Never Bargain with the Boss (Never Say Never Book 5)
Never Bargain with the Boss: Chapter 2

I stare at the business card in my hand, in full disbelief that I’m considering dialing the number embossed in bold, black block print on the heavyweight, white linen cardstock. I’m not even sure why I kept it, but it’s been in my wallet for a while now. A couple of years, at least, judging by the yellowed, crinkled edges.

The man who gave it to me was kind in a cold, terrifying sort of way. But the woman with him was warm and caring. Maybe that’s why I kept it. Because of her… not him.

But if I dial this number, I’ll get Cole Harrington.

He promised me that if I ever needed anything, I could call him and he’d help. No exceptions, no questions, no judgments. But I never thought I’d need his sort of help. After all, he’s a high-class private investigator and I’m not living a life of crime and mystery that’d warrant his interest in me. We met when he was investigating my dad, and since I’d met my father for the first time mere weeks before, Cole tracked me down to inform me of his sudden passing.

Which was nice, I remind myself.

He was nice. And he might be again if I explain why I’m calling…

“Of course, I understand. I’m happy for Jordan and so proud of her too.”

I look at the young woman I’ve taken care of for the last two years. She passed her driving test yesterday, earning her driver’s license, and will be able to drive herself to school and volleyball practice. She’s also in her junior year of high school and has a part-time job of her own, so she doesn’t need me as her nanny anymore.

I’ve done my job, done it well, and now, it’s come to an end.

“There’s no rush, Riley,” Bianca, my boss—no, my former boss—tells me again. “You’re a part of the family, so we’re not pushing you out the door. Take your time to find another family that’ll be a good fit. I can maybe even help with that?”

It’s a generous offer but one I can’t take.

The time with Jordan has been special, and Bianca has been more than a great boss. She’s a good friend, but it’s time for me to move on. I’ve known it was coming, and with this opportunity for a fresh start, I’ve been thinking about where I might like to go.

Somewhere Austin hasn’t tracked you down.

I mentally agree with the errant thought, but I haven’t decided where that might be. The beach… the mountains… the city? Another nanny job, or something else entirely? Maybe Cole could help me with that—getting away to somewhere new, someplace safe.

I’ve been staring at the card for so long that the numbers have blurred, and I blink to clear my vision. Am I really going to ask a complete stranger for help? That is not my style at all. Self-reliance, party of one, is more how I roll. Been this way for years, for many reasons.

I don’t even know what type of help he might provide or what kind I might need. Mostly, I just know I should get out of this area, where Austin shows up at my usual coffee shop, the gym I frequent, and the vintage thrift store where I like to shop. While I usually go with the flow, letting fate take me where I’m supposed to be, it feels like I need to be a bit more intentional this time.

Or maybe not exactly intentional, but rather, just further away… and more anonymous.

With a sigh, I shove the card into my purse without picking up my phone.

But like it knew I was considering dialing, my traitorous phone rings in the cupholder of my Tesla sedan. I glance at it, and though the screen shows ‘Number Blocked’, I know exactly who it is.

Instead of the usual greeting of ‘hello,’ I bite out, “Austin, leave me alone.”

“Aw, come on, Rye. Don’t be like that.” I hate it when he calls me that, like it’s some cute nickname and not a disgustingly gross bread that is only tolerable with corned beef and mustard. “Come home. You know it’s time since your gig with the rich brat ended. You can bring that money home with you too. The kids could use new shoes for school.” Austin’s voice is the same as it was the day I turned fifteen and he told the judge that he wanted to be the stable father figure I’d been missing all my life—filled with false earnestness and easy confidence.

Home? Is that what he thinks his house is for me? Surely not. But my heart drops into my stomach as the rest of what he said sinks in. Does he know that Bianca gave me a severance package equal to one month of my already-generous pay?

No, there’s no way he could. Although, I wouldn’t put it past him to cuddle up with a teller at my bank and worm some information out of her. Austin can be charming when it serves him. And money, especially money he doesn’t have to work for, always serves him.

“Then you should buy them,” I reply, keeping my voice steady and calm the way I’ve practiced.

He won’t. Spending funds on his wards isn’t how Austin functions. He takes in the foster kids, cashes the checks, and lets them fend for themselves, mostly, only doing his caring dad act when the state comes around. I lost count of the number of times I had to do the ten-minute clean job, and the amount of gaslighting I had to get rid of after leaving that house is enough to write a textbook twice over.

Not all foster families are like that. In fact, most of them aren’t.

After my mom died when I was five, I moved around from family to family for almost ten years. Sometimes, I lucked into some really good placements, with caring foster parents and all those sweet niceties, like enough food to eat and shoes that actually fit. Leaving those for whatever reason was always the suck.

Austin’s home wasn’t one of those.

“Get your ass home, Riley. You have responsibilities here,” Austin spits, all warmth and charisma evaporating when I don’t bend to his authority.

