Page 12 of Devious Obsession
“Check me for what?” I turn toward him and tilt my head with my brows pulled tight.
“Weapons.”
“Weapons? For a conversation?” I laugh. “Okay, fine.”
I step back and unzip my coat. Lifting up my sweater, I show him my empty waistband. “See, nothing.”
He reaches for me, like he’s going to pat me down.
“Are your hands warm? I really hate being cold.”
He stares at me a second.
“Seriously, I only need two minutes with Janis. I have a business proposition, why would I bring anything stupid like a gun with me?” I bat my eyes a little, hoping I’m not laying it on too thick.
He pulls back, frowning, but after a second, he nods.
“Let’s go.” He yanks open the door, and a blast of heat welcomes us.
Internally, I let out a sigh of relief and follow him across the threshold where we’re greeted with another security guard. This one has a raised scar across his left cheek and what I think is another scar from a bullet hole in his neck.
“Did you check her?” He stands in front of me, blocking my way while he asks the first guy.
“She’s fine.”
“Fucking idiot. Always check.” Without so much as a hello, he grabs me and shoves my coat out of the way as he starts feeling his way around my waist.
“Hold on a second.” I try to twist away, but it’s too late. He’s found it.
He slides it from my waistband and brings it in front of my face. Nothing like staring your bad decisions directly in the face.
“Oh, that.” I try to laugh but all I do is huff.
He tucks the gun into his own waistband and grabs hold of me, shoving me against the wall before he starts going through my pockets. He finds the knife and takes it.
“Let’s go.”
“I need that back before I leave.” I tell him as I follow his broad back around the corner to the main area of the warehouse. It’s full of pallets and boxes, obviously not one of the places he uses for his raves.
Janis is shorter than I expected. By a lot.
For some reason I pictured him to be six foot something and built like he lives in the gym. I also thought he’d have a dark beard covering his square jaw, and thick black hair.
I realize in that moment who I’d been picturing. Artem.
Ever since I got that damn text message from him a week ago, he shows up in my thoughts more than ever.
Janis isn’t Artem. This man stands barely over five foot. He has black hair, but it’s slicked back with a thick gel. I’m not sure anyone could run their fingers through it.
“She had this.” The scarred man tattles on me first chance he gets.
“For my own protection, that’s all,” I explain quickly.
Janis stares at me with a raised eyebrow. “Protection? Why do you need protection; you’re the one going around asking questions about me. I don’t know you. How do you know me?”
Yes. Good question.
“Tony DeAngelo.” I blurt out the bastard’s name.
