Wrong Number, Right Guy Read online

  When they’re all seated, someone says a quick prayer, and they dig in. It’s possible they haven’t eaten in a while; to say they’re enthusiastic about the soup is a bit of an understatement.

  “Mmmm, mmmm, so good,” says Dev, his mouth full of something. I look away so I can’t see the details.

  “Never fails,” says the woman.

  “I get a second bowl,” says the Hollywood-handsome guy. “I was on a detail all day.”

  “First come, first served,” says the Cajun guy, “and Ozzie’s friend hasn’t eaten yet.”

  I think they’re talking about me. “Is Ozzie the one with the horrible beard?” I ask before I think to come up with another adjective for his facial hair. Oops.

  “Yep,” says the woman. “The one and only.”

  “I thought Ozzie was the cook,” I say, now thoroughly confused.

  “He is. The best.” Dev is busy shoveling soup into his mouth, so his words come out a little juicier than I think he intended.

  “They have these things called napkins,” the girl says, throwing one at Dev’s face.

  He grabs it just before it hits his forehead, without even breaking eye contact with his spoon. “I like to savor my soup and napkin my chin at the end.”

  I’ve never heard napkin used as a verb before, but I can see what he means. He’s going to need some serious napkining when he’s done. I’m not even sure he’s caught a breath between bites. How is he not choking? I think I see a drop of soup on his cheek, just under his eye.

  “Better get a bowl before you miss out,” the Cajun says, pointing with his spoon at the sink. “Lucky would take out his own grandmother for the last bite.”

  I guess Hollywood’s name is Lucky. He doesn’t seem to disagree with the measure of his character.

  I slowly walk over to the bowls, my mind whirling with confusion. Who are these people? Do they live here together? How is Ozzie both the cook and the guy with the beard? And who was the hot guy at the sink, if not Ozzie? Obviously the soup isn’t poisoned, because they’re all eating it. Why am I here? Why aren’t they asking me questions? Why is Felix sleeping on a wolf?

  None of this makes a single bit of sense, so I go ahead and spoon some soup into my bowl. Confused and starving is not a good combination. I leave the bread alone, though. I really want a piece, but I keep picturing someone attacking me when my back is turned, and reaching into the oven makes me too vulnerable. I wish Felix would stop acting so calm. This is still a semi-emergency situation as far as I’m concerned.

  I approach the table with my bowl of soup and a head full of caution. There are four empty seats, but only one provides me a good getaway, being nearest the door. I start to sit and then nearly have a heart attack when everyone at the table yells at the same time.

  “Not there!”

  I stand up and jump back.

  “That’s Ozzie’s seat. Take this one.” Lucky pats the seat next to him. It will put me smack dab in between him and the girl. Her I can probably take. Him, I’m not so sure.

  “I promise we don’t bite,” she says.

  “Much,” says Lucky.

  She snorts but doesn’t disagree.

  My stomach makes the decision for me, growling like an angry bear. I put my bowl down first and then release my purse from my shoulder.

  The girl scrunches up her nose as my purse is lowered to the floor. “I smell dog piss.” She turns around and glares at the dogs. “You’re supposed to be potty trained, Sahara.”

  “It’s not her—it’s me,” I say.

  Everyone stops eating at the same time and stares at me.

  My face flames red. “Actually, it’s my purse, not me. Felix peed in it earlier.”

  The girl stares at me for a couple seconds, her expression one of disgust. “Oh. That’s much better than it being you.”

  My jaw drops open. I’m not sure if she’s trying to be funny or completely rude.

  The Cajun guy solves the mystery for me. “Don’t be such a bitch, Toni. She’s a little shell-shocked. Wouldn’t you be?” He shakes his head, maybe in disappointment, and goes back to his soup. A loud slurping follows as the liquid is drawn up from his spoon into his mouth.

  Toni doesn’t say anything. She just bites into her bread like she didn’t just beg me to whack her with my pee-purse.

  Since I’m vastly outnumbered by the brawn around the table that I can only assume is her quasi-family, I decide to at least enjoy my meal. Who knows? It could be my last.

