. “I was waiting for Shaundra when she got out. She said you’d blocked this perp.”
Hunter’s eyes went wide. “You were—”
“This guy’s gotten three girls this month,” he said, jaw hardening. “One of them was Shaundra’s roommate. Apparently he likes miniskirts and boots—fucking perv.” The kid shook his head. “And he’s brutal. Lots of blood and tearing with this one. I hope he gets a fencepost up his ass. Anyway, nicely done. You want to help me drop this asshole in front of the local precinct?”
“He’s seen my face,” Hunter rasped.
The kid—God, how old was he?—dropped to his haunches, pulled out a small canister, and cold-bloodedly pepper sprayed the guy in the eyes, ignoring his scream as he stood up, wiped the canister down with an astringent wipe he’d pulled out of his pocket, and then went to work on his fingers. “Forgot the gloves. Goddammit. Anyway, good luck trusting him to identify anybody now. Here—they’ve got his DNA on file and the precinct’s around the corner. If we cut through the bottom of the garage, we can drop this sack of shit and retreat.”
“And then what?”
The kid grinned, a hint of Peter Pan in his smile, even though he had small, perfect masculine features with sloe-dark eyes.
“Then I take you out to coffee.”
And that had been how Hunter had met Josh Salinger, a young man who would never be his lover but would definitely change his life.
After Josh Salinger showed him Grace
HUNTER LIKED the shadows. He liked leaning against a wall or a doorframe or even sitting on the floor next to the couch, where people wouldn’t see him.
When people couldn’t see him, they couldn’t account for what he might do, and when they couldn’t account for what he might do, he had the advantage.
Right now, he was leaning in the corner between the wet bar and the wall, with a perfect view of the couch, conversation pit, and television in Josh Salinger’s parents’ basement.
Of course, Josh Salinger’s parents—all three of them—had money, lots of it, so the basement was three times the size of any apartment Hunter had ever lived in and was comfortable as hell, with giant cutouts of every sport known to Chicago decorating the Chicago-red wall behind the couch. The furniture was red leather, the carpet was Cubs blue, and while it could have been an incredibly tacky sort of space, the gleaming bar and tiled kitchenette area, as well as the massive audio/visual setup, made it utilitarian and practical too.
The practicality was the sort of class Hunter could really get into.
He’d been invited to live upstairs in the mansion itself, and though he’d taken a room, he’d kept his loft in one of the high-rises off Wacker. Most of his apartment had been converted into a workout space anyway. His room at the Salinger mansion felt more like home.
And here, in this covert corner of his home, he listened to Grace’s friend spill her problems to Josh Salinger’s Uncle Danny as if the slender little man could make all the world’s ills go away.
For his part, Danny “Lightfingers” Mitchell—who went by Benjamin Morgan at the moment—listened, his sober, tip-tilted hazel eyes alight and mouth pulled up at the corner as though a comforting smile was only a breath away.
“So, darling, Grace tells us—”
“Grace?” The girl, Tabitha, frowned at Danny, who gave a little nod to Dylan Li.
Who preened.
“It’s what we call him,” Danny told her. “God knows why. Boy could destroy a china shop with one go-round, couldn’t he?” Danny spoke with a trace of a European accent, often slipping into a faux Irish brogue, but he could swear like any kid from the Jersey shore when put to it.
Tabby smiled and went to wipe her eyes on her shoulder, but Felix Salinger, Josh’s father and the love of Lightfingers Mitchell’s life, beat her to the punch with an offered linen handkerchief—probably monogrammed.
Well, Josh’s family was loaded to the gills, but from what Hunter could see, they’d earned it.
“Dylan said you all could probably help me.” She looked around the den, seeming to notice the number of faces she didn’t recognize, and frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand how, though.”
“We’re good at solving problems,” Danny said mildly, and Hunter snorted to himself. “We sort of host a think tank for special friends if they need a little bit of help.”
Actually, they were a bunch of con men, mercenaries, and thieves. But that didn’t mean they weren’t nice people.
Tabby sniffled and