I don’t know why he thinks I will. I left his house years ago, running away barely a year after he adopted me and making my way through the rest of high school on friends’ couches rather than live under his thumb, because those responsibilities he says I have… they’re his, not mine. They were never mine, no matter how much he tried to make it seem like they were.

“I’m never coming back,” I tell him for what seems like the thousandth time. “I don’t know why you even care. You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough. You’ve always been a pretty little thing. Too smart for your own good.” He chuckles to himself like that’s amusing. “But so pretty.” He drawls the last part out, emphasizing it and giving it a worrisome meaning.

A shiver runs down my spine at the implication.

Austin was never inappropriate with me during the short time I lived with him, and to my knowledge, he’s never crossed a line with any of the other fosters, but I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a full-grown adult, and there are creeps of all types and kinds, even ones who like women with constantly changing hair, mosquito bite-sized titlets, wide hips, a mouth that runs before my brain can stop it, and enough trauma to drop an elephant like a tranquilizer dart. And if I’ve got a vulnerability, it’s that I let people use my trauma to manipulate me, but I’m working on that and getting much better. The proof of my improvement is even in this conversation with Austin, where I’m standing on business and not letting him sway me with guilt I shouldn’t feel anyway.

But what if I’m wrong?

I’m not worried about me—I can take care of myself, always have and always will, but I couldn’t live with myself if there were a child being hurt by Austin. I mean, beyond the obvious borderline neglect, but sad to say, that’s not all that bad considering some of the other homes I was in and out of. Neglect is manageable. Neglect is safe, even though it’s tragic. And there’s probably an older kid assigned to do the caretaking, like I was.

That’s not necessarily ideal, either. If it’s a kid like me, it can be fine. I gave a shit and took good care of the others. But it could be someone decidedly not like me. Foster kids aren’t always the best caregivers because they’ve likely not had any role models for it, or they wouldn’t be in the situation they’re in.

This is the game Austin plays. He knows my buttons, some of which he installed personally, and takes joy in pushing them. He’s all too aware of how much I care about the kids, so if he makes it sound like they need me, I’m more likely to come running. It’s a ploy, simple as that.

Before I can talk myself out of that, I swallow hard and snarl, “Leave me alone.” Except it’s not as aggressive as I wish it was and is closer to a plea, especially when my voice cracks.

“Or what?” he sneers, cutting me off. “You’re not gonna do nothing.”

He sounds convinced of that. He’s wrong.

I don’t say as much—waste of oxygen, really—but I do hang up on him. I stare at the screen, my heart pounding in my ears as I gasp for breath. As soon as it returns to the home screen filled with apps, I dial the number I memorized while staring at Cole’s business card.

When it rings, I almost hang up, but I don’t. There might be kids in danger. Or it might be nothing. I won’t know unless I have someone check, and I’m not going near Austin or his house. If I did, I’d end up trapped there again, with kids who need someone and my overwhelming urge to be that someone for everyone.

Suddenly, a surly voice on the other end of the line growls, “This’d better be damn important because you woke up my son.”

“Oh, sorry… sorry.” I go to hang up on Cole too, already regretting my decision to call him because I do hear a baby’s sharp cry in the background. Unable to help myself, at the last second, I rush out, “If you’ve done the usual—feeding and diaper change—it’s usually gas. Bicycle his legs a few times, pull them out straight, and then fold them up into his belly and push-push-push. Otherwise, burp him again. Set him on your knee, support his head under his chin, and run the pinky side of your hand up his spine. He should sit up straight, which will let the gas out. Might take a few tries either way. And again, sorry!”

I hit the End button as quick as I can, deeply regretting that I made the call, and throw my phone into the passenger seat like it might morph into a snake and bite me. My heart is racing even faster now, because of Cole’s grumpiness, but also because now I don’t know what to do about Austin. I force a slow breath in as I slink down in the seat and stare at the blue, cloudless sky on the other side of the car’s glass roof, and then breathe out as I close my eyes. I repeat it three more times, getting my heart under control.

Beep-beep-beep!

“Shit!” I jerk upright and stare at the screen beside the steering wheel that says Incoming Call. There’s no number, but I have a sinking suspicion about who it is. Instead of answering on the car’s screen, I pick up my phone again, looking at it like it might tell me I’m wrong. I lick my lips as I answer, “Hello?”

“That worked. My wife says thanks.” I hear a smacking sound in the background and he grunts apologetically. “I mean, we say thanks. And sorry for jumping down your throat. What do you want?”

For a minute there, Cole almost sounded… human, before he went grumpy again.

“Oh, never mind. I’ll uh… I’ll figure it out myself. Sorry again.”

I’m about to hang up because exactly how terrifying Cole Harrington can be is coming back to me quickly and I’m not sure how I could’ve forgotten or downplayed it in my memories.

“Riley, I haven’t slept in days and don’t have time to fuck around. Shit… I mean, fudge around. Shit, I mean… shoot.” He sighs heavily, sounding exhausted, and something about the way he’s correcting his language because of a baby who can’t understand a word makes me smile.