  My first bite makes it perfectly clear why Lucky would be willing to take out his grandmother for another bowl of it.

  “Wow.” I say, savoring a chunk of spicy sausage. “This is amazing soup.”

  “Told ya.” Dev smiles at me. “Wait ’til you have his jambalaya. Out of this world.”

  The Cajun rolls his eyes heavenward. “Oh là là, I’m going to make a special request for next week—you can count on that.” He winks at me. “It’s my birthday.”

  I nod, going back to my soup. Three bites and I’m even more in love with the man who cooked this meal. “So where is Ozzie, anyway?” I ask. “Isn’t he going to eat?” I’m not looking forward to seeing that beard again anytime soon, but I would like to thank him. So far he hasn’t killed me, and now he’s saved me from a stalker and fed me. That deserves some gratitude at the very least.

  “He probably already did. He doesn’t eat with the group that much,” says Lucky.

  “How come?” I keep staring at his bread, wondering if he’s going to eat it. I should have gotten a piece from the oven when I had a chance.

  Dev gets up and goes over to the stove. I can hear him spooning out more soup behind me.

  “He’s got a lot of admin to do,” Lucky says.

  “He’s a loner,” says Toni. “Big time.”

  “Huh.” I have nothing to say to that. All I know is, he’s a great cook. I hope there aren’t any beard hairs in here, though.

  Dev drops a piece of toasted garlic bread on the table by my bowl. “Saw you eyeing Lucky’s piece. Didn’t want you to get your fingers bitten off.”

  “Shut up, dick, I’m hungry. You would be too, tailing that dirtbag for twelve hours.” Dev opens his mouth to answer but is stopped by an angry voice from the doorway.

  “Not a word,” he says. “She’s not staying.”

  I look up and see the man who threw the kitchen towel standing at the entrance to the room.

  “Oh, come on, Oz, don’t be such a hard-ass,” says the Cajun. “She can stay for a little while. You said yourself she might be at risk.”

  It’s then that I put it all together. This gorgeous hunk of man-meat standing there lording his muscles all over us is not Ozzie’s brother. He’s Ozzie. He’s The Beard. He’s the guy who told me to leave my car alone and then guided me here when I didn’t listen. And he’s the one looking hotter than a man should be allowed to look, with muscles bulging out of his shirt and his jaw twitching in annoyance as he glares at me. He looks totally and completely different.

  “What happened to your horrible beard?” I ask, before I think to stop myself.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Cajun laughs but says nothing, staring down into his soup as he swirls his spoon around in it.

  Ozzie doesn’t answer me. Instead, he walks across the room, grabs a bowl, and fills it to the top. I look around the table as he comes over to take his seat. No one seems to be in any hurry to explain this complete body makeover Ozzie has somehow accomplished in less than an hour.

  “Good stuff, Oz,” says Lucky, referencing the meal. “Outdid yourself again.”

  Ozzie grunts, taking a bite of some bread. He makes eye contact with no one.

  “Listen, man, about tonight . . .” says Dev.

  Ozzie drops his spoon with a clang into the bowl. “Let it go for now.” He’s staring at the middle of the table, clearly making an effort to contain his temper.

  “I just wanted you to know I meant to be there.”

&nb
sp; “Sure you did,” says Lucky. I can’t tell if he’s disgusted or amused. “Just like you meant to be at Roscoe’s last week and Beat Street the week before.”

  “Hey, you guys know I have responsibilities.”

  Ozzie finally lifts his gaze. “We all have responsibilities, Dev. All of us. It’s just that yours get in the way of you doing your job way more often than they should.”

  The stress floating over the table is too much. I can’t take it.

  “So what exactly is your job, anyway?” I’m shooting for a casual tone, but not quite getting there. My voice is too high, too strained.

  Everyone looks at me, including Ozzie, forcing me to explain myself.

  “I mean, I saw your business card, so obviously you’re not murderers. Or I hope you aren’t. I mean, would you feed me if you were?”

  No one answers. They just stare at me.

