When He's Dirty (Walker Security Adrian’s Trilogy #1) - Lisa Renee Jones Page 0,44
long legs. No. I do it to look good for Adrian. As my mother would say, I’m smitten. Ridiculously so. And I’m headed toward heartache if I’m not careful. But as I said last night, I’m practically on death row. I’m going to live while I can.
Once I’ve packed my trusty handgun and have my purse and briefcase over my shoulder, I secure the house and step outside, having already decided to walk to the coffee shop. I can’t function in a bubble of fear, nor, as Adrian pointed out, does it send the intended message that all is normal with me. If I’m being watched by someone other than Adrian’s people, they’re at least still present. I’m safe.
The morning is nice, on the cooler side today, if that’s what you call the seventies, though who knows if that will last. It’s Texas. We celebrate when our legs don’t burn on the car seat.
Once I’m at the coffee shop, I order a butterscotch latte with skim milk and settle into a chair at a corner table. Heavy on my mind is the deal Waters wants to make to hand over Whitaker in exchange for a lesser sentence, namely Logan’s unexpected involvement. I don’t have a history with Whitaker at my father’s firm, and didn’t know him to be a client, but it’s a large firm. What I do have is a list of all the firm’s clients at the time I left. I pull up my old computer folder, sipping my coffee while scanning the list and I find that I’m right. Whitaker was not a client. And why would he be? He’s an attorney. He has his own firm. The whole situation feels off.
I decide that the places my mind is taking me right now lead to my father, and I don’t want to believe that. In other words, I have to call him, which means I deserve a slice of chocolate bread first, which is a specialty here and quite wonderful. I push to my feet and slide my purse over my shoulder when normally I would not, but the gun inside feels rather special right now. Hurrying to the register while no one is in line, I place my order and move to the end of the counter. With my bag of warm, chocolate-iced bread in hand, I am on my way back to my table when a tall, burly man in jeans and a leather jacket steps in front of me. He’s forty-something, with brown spiky hair, tattoos all over his body, and sharp, jagged features.
He’s also familiar.
My lips part in shock with the realization that Joe “Rocketman” Mason, one of my ex-clients at my father’s firm is right here, right now. The nickname is appropriate since he’s no friend of the ATF, considering he runs an underground weapons operation I assume includes rockets, despite his denial, of course. I never liked him. I never willingly represented him, but my father forced my hand, which is another story altogether. Rocketman is not someone who’d be in this coffee shop at this time of the morning. He’s more of a vodka and moves around during hell’s nighttime hours kind of guy. “Joe,” I say, my heart thundering in my chest. “How are you?”
“You tell me,” he snaps.
“I—don’t know,” I say cautiously. “Am I supposed to know?”
“I hear Waters wants to start making deals.”
I blanch, not shocked really since it’s clear someone is leaking information, but unsettled. I also don’t assume he knows this at all because what I do know is Rocketman. He’s a bluffer. What concerns me at this point, is just how many people with criminal tendencies have skin in this game. “I can’t talk about my case with you,” I say, keeping my cool and giving him nothing
“You gonna make the deal?”
“I assume you have an opinion on me making the deal?”
“My opinion is my attorney should not be fighting Waters. Get off the case.”
“I’m not your attorney,” I say, and the timing of this, right after Logan’s visit, is glaringly obvious since my father’s firm still represents him. Obviously Rocketman has a connection to Waters, or maybe even Whitaker. “I am curious, though. What are you afraid of?” I decide to dig for his motivation. “Waters giving you up or you losing some sort of money train he somehow feeds?”
He gives me a deadpan look and then says again, “Get off the case.”
“Just as I wouldn’t desert you mid-case, which I didn’t, I