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Authors: Donnell Ann Bell
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of her closet, then positioned two shoe boxes in front of it for added measure. Convinced the oaken chest was hidden at all angles, she shut the closet door, then scanned the room for a hiding place for the key. She finally taped it to the left hand corner of her nightstand drawer.
Her illicit act accomplished, she dropped to the window seat and pulled back the sheers. As white blanketed the city, Mel’s stomach knotted in grief and despair. She hugged herself tightly. What did the future hold for her and her son?
Chapter Eight
All Drake wanted when he caught the taxi at Los Angeles’ Ontario Airport was to escape the crowds, check out the newest rides cruising traffic and get lost in the California terrain. Instead, he’d gotten stuck in gridlock and in the backseat of a nonstop-talking cabby.
Now, if the pony-tailed loser didn’t shut the fuck up, Drake was going to ram the guy’s head into the steering wheel and do it for him. He sure hadn’t gotten the message from Drake’s one-word replies.
Several times he’d caught the dude staring from the rearview mirror. Finally, gabby came right out with it. “You from around here, man?”
“Nah, just got out of the pen.” Maybe that would keep his trap shut.
“No shit.” The driver, sporting a string of tattoos on every visible part of his body, adjusted his rearview mirror. “I got a cousin in Folsom.”
What was that supposed to do, make them related or something? Drake tamped down his annoyance.
“What were you in for?”
Drake tore his gaze away from the window, met the dude’s dark eyes in the mirror. “Murder.”
“Huh,” the cabby replied. “Is that right?” He jerked his head back toward the road.
Drake smirked. Worked every time. Two days out of prison, and he knew how the dinosaurs felt when they’d slid into the La Brea Tar Pits. It had taken him hours to board one of the flights leaving Denver. With no valid driver’s license or passport, and only a Colorado Department of Corrections letter of release, he’d been escorted to a shit-can room off the concourse where some suits with badges badgered him to make sure he wasn’t on some kind of no-fly list.
Pissed as hell that no one had warned him, and that his brother had wired very little money, Drake had finally managed to catch a plane west.
Everywhere he looked he took in the unfamiliar. Where were the Riverside pasturelands of his youth? Once home to thousands of dairy cows, the area had evolved into nothing but tract housing. From the window, he caught sight of the foothills. LA’s smog often masked their visibility, but it was December, and the Santa Ana winds must’ve sent the pollution packing. His bearings out of whack, anger merged with uncertainty. Fifteen years. Fifteen irreplaceable years stolen from his life.
The driver made yet another unrecognizable turn. Clutching the armrest, Drake leaned forward. When he’d left years ago, Maxwell Construction had been located in a low-rent part of the city, made up mostly of warehouses and rundown buildings.
“You sure you know where you’re going?”
“3820 Marauder Drive,” the cabby said.
“You ever heard of Maxwell Construction?”
“Who hasn’t? They got it going on all over Southern California.”
Well, well, well. Drake settled back in his seat. If the cabby recognized the company by name, and knew what he was talking about, that meant Drake’s trust was intact. What’s more, with the money untapped, it’d grown larger.
“Step on it,” he said.
Ten minutes later, the driver pulled alongside a curb. Drake didn’t know what to gape at more, the shock of the cab fare or the transition of Maxwell Construction.
The company, housed in an impressive two-story adobe structure, was set back several feet behind a massive sign and a landscape of grass, cactus, hedges and palm trees. Certainly not the real estate he’d known in his childhood.
Dumbfounded, he grabbed his gym bag and slid out of the cab.
All
Her illicit act accomplished, she dropped to the window seat and pulled back the sheers. As white blanketed the city, Mel’s stomach knotted in grief and despair. She hugged herself tightly. What did the future hold for her and her son?
Chapter Eight
All Drake wanted when he caught the taxi at Los Angeles’ Ontario Airport was to escape the crowds, check out the newest rides cruising traffic and get lost in the California terrain. Instead, he’d gotten stuck in gridlock and in the backseat of a nonstop-talking cabby.
Now, if the pony-tailed loser didn’t shut the fuck up, Drake was going to ram the guy’s head into the steering wheel and do it for him. He sure hadn’t gotten the message from Drake’s one-word replies.
Several times he’d caught the dude staring from the rearview mirror. Finally, gabby came right out with it. “You from around here, man?”
“Nah, just got out of the pen.” Maybe that would keep his trap shut.
“No shit.” The driver, sporting a string of tattoos on every visible part of his body, adjusted his rearview mirror. “I got a cousin in Folsom.”
What was that supposed to do, make them related or something? Drake tamped down his annoyance.
“What were you in for?”
Drake tore his gaze away from the window, met the dude’s dark eyes in the mirror. “Murder.”
“Huh,” the cabby replied. “Is that right?” He jerked his head back toward the road.
Drake smirked. Worked every time. Two days out of prison, and he knew how the dinosaurs felt when they’d slid into the La Brea Tar Pits. It had taken him hours to board one of the flights leaving Denver. With no valid driver’s license or passport, and only a Colorado Department of Corrections letter of release, he’d been escorted to a shit-can room off the concourse where some suits with badges badgered him to make sure he wasn’t on some kind of no-fly list.
Pissed as hell that no one had warned him, and that his brother had wired very little money, Drake had finally managed to catch a plane west.
Everywhere he looked he took in the unfamiliar. Where were the Riverside pasturelands of his youth? Once home to thousands of dairy cows, the area had evolved into nothing but tract housing. From the window, he caught sight of the foothills. LA’s smog often masked their visibility, but it was December, and the Santa Ana winds must’ve sent the pollution packing. His bearings out of whack, anger merged with uncertainty. Fifteen years. Fifteen irreplaceable years stolen from his life.
The driver made yet another unrecognizable turn. Clutching the armrest, Drake leaned forward. When he’d left years ago, Maxwell Construction had been located in a low-rent part of the city, made up mostly of warehouses and rundown buildings.
“You sure you know where you’re going?”
“3820 Marauder Drive,” the cabby said.
“You ever heard of Maxwell Construction?”
“Who hasn’t? They got it going on all over Southern California.”
Well, well, well. Drake settled back in his seat. If the cabby recognized the company by name, and knew what he was talking about, that meant Drake’s trust was intact. What’s more, with the money untapped, it’d grown larger.
“Step on it,” he said.
Ten minutes later, the driver pulled alongside a curb. Drake didn’t know what to gape at more, the shock of the cab fare or the transition of Maxwell Construction.
The company, housed in an impressive two-story adobe structure, was set back several feet behind a massive sign and a landscape of grass, cactus, hedges and palm trees. Certainly not the real estate he’d known in his childhood.
Dumbfounded, he grabbed his gym bag and slid out of the cab.
All
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