  “You’re not the Mafia, I hope. Not that I’m any threat, okay? I won’t say a word to anyone about your lair.”

  “Our lair?” Toni asks.

  I look around. “Yeah. The Batcave or whatever you call this place.”

  The Cajun laughs quietly.

  “Shut up, Thibault.” Ozzie’s cranky again, I guess.

  I sigh. “Seriously, could someone please just tell me what this place is? Who you are? Because my imagination is running wild, and that’s not a good thing.”

  “What do you think we are?” Lucky asks, putting his spoon down and sitting back to focus on me.

  I look around the table. The emblem on Ozzie’s shirt catches my eye again. “I guess, if I were to take the serial-group-murderer idea off the table, I’d say you’re either some sort of private security company or a fan of one.” Or they’re drug dealers and they use those T-shirts and business cards to throw people off. I’m not going to say that thought aloud, though.

  Lucky winks at me. “Good eye.” He gives me a quick chin lift. “What else do you see?”

  I feel like I’ve entered a televised trivia game. Putting down my spoon, I take a closer look at my surroundings, using my photographer’s eye to soak up the details. It’s easier now that I don’t feel quite as threatened. So far, no one’s pointed a gun or a knife at me, and it seems like there’re probably plenty of those available around here.

  “Well, I see a group of people who act like family but who aren’t. Except maybe for you two.” I point at Toni and the Cajun—Thibault I guess his name is. He nods, confirming my suspicion. “Obviously you’re . . . uh . . . a health-conscious group. I suppose if you’re into doing security things, that’s important.” I look down at the dog. “You have a guard dog who’s supposed to be very scary but really isn’t so much. She seems like a big softie to me.” Felix stretches out, and she doesn’t move a single hair on her body other than to blink.

  A couple of people snicker, but when I look up to see who it was, no one’s taking ownership. Ozzie looks like he’s about to explode, his face is so red.

  “There are cameras in all the corners, here and downstairs, so either you have something valuable in this place or you worry about someone getting in and coming after you. I saw lockers that could have something valuable in them. Maybe weapons, since I noticed that one looked like a gun safe, and you seem to have a collection going upstairs here too.” I realize that I’m describing both a security company and a drug gang’s lair with equal accuracy.

  I realize I’ve probably said too much when Dev’s eyebrow spots go up. There’s no hair there, but that doesn’t stop his brow from moving up toward what would be a hairline on a person without alopecia.

  “And uh . . . you have swords all over the place, so I guess there’s someone here with a ninja fetish.”

  Thibault starts laughing, placing his hand on his stomach. “Oh my god, I can’t take it.” He stands and walks around the table with his bowl, bringing it to the sink.

  “What?” I ask, looking around. “What’d I say?”

  “She’s pretty observant,” says Lucky, shrugging. “Most people miss the cameras.”

  I smile. “Well, I’m a photographer, so I tend to focus on those kinds of things.”

  “Focus, eh? No pun intended?” asks Toni. Her expression is kind of hard to read, but I think it might be a smile. I decide then and there that I’ll always think twice before whacking her with my pee-purse.

  My face flushes. “Yeah, no pun intended.” I clasp my hands hard in my lap. “So, Ozzie, are you going to tell me what happened to that hairy mess you had on your face, or what?”

  Someone lets out a low whistle—Lucky, I think.

  I look around. “What? Did I say something wrong?” He couldn’t possibly have liked that thing, could he?

  Dev’s non-eyebrows are still at his scalp.

  I frown, worried I’ve upset the kingpin. “Oh, is he sensitive about his facial hair?” I look over at Ozzie, his expression unreadable. “Were you attached to it? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. It was kind of big, though, right? And . . . puffy?”

  “That beard was keeping me in that bar with those people.”

  I smile. “Oh, okay. Well, then, you’re welcome.”

  “No, I’m not welcome.” He glares at me.

