Body Movers: 2 Bodies for the Price of 1

“I sold my motorcycle.”

She conceded a spurt of relief and a tug of affection that he would sacrifice something he loved, but her generosity was short-lived. “I’m glad that you sold the death machine but Wesley, we could have spent that money on a hundred other things!”

“You don’t like it?”

He looked so wounded that she bit her tongue and counted to three. “Of course I like it, but.” She gestured to the basket of overflowing statements that she hadn’t bothered to open in too long to admit. “But we need to pay bills! Catch up on the mortgage! And what about those thugs you owe?”

“I made my payments this morning—a day early.”

“What about next week?”

His shoulder sagged as he gestured toward the massive television. “I just thought it would make you happy. You’ve been so morose lately.”

Here came those damned tears again. Oh, God, and hiccups too. The wide-eyed panic in Wesley’s eyes at the waterworks made her turn away. Carlotta wiped her cheeks and said over her shoulder, “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Okay,” he muttered. “Oh, sis, there’s a phone message.”

She came up short. Had their father called? She turned on her heel, inhaling sharply into a hiccup. “Did you listen to it? Who was it?” The shrillness of her voice vibrated in her ears, but she couldn’t help it.

He frowned. “It was Peter. He wants you to call him back. He sounded weird.”

She swallowed and forced her muscles to relax. “Okay. Thanks.” She turned back to the hallway and walked toward her bedroom.

“Are you going to call him?” Wesley called behind her.

“No,” she said blandly. “I’m off work tomorrow. Don’t wake me up until Wednesday.” She was putting off the inevitable, but she didn’t care. She just wanted everyone—fugitive father, body-moving brother, interfering cop, schizoid friend and repentant ex-fiancé—to leave her the hell alone.

Was that too much to ask?

9

“Wren,” barked the woman behind the desk, leveling a stare on Wesley as he slouched in a chair waiting to see his probation officer for their regular Wednesday meeting. “You’re up.”

He sprang to his feet, then remembered to play it cool and slowed his stride as he approached the office of E. Jones. He’d asked, but she’d refused to tell him what the E stood for. She said that he didn’t need to know that much about her.

He knocked on the door with two sharp raps of his knuckles and waited for her sexy voice to call out. The glass of a nondescript framed print on the wall was a passable mirror. He glanced at his reflection, nodding in approval over the two-day old beard; he’d heard that women liked the scruffy look. Then he ran his fingers through his light brown hair to give it a tousle and pulled on the lapels of a sport coat that Carlotta had bought for him.

“Let me know when you’re finished primping,” that sexy voice said right behind him.

Wesley started, then turned to see E. Jones laying those big green eyes of hers on him, her pink mouth curled into a wry smile. Heat flooded his neck. “I wasn’t primping.”

“Right.” She reached past him and opened her door, then preceded him inside. “Close the door and have a seat.”

Still smarting, Wesley did as he was told.

“How did you get here?” she asked as she settled into a chair behind a neat desk and opened a file folder that had his name on it.

“Bicycle.”

Her eyebrows went up. “You didn’t ride your motorcycle?”

She’d busted him previously by following him when he’d left his appointment. Not only had he been driving his motorcycle with a suspended license, but he’d gone on a drug drop for Chance to make some money. E. had caught him red-handed and had let him off with a warning as long as he took the delivery back where it had come from.

“I sold my motorcycle and bought a bike.”

“Ah. Does that mean you can pay your five-thousand-dollar fine to the court?”

For reparations to the city for the little hacking job he’d done into the courthouse records. “Uh, no.”

“You didn’t make a profit?”

“I did, but I bought a new TV. The one we had was shot.” E. had also seen their place, thanks to a surprise drop-in visit. The woman now knew pretty much everything about him—his family history, where he slept and who he hung out with. And that the dusty box of Trojans in his bathroom medicine cabinet had never been opened.

“That’s nice, but in your situation do you think a TV should have been your top priority?”

He shifted in his seat. “I wanted to do something nice for my sister. Don’t worry, I’ll still be able to make my weekly court payment.”

“Good.” E. sat back and scrutinized him. “Are you staying out of trouble?”

He swallowed involuntarily. Could she possibly know about the gambling? “Yeah, I’m clean.”

“Are you still hanging around with that friend of yours?”

“What friend?”

“The one who is such a good friend that he would ask you to do something that could ruin your life.”

Wesley cracked his knuckles. “I’m not giving you his name.”

“I don’t want his name. I don’t care if he flushes his life down the drain. I only care about you.”

He stopped, wondering if she meant it, and on what level. Was she saying that she cared only because she was responsible for getting him through probation and out of the system with as little fuss as possible? A great-looking woman in her mid-twenties could never be into him. Could she?

“How’s your sister?” E. asked, breaking the tension. “I read about her involvement in the Buckhead murders. Sounds like she was lucky to escape with her own life.”

Wesley nodded, unwilling to think about how close he’d come to losing his sister. “Carlotta is tough.” Then he grinned. “She has to be to have put up with me all these years.”

“Do you stop to consider the impact your actions have on her life?”

“Not enough,” he admitted.

“Is that fair?”

“No one in my family has gotten a fair shake.”

“Oh, right. You believe that your father is innocent of the crimes he’s charged with.”

He sat up straighter. “Yes.”