GetOn (7 page)

Mia dressed carefully for Sunday at the convention. It was
the last day, and if she was going to come through it with her employment still
intact, she’d have to really wow them.

Shimmying into a leopard-print wiggle dress, she smoothed it
down her hips. Black fuck-me pumps completed the outfit, and she clicked her
way into the bathroom to take advantage of the better light and large mirror.
Too bad this time she was alone in here, she frowned. Her hair finally
submitted to an intricate twist at the base of her neck. Large, ornate horn
earrings added just the edge she was looking for. And as she put the last touches
on her deep-red lipstick, she couldn’t help but wish Garrett was here to see
her.

Her look wasn’t perfect, of course. Wispy curls struggled to
escape their confinement and her belly wasn’t flat beneath the dress. Her arms
jiggled too much and her nose wouldn’t ever be what she considered cute. But
just for a moment, Mia closed her eyes and imagined herself as Garrett would
see her.

Drop-dead gorgeous.

Her lids popped open and she glared at the girl in the
mirror. “Bitch. Forget about him. He doesn’t want to see you again.”

With purpose, she strode from the bathroom and grabbed her
gear. She wasn’t exactly sure what to say to Jules to apologize for missing a
whole day of the convention, but she was confident the answer would come to
her. After all, she’d been good at talking herself out of trouble her whole
life, except with
Abuela
. And Mia’s bullshit gene had come straight from
that great woman, so that was unsurprising.

The elevator was crowded this morning as people left their
rooms to head to breakfast or the convention. It was easy to see who belonged
to which group. The BodModCon crowd was yawning and hung over, not to mention
adorned with numerous tattoos and black clothing. The straitlaced breakfast
folks crammed themselves into the corners of the elevator, eyes wide and kids
pressed against their sides.

Mia waved at a little girl, her pigtails chocolate poofs
atop her head. She smiled shyly back at Mia, her finger never leaving her
mouth.

As the elevator dinged in announcement that they’d arrived
on the conference level, Mia exited with a sigh. She’d probably never have
kids. Hadn’t really met anyone she’d like to have kids with.

Except
, her bitch of a subconscious slyly suggested.

“Shut the fuck up,” Mia muttered beneath her breath as she
approached the convention staffer who guarded the exhibitor entrance. The burly
guy started to scowl.

“Not you,” Mia flashed him a smile. “Thinking out loud.”

He examined her badge and let her through, but not without
ogling her rack first. Mia rolled her eyes as her heels clicked on the concrete
floor of the exhibit hall.
Not smiling at that asshole again
.

It was early, but there were plenty of exhibitors getting
prepped for the day. There was lots of ink to finish, piercings to do and money
to be made before this convention shut down. Mia waved at a couple of familiar
faces as she rounded the corner to the aisle that Drama Tattoo was set up on.

Butterflies banged against her rib cage, and she took a
steadying breath. She could do this. She’d just have to tell Jules the truth,
at least part of it. She’d been abandoned and stranded. Not her fault. Back as
soon as she could.

Fortunately, Jules was already there, and there was no sign
of that skinny-jeaned asshole Matt. Mia smiled tentatively as she entered the
booth.

“Hey, Jules.”

Her boss turned quickly, a sour smirk on her face. “Well,
look who the fuck decided to show up to work today.”

“Listen, I’m so sorry about yesterday. You wouldn’t believe
what hap—”

“I don’t give a shit where you were or who you were with.”
Jules pointed a finger directly at Mia’s chest, moving closer, mere inches
away. “You hung us out to dry. Do you have any idea how it looked? We have
‘piercing’ right there on the goddamn sign, Mia. Drama Tattoo
and Piercing
.
I had to turn away about seventeen customers yesterday and they won’t be back.”

Smothering the instinct to fire back at Jules, Mia set her
jaw and stood her ground.

“Matt told me you were a mistake after you’d been with us a
month. I should have listened.”

“He said I was a mistake because I refused to suck his
skinny cock.” Mia couldn’t shove down the angry retort anymore. “I’m sorry
about yesterday, and if you’ll give me the chance to explain and apologize, I
will. I’m doing my damnedest to fit in here and have you guys like me, but I’m
not going to fuck Matt to keep this job.”