  “Oh.” My smile falls away. “So losing the beard and those people is a bad thing?” I look over at Toni. She’s nodding. This, I don’t get, because any woman in the entire world would have looked at that hairy mess and thought the same thing as I did: gross, unsanitary, and—well . . . gross. And those people back in that bar—well, one of them did shoot at us, so I can’t really see as how the loss of their friendship is that big of a deal.

  “Losing the beard means losing my cover and months of work. Now we’re back to square one with the Sixth Ward.”

  Again I’m back to panicking, just like that. “The Sixth Ward? As in the Sixth Ward D-Block? Isn’t that a gang?” My voice peters out at the end. I distinctly remember reading about a string of murders they were blamed for not that long ago.

  “Only the most vicious one in New Orleans,” Dev says, standing up with his bowl in hand. He sounds pretty proud of that fact.

  I slowly sink down in my chair. “Oh, crap. I knew this was a lair.” I wait for my sentence to be handed down. Looking at my soup causes a crazy thought to float through my head: At least I had a decent last meal.

  “It’s not a lair,” says Ozzie, picking up his bread. “It’s our place of business. And we’re not gang members; we’re a private security firm. That’s all you need to know.” He bites into his food, taking more bread than I would have imagined possible.

  “You ever do any freelance work?” Thibault asks me, sitting back down at the table.

  “That’s all I ever do,” I say. “I’m self-employed.”

  “Hmmm.” He nods his head, glancing for a second at Ozzie before continuing. “Ever do any surveillance work?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but Ozzie cuts me off.

  “No. She’s never done any surveillance work, and she’s not going to start.”

  I sit up straighter. “Excuse me, but I’ll have you know that I have done some surveillance work.” Okay, so I’m exaggerating my history a little bit, but they’ll never know.

  “Really?” Thibault says. “What kind?” Now everyone at the table is looking at me.

  My face is going pink again. “I . . . uh . . . took some photos of a man cheating on his wife.” I hurry to add, “At the park,” so they won’t think I was perving out in someone’s bedroom closet or something equally distasteful.

  “You bust him?” Toni asks, like she has a personal stake in my answer.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. Got some great stills. Caught him red-handed, as they say.” I grin with pride. Yes, it was an embarrassing job, but sometimes when the wedding bookings and family portraits get fewer and farther between, I have to be less picky about the kind of work I do. I won’t tell them about the sexy housewife shoot I did last winter. They probably won’t get as excited ab
out that one, and I still can’t get some of the images out of my head. The last thing I want to do is start dredging those memories up.

  “You didn’t get caught?” asks Lucky.

  “I find that hard to believe,” Ozzie says, not even giving me a chance to answer.

  My eyebrows draw together again as I glare at the cook. “As a matter of fact, I was able to take the pictures right in front of his face.” My chin lifts with pride. “I pretended to be taking pictures of the flowers near where he was sitting. He didn’t suspect a thing.”

  Lucky gestures at me with his bread. “If she was wearing that Little Bo Peep outfit, I wouldn’t suspect anything either. You know that’s our biggest problem with recruiting, Ozzie. We don’t have a single Bo Peep in the group.”

  He’s grinning at me, but I don’t smile back.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Ozzie stands, his voice booming across the table. “It means you don’t belong here. Time to go.”

  Everyone looks up at him. Dev looks especially confused. “Where’s she going to go? You said she was stuck here for a while.”

  “I changed my mind.” Ozzie brings his half-full bowl to the sink, and I look at everyone around the table. “She can’t stay.”

  “What’s going on?” My voice comes out as a near whisper. No one answers me. They’re all looking at Thibault.

  “Time to take a vote,” says Thibault, sounding resigned.

  “What exactly are we voting on?” asks Toni, glancing at me before turning her attention back to the guy who looks like her brother.

  He gestures at me with his chin. “On what to do with her. Does she stay or go?”

  I have difficulty swallowing when I realize that I might be witnessing my own death sentence being handed down.

  CHAPTER TEN

  We don’t need a vote because I say she goes.” Ozzie is back at the head of the table, but he remains standing.

  “Dude, you must have been way more attached to that facial hair than you ever let on,” says Toni, giving him a slight, teasing smile.