And this was always my answer.
His hand, still in my belly, pressed lightly as his face dipped closer. “Babe, straight up, last night you f**ked up. You’ve f**ked up before, but last night, you totally f**ked up. It’ll take me, Uncle Vito, your brothers, both of them, Marcus and pretty much every-fuckin’-body to cover your ass for the shit you pulled last night.”
Thus commenced the me-getting-pissed portion of The Talk, which usually led to the me-yelling portion of The Talk, and that moved into the Ren-yelling portion of The Talk, which tended to culminate in the me-stomping-out-portion of our talk (or, alternately, us having a hot, great, fast quickie, then I’d get dressed and stomp out).
“I saved Faye’s life last night,” I reminded him curtly.
“You got on some serious as shit radar last night,” he returned.
“I got them what they wanted.” I kept sharing recent memories.
“You got on radar,” he semi-repeated. “You do not want a single one of those men to know you exist. You really don’t want them to know you got access and skills. You dabble in this shit, Ally. It isn’t your life. It’s a pastime. You do not have a solid network. You do not have back up. You do not have experience. So far, all you’ve got is a shitload of luck and persistence. The first eventually is gonna run out. The second is gonna make it run out and get you into trouble.”
I didn’t hear a lot of what he said since I was stuck on a word he used close to the beginning.
Dabble.
“Dabble?” I whispered warningly.
I knew he caught my warning because we’d managed, even as f**k buddies (according to me), to spend a lot of time together the last year, so he could read me.
I also knew he caught my warning because he threw one of his long, heavy, muscled legs over mine and he got even closer.
“Ally—”
“Dabble?” My voice had risen as my eyes had narrowed.
“Do you get paid for this shit?” he asked.
“Not in money,” I answered.
“Then it’s not a profession. It’s a hobby. And it’s dangerous, Ally. And this is the last time I’m gonna tell you, you gotta stop doing it.”
My eyes narrowed further. My chest started burning and I opened my mouth to commence the yelling portion of The Talk.
* * * * *
Rock Chick Rewind
Backing up a bit, my name is Allyson Nightingale, but everyone calls me Ally.
And I’m a Rock Chick, in name and deed.
That is to say, I worship at the shrine of Rock ‘n’ Roll and I live the rock star life, doing what I want when I want how I want. When I’m not working as a bartender or backup barista, of course, and with a lot less money.
Me and my best friend, India “Indy” Savage (now Nightingale since she married my brother, Lee) have a posse called the Rock Chicks. It’s our posse mostly because we’re the band leaders, as it were, and being rock chicks, they’d be Rock Chicks.
So they are.
Indy and I began the tradition. And some of the Rock Chicks might not be as crazy as me and Indy, but they’re Rock Chicks to the core.
Definitely.
* * * * *
The Rock Chicks do not include my brothers (because they’re dudes, and unless the dude is g*y, he can’t be a Rock Chick), Henry “Hank” Nightingale and Liam “Lee” Nightingale. They’re both older than me.
Hank’s a badass cop. As far as I can tell, Lee’s just a professional badass.
My dad is also a cop. So was his dad. Gramps died in the line of duty.
So badass and brave runs in the family.
And as far as I’m concerned, I got those genes.
It’s just that no one agrees with me.
* * * * *
See, about two years ago Indy caught a bit of trouble. She owns a used bookstore called Fortnum’s, but it also serves coffee. In fact, if she didn’t serve coffee, she’d be screwed because she doesn’t sell very many books.
She also landed herself a barista named Tex (who is a bona fide nut, but a lovable one—mostly) who’s a latte/cappuccino/espresso-making genius. He’s the Yo-Yo Ma of coffee. In fact, Mr. Ma would put down his cello in the middle of a performance to take a sip of Tex’s coffee, it’s that good.
Seriously.
Anyway, Rosie, the barista before Indy recruited Tex, did something stupid. Indy got dragged in, and Indy’s been my best friend since I could remember. Our parents were best friends. And, as I mentioned, she’s now married to my brother. So naturally, I got dragged in right with her.
Or, if I’m honest, I waltzed in. Happily.
I’d never been one to shy away from trouble. Or make my own, as the case may be.
That started a lot of stuff. As in, a lot. Some of it bad. Some of it very bad.
But most of it was awesome.
As for me, when Indy was in trouble and I got involved, we’d been after Rosie because he’d disappeared. And when no one could find him, I did.
That’s when I got bit by the bug. Like my dad and brothers, I was good at this badass investigation shit.
A natural.
So I kept doing it.
* * * * *
Don’t think I’m stupid. I’m not.
Along the way, I learned a lot. At first, I only did it for friends in a jam, snooping around, doing things such as getting the goods on a cheating ex, shit like that.
But I always took care of the situation.
Then my friends told their friends and I got referrals.
Eventually, shit got serious.
But I’m a Nightingale. I don’t shy away from serious. No freaking chance.
But Ren was wrong. I had a solid network. I had backup.
Because I got help.
* * * * *
One of my partners is Darius Tucker. He’s one of Lee’s best friends (and one of mine, too). He’s an awesome guy who I love and have loved since he started hanging with Lee way back when they were in school. He’s an awesome guy I love more now because he’s cool, he’s kind, he takes my back and he believes in me.
He’s also an ex-drug dealer and current private detective on staff at Lee’s agency, Nightingale Investigations.
Even though Darius got out of the trade that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know everybody. And if he doesn’t know them know them, he knows of them.
My other partner is Brody Dunne, another friend of mine for forever. Brody’s a boy-man (with more boy than man, even though his age says more man than boy) who could work a computer like Yo-Yo Ma a cello, Stephen Hawking an equation and Tex an espresso machine.
As you can see, both good partners to have.