Friends of Jericho’s. Uh-huh. They were fucking security guards, that’s who they were. And they were there to keep an eye on the stupid painting, right alongside these idiot rent-a-cops who thought they were so fucking tough.
This was not going the way he’d planned, and he had Jericho’s paranoia to thank for that. Then again, Amit felt rather accomplished since he’d managed to put everyone on high alert. It confirmed for him just how much that painting was worth. And since his bank account had just accumulated a very large sum of money in the last couple of hours, Amit was going to reap the rewards before the night was over.
The only thing he had to do was replace the original painting with the fake he’d stored in the back room, and then he’d be home free. He’d spent the last half hour getting acquainted with one of the guards, hoping to gain his trust, possibly lower his guard. Worst case, Amit knew he only had to toss the guy a little money. Turned out that rent-a-cop number one—James something or other—was the perfect man to do what Amit needed. He had four kids and a wife, and his job as a police officer didn’t pay enough, which was why he took shitty jobs such as this one to supplement his income.
It wouldn’t take much to get him to look the other way.
But for now, Amit needed to bide his time. The show would last for a few more hours, and until the place cleared out, he wouldn’t be able to get his hands on the painting.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Amit retrieved it, then glanced at the screen.
I expect delivery by first thing tomorrow morning.
Yes. Delivery. Great.
Amit had promised the buyer that he’d deliver the painting by tomorrow, which was why Amit had insisted on half of the money up front. That half was enough to keep him living in the lap of luxury for quite a few years, but the rest would be icing on the cake. At that point, Jericho Ardent would never be able to look down his snooty nose at Amit ever again.
However, Amit did have to find a way to get those big assholes out of the way. He’d never have a chance as long as they continued to watch him.
And that was where James came in.
TWENTY-NINE
THE NIGHT PROGRESSED EXACTLY AS Z had feared it would. RT was purposely keeping his distance and based on the fact the place was officially clearing out, it didn’t appear as though they were going to get their hands on the painting.
Fucked up all around, if you asked him.
They’d made a valiant effort to keep Amit’s grubby paws off of it for the past few hours, so there was that. The kid wasn’t happy that Z had become his shadow, but Z could say the same. Having spent most of his time following Amit around, listening to his childish ramblings while attempting to make conversation with the uptight little prick wasn’t Z’s idea of a good time, either.
In fact, he’d prefer to be plucking his own nose hairs with a pair of rusty pliers.
If it hadn’t been for James, the head guard from the security company they’d used, they very well could’ve been chasing their own asses. In circles. Turned out that James was a solid guy, a Corpus Christi cop who couldn’t be bought, although from what Z had heard, Amit had tried to lure him with a rather large sum of cash. Five grand wasn’t bad bank for a night’s work. Too bad for Amit, not all men could be bought.
That didn’t change anything, though. Z was still hovering over Amit, keeping him close like a baby bear cub, while RT stuck close to Jericho.
“What’s the plan?” Trace huffed in Z’s earpiece. “I finished readin’ the dictionary. Need somethin’ to do.”
“Shut up,” Colby bellowed. “You were readin’ the label on your Gatorade. Not quite the same thing.”
“We’re still sitting on the painting,” Z told him, watching as RT continued to speak with Jericho and Amahn, doing a damn good job of pretending there weren’t voices chitchatting in his ear. All three men—Jericho, Amahn, and RT—were keeping one eye on the painting at all times, as though it would vanish in thin air.
If only it were that easy.
When RT finally peered over at Z, the expression on his face didn’t give Z a warm and fuzzy feeling.
“Oh, hell,” Colby grumbled in Z’s ear.
“What’s wrong?” Z asked, keeping his eye on RT.
“Did you ever see that movie where the guy killed his boss and stole the money they’d stolen from someone else? The one with that super-tall hot chick who cracked safes for a living… What’s her name? Charlene something or other, I think.”
“Charlize Theron,” Trace corrected. “Damn, she was hot in that movie.”
“Dude, she’s hot in any movie,” Colby countered. “Even that one where she was the psycho crazy bitch.”
“She was a fucking serial killer, Colby. Only you’d find that hot,” Trace countered with a snort.
“Get to the point,” RT muttered.
“Right. Sorry,” Colby said. “Well, we’ve got three armored trucks pulling up near the front doors, three more along the back entrance. If my math’s correct, they’re about to play an advanced version of the shell game with us.”
“Shit.” RT’s expression went from upset to downright pissed.
Shit was right.
“Want us to follow?”
RT shook his head but didn’t speak as he approached Z.
“If you ask me,” Colby continued, “I think it’s in our best interest to ensure that painting stays with Jericho for now. As long as Amit doesn’t get his hands on it, we’ll have another opportunity.”
“Eventually,” RT said, sounding as though he agreed but wasn’t completely on board with the plan.
“Your call, boss man.” Trace didn’t seem put off by the plan, based on his tone.
“Let’s do that,” RT stated. “We’ll keep the rent-a-cops in place, Z and I’ll ensure the painting gets into one of the trucks while the two of you stand guard outside. For now, it’s all we can do.”
“Roger that.”
The transmitter went silent, and Z waited for RT to take his wrath out on him, but to his surprise, RT didn’t. What he did was much, much worse.
“Stick close to Amit,” RT instructed when he approached. “Then you get a ride with Clay and Ally once the painting is out of here. They can take you back to your bike. I’ll be heading back to Dallas tonight. Feel free to stay at the beach house till morning if you need to.”
Son of a bitch.
Just as he’d thought, RT was holding him responsible for this bullshit, though they’d known going in that this would be the likely outcome.
But being brushed aside as though what had transpired between them meant absolutely fucking nothing was what pissed Z off the most. And when he got pissed off, he didn’t do what a lot of men did. Z didn’t pick a fight or instigate an argument. He shut down. It was easier than dealing with the repercussions of the emotional fallout.
He should’ve known, damn it. He should’ve known better than to give in, to go after what he wanted. RT was good at shutting people out. Damn good. So much so that Z didn’t have the energy to try to claw his way past those walls again.
“Got it,” he told RT curtly.
RT looked up at him momentarily. For an instant, Z thought he saw remorse in that clear blue gaze, but it was masked quickly.
Rather than push, because in the end, the outcome would undoubtedly be the same, Z did as instructed—he turned and walked away.
TWO HOURS LATER, ONCE AGAIN wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and his protective gear, Ryan crouched low on his bike, watching the lines on the highway pass by at a blurring speed. He had stopped by the beach house long enough to change and get his bike, but he hadn’t run into Z. He had hoped he wouldn’t, but Ryan had to admit he was slightly disappointed.
He couldn’t stop thinking about Z, about the way he’d looked when Ryan had told him that he’d be going back to Dallas tonight.
It wasn’t as though Ryan had a choice. This thing between them, deep down they’d both known it was temporary. Sure, he hated that he’d put that look on Z’s face, but he had to get his head back in the game. He’d fucked up royally.