“How’d you know it was me?” I ask, because I totally caught that he said my name. He probably has some private investigator, super-tech app that gives out the caller ID no matter who’s calling. Or maybe he recognized my voice?

“This is the same number you had before. I memorized it.”

His answer is short and to the point. The ramifications are anything but. “You memorized my phone number years ago and have just been waiting for me to call?”

He grunts. I’m not sure if it’s a yes or a no, but it seems to be the only answer he’s going to give. “What do you want?” he repeats, more forcefully this time.

“Oh, uhm…” I stammer, really not sure this is such a good idea anymore.

A vision of Austin sitting in his recliner, Beth smoking on the front porch, and whatever kids they have staying with them doing homework at the kitchen table while the oldest kid cooks dinner flashes through my head. If that’s it, it’s okay. But what if that’s not all it is? So I swallow my pride and ask for help, something I hate to do. Something I don’t do, have never done.

“I wondered if I might could ask you for a teeny-tiny favor?” I let my voice lift several octaves above my natural timber to hopefully encourage the menacing man to agree.

“Anything,” he replies instantly. “I told you that.”

I relax a bit. He did tell me that, right after bluntly informing me that my biological father had died of a heart attack mere days after I’d met him for the first time and my last genetic link on this earth was gone, just like my mother.

“Back when I was in foster care,” I start, figuring if he memorized my phone number, he probably remembers my history, “I was adopted by Austin and Beth Collins. I ran away about a year later, but Austin tracks me down every once in a while. He called me tonight, told me to come home and bring him the severance money I just got because my nanny gig ended. I told him no, of course, but then he said something that made me worry…” I trail off, nibbling at the cuticle on my thumb as I replay Austin’s words in my head.

“Are you safe?”

“Huh?” I shake my head, refocusing. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m worried about the kids with him and wondered if you might check in on them somehow. Make sure they’re not being grossly neglected or worse.” I let that hang in the air, not willing to give voice to what could be happening in a worst-case scenario.

“You think he’s hurting them?” Cole growls, sounding terrifying.

“No, no, no,” I rush to say, but then swallow. “Austin and Beth aren’t that type. Or they weren’t. But I got a bad feeling and I can’t exactly roll up to the front door and demand proof they’re taking care of the kids. Just better to check than be sorry.”

“Why not call in for a welfare check with the state?” Cole questions flatly.

I hum, now chewing on my lip as I consider what would seem to be a reasonable suggestion. “Because if it’s the usual neglect, the kids might be better off there than where they’d be sent. Austin and Beth aren’t fairy godparents, but they’re not the worst either, and I’d hate for the kids to pay the price if I’m overreacting to Austin’s threats.”

“He threatened you?”

Cole’s voice is nothing more than an ice-cold rumble, and I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “He called me a ‘pretty little thing’.” I know that’s not bad. Hell, I’ve been called worse by men on the street, but it felt ickier from the man who once claimed he wanted to be my father. Hell, who according to the state actually is my adoptive father. “And he’s been showing up at the places I go lately. Stuff like that. But I’m fine. I can handle that myself. Just check on the kids for me, okay?”

“Okay,” he agrees, and the knot in my gut releases. If Cole says they’re fine, I’ll know they are. He’s not going to leave kids in danger or any type of sketchy situation. He’s scary as hell, but he’s good at his core. Reading people is one of my many superpowers, one that’s saved my ass more than a few times, so I trust my instincts implicitly, and they tell me that Cole is one of the good guys despite his gruff façade.

“Thanks.”

“On one condition,” he adds, and my breath hitches. His voice goes quiet as he asks, “Can you come help with my son for a few days? Janey is amazing, and Emmett is awesome, but I’m a complete fuckup. I mean, fudge-up. And you obviously know what you’re doing because the gas trick worked. And you said your job ended, so you’re available. I’ll pay double whatever your usual rate is.”

It’s virtually a long, rushing, run-on ramble of words from the typically brusque man, and I can’t help but laugh. “I could come for a little bit if it’d help.”

I make the decision instantly, instinctually, the way I decide most things, letting life lead me to where I’m supposed to be. Some people would call that flighty. I call it understanding that life is full of curveballs when you least expect them, so there’s no use in trying to live with a plan etched in stone because the only things for sure are death, taxes, and change, three things I’m all too familiar with.

“I’ll send you the address.”

My phone dings in my hand, and I pull it away to look at the text message from Cole. It’s not too far, a few hours’ drive at most, which would give me the distraction and distance from Austin that I need. “Give me two days to pack up here, and I’ll be there.”

“I’ll have an answer for you about Austin when you arrive.”

After saying goodbye, I go back to looking out the car’s glass roof at the sky. It’s a beautiful, clear blue with only a few white clouds, and the leaves on the nearby tree are already starting to turn. Another sign of change on the horizon.

I slouch down in my seat, thinking. A couple of days snuggling a new baby will be nice, especially at double pay. That’ll be enough cushion to give me some time to figure out what’s next, with a clear conscience about Austin’s foster kids.