“What job?” Jules delivered that bomb with a cruel smile.
She crossed her thick arms under her corseted chest. “There’s a convention full
of people who can do this better than you. And I think today I’ll hire your
replacement. You’re fired, Mia. Get your shit and get out.”

There wasn’t any sadness, only a huge sense of relief. Mia
nodded and grabbed her rolling case and bag. She left the booth and walked down
the long convention aisle. God, she’d never been so happy to be fired in her
life. Drama Tattoo could keep its issues. She was tired of trying to get along
with them. Jules was blind and Matt was a tool. Mia would rather join the line
at the unemployment office and beg for food stamps than spend another day in
that toxic environment. Yesterday was her fault, in a roundabout way, but it
was a mistake she couldn’t bring herself to regret.

Several aisles down, the back wall of the room was blank. A
few high tables stood there, empty now. They’d be crowded with convention goers
in just a few hours. Leaning her stuff against one of them, Mia propped her
elbows on the blue-covered surface.

“Shit,” she said aloud as reality washed over her. A
crackling above her head signaled the loudspeaker’s activation.

“Welcome to the final day of BodModCon! Get your needles
ready, because here comes your audience.”

A loud cheer greeted his words, and Mia looked despondently
down at her case.

Maybe she should rethink her life. There were a lot of prima
donnas and dicks in this business, but there were good people too. She’d just
had a bad run of luck in her coworkers.

She snorted as the aisles started to clog just beyond her
little sanctuary. Coworkers, hell. Boyfriends. Friends. She’d been alone since
Abuela
died.

Until you met Garrett
, her subconscious whispered.

The thought made her pause. She bit her lip, glancing at her
black purse. That morning, before dressing, she’d pulled the little slip of
paper that Trent had given her from her pocket, flattening out the wrinkles and
reading it for the first time.

There was a phone number on it. Trent’s or Garrett’s, she
wasn’t sure. But she did know it was the link she needed to find him again.
She’d tucked the paper into the front pouch of her bag, uncertain at the time
if she’d ever use it.

Garrett.

He’d promised to look out for her during the convention. Was
he somewhere nearby now? How would he know that she wasn’t working at the
booth?

He didn’t want to see her again. The stuff he was involved
in was dangerous.

It would be stupid to try to track him down.

She grinned, picked up her shit and booked it for the door.
Bad ideas were the most fun, and finding Garrett was, most definitely, a bad
idea.

* * * * *

“I really appreciate you doing this.” Garrett tucked the
phone against his shoulder as he pulled his leather jacket from the large
walk-in closet in his bedroom. “Someone needs to keep an eye on her and it
shouldn’t be me. For a lot of reasons.”

Laying the jacket over his arm, he resumed his grip on the
phone. He left his bedroom, making sure to walk softly on the polished wooden
floors. Motorcycle boots had a distinctive
thunk
. “Yeah. Just let me
know if you see anything suspicious. And uh…” Garrett lifted the keys from the
marble countertop carefully, making sure not to let them jingle. “I’ll be out
doing some yard work, so if you don’t get me, leave it on my voicemail, okay?
Sure. Thanks, Trent.”

He killed the call without much remorse. Trent had been on
his ass all night once Reg and Quentin had left, wanting to know what was up
with him and Mia. And Garrett’s firm “it’s over” didn’t seem to wash. No matter
how much Garrett insisted there was nothing between them, and the split hadn’t
affected him in any way, Trent never believed him. He’d argued, but had
eventually agreed to keep watch over Mia at the convention for Garrett.

So a little white lie had been necessary. If Trent had known
what Garrett was about to do, he’d have done his best to talk him out of it,
probably even bringing the other two guys in to block his path.

Garrett pulled on his leather jacket, glimpsing out the wide
window in front of his kitchen sink. A beautiful, sunny day, but the thickening
clouds on the horizon promised the weather would change later. A soft tinkling
met his ears, the little silver wind chime Priscilla had hung on his front
porch so many years ago, still reminding him of what he had to fight for, what
he had to correct. She hadn’t deserved her fate.

