Take It On The Run

Chapter 44

POV: Reed

Something big had transpired in that limousine. One minute, it was en route to a building The Collectors used for money laundering—as Mr. Dawson had so helpfully explained while giving us their itinerary for the day—and the next, the vehicle had abruptly shifted course, rerouting to Liam Murphy's home.

Sloan's father had also reiterated earlier that Liam Murphy was a creature of habit, rarely deviating from his set schedule and appointments. He was too afraid of being assassinated at an unsecured location to indulge in spontaneity. Which meant something was wrong.

"Why is he taking her home?" Avery asked, anxiety lacing his voice.

"Dunno," Sumner answered, sifting through recordings and texts and emails. The music producer was the most equipped to understand the complicated technology, so Mr. Dawson had taught him how to use the security system and various monitoring apps and programs before leaving to take an overdue nap. "Murphy called Kelly to tell him they were going home but didn't explain why."

I bit my chapped lower lip. "Do you think he somehow figured out our plans to commit premeditated murder?"

I couldn't imagine many other reasons he'd skip out on work. Not when he'd been eagerly planning to show Sloan the empire she'd inherited, the empire they'd rule together.

Sumner shrugged. "No way to know anything concrete until we have a way to listen in."

Mr. Dawson had bugged Murphy's car however many years ago, but the thug had since upgraded his ride. So unless he called Kelly or was at home, we couldn't eavesdrop.

"It's just weird," I started. "They were nearly there. Why would he suddenly change his mind after nearly twenty minutes of..."

I trailed off just as the guys looked at me, like we'd all come to the same conclusion at the same time.

"Lecherous fucking bastard," Deacon cursed, a vein on his neck bulging.

It wasn't until the lovebirds—cue eye roll—returned to Murphy's church-mansion that we found out more. The four of us quieted the instant the gangster's low croon boomed through the device labeled Sloan.

"As a reward for what you just did in the car, we'll be stayin' in the rest of the evenin' to talk like you wanted."

My chest tightened.

What had she done in the car?

At first, my mind jumped to Sloan going down on him in the backseat. It would make sense—a sexual favor to placate him while he waited for the full monty and that let her feel like she was still in control. But then why did he sound so hardup?

"But first, I need to take the edge off," he continued in the filthiest baritone I'd ever heard. "Otherwise, I won't be able to watch you speak without picturin' your soft, pink lips wrapped around my cock."

My blood rushed through my veins, a loud, rapid pounding against my eardrums.

Red. I saw red everywhere.

The bastard's reference to her soft, pink lips was a double entendre, of course—to her mouth and her pussy. Because he couldn't go two whole seconds without attempting to sexually coerce the woman he'd fantasized about as a child. Ick.

But that wasn't why it felt like my heart was about to rupture inside my chest. No, my heart was sprinting now because the thug sounded ready to take her to the mattress and relieve himself between her legs this very instant. Or maybe he'd take her mouth or make her watch as he brought himself to climax at the foot of her bed.