Garrett snorted as he let himself out of the house and into
his large garage, punching the door button on his way by. None of them deserved
the shit that had happened to them. Not Priscilla, not Trent, Reg or Quentin or
even—

He stopped in front of his shiny black SUV.

Mia.

Garrett leaned against the hood for a second, the memory of
their conversation in the restaurant washing over him. God, the pain in her
eyes when she’d talked about losing her grandmother. The loneliness. It had
echoed what he felt in his own heart.

A heavy bang reverberated through the garage as his fist
landed atop the hood. She was living her life now. And so was he.

Throwing his leg over the bike seat, he settled himself onto
his favorite mode of transportation. Today, he was going to track down a key
member of Art Ford’s team, and then he was going to interrogate the bastard
until he found out about Ramirez. Trent would never have allowed him to go
alone.

Garrett’s smile was grim as the engine rumbled to life
beneath him.

Trent would have to be content with mothering Mia today.
Garrett had shit to do.

* * * * *

Rain pelted against Garrett’s leather jacket and thousands
of tiny needles stung his face. Revving the engine, he hunkered closer to the
bike’s grips and accelerated. In the rain-freckled side mirrors, a
midnight-blue Mustang still followed.

“Shit,” Garrett hissed as he took a tight curve on Highway
78. Floyd, a newer member of Ford’s team, hadn’t recognized Garrett, but he was
intensely suspicious. Garrett had kept it light, posing as a dealer looking for
a new supplier, but Floyd hadn’t wanted to play ball. And since Floyd liked to
keep a posse around, roughing him up was out of the question.

Garrett booked it out of the Buckhead high-rise, but ever
since he’d left the parking deck, the Mustang had been following. He’d been
driving for over an hour now, taking quick turns without signaling on the
downtown streets, winding through the city as if on a Sunday drive, but the car
was always there.

A quick glimpse at the horizon showed an especially dark thunderhead
on its way. Here at the edge of twilight, with a heavy storm coming and a
couple of Floyd’s associates on Garrett’s tail, he knew it was time for drastic
action.

Lowering his head, Garrett kicked the bike into high gear.
The precision engine responded instantly, rocketing Garrett forward as if he
and his bike had been shot from a cannon. Here on the outskirts of Atlanta, the
roads were curvier, hillier and as familiar to Garrett as the back of his own
hand.

The speedometer crept higher, from seventy to eighty,
eighty-five… The Mustang grew smaller in the mirror. Garrett’s adrenaline
surged as he allowed himself to drag in a heavy, rain-tinged breath. Up ahead
was his salvation, and none too soon.

He decelerated fractionally on the gentle curve, guiding his
bike onto an almost indiscernible path on the edge of the road. Once his tires
hit grass, he braked hard. Just as he’d hoped, the firm ground beneath didn’t
give under the strain of his sudden stop.

Cutting the engine behind a thick copse of river birches, he
waited. A huge clap of thunder heralded the storm’s arrival, and water poured
from the sky as the Mustang shot around the curve. Garrett allowed himself a
breath of relief. It was Sunday, and less than a mile of curvy road ahead was a
speed trap. The Mustang wouldn’t be able to avoid it.

After a silent ten minutes, Garrett cranked the engine and
headed home. No need to tell the guys about this one. He hadn’t gotten any new
information, and after the idiots in the Mustang got through with the license
check, they’d report to Floyd that he’d disappeared in the country.

By the time his bike rumbled up his drive, the rain had
slacked off a little bit. It was a matter of longstanding habit to do a sweep
of his surroundings, and as his gaze wandered across the front of his house, a
large black object caught his eye.

A suitcase was sitting on his front porch. A black suitcase.

And on the other end of the porch, huddled on the white
wicker swing, was Mia.

Excitement shot through him for a split second, followed
immediately by incredible rage. What the hell was she doing here? How had she
found him?

But just as quickly, the dull metallic taste of fear filled
his mouth, and he checked his rearview mirrors. What if the Mustang had made it
through the checkpoint after all, and followed him here? She could be in
danger.

Because of him.

Shit.

He punched the garage door button in his pocket and thrust
the kickstand down. The engine had barely stopped growling when he threw
himself off the bike and ran around the front of the house. He took the steps
to the porch three at a time.