Make Me (The Fox Family Crime Syndicate, #1)

by Summer O'Toole

There seems to be a correlation between dark brunettes and Cash Fox. If I want to get close to him, I need to play the part.

“It’s not that. I need a fake ID, you know how I can get one?” His head rears back, and his blood-shot eyes open as wide as they can. “The fuck you need that for, Low? You’re supposed to be the good one.”

Hi, I’m Amanda. Hey, I’m Amanda. Hi, my name is Amanda.

Two days later, I’m arriving for my first shift at The Fox’s Den. My heart was pounding so fast during my interview, I am surprised I didn’t faint. I was even more surprised when Stella decided to actually hire me.

I’m ashamed that the thought that gets me to push the door open isn’t revenge or justice for Beth. Selfishly, it’s for myself. Ever since I started down this path, the nightmares have stopped. As crazy as it sounds, I’m starting to think they were my punishment for not doing anything to find her killer. And I’m terrified that if I give up now, they will come back.

I shake off the thought and walk inside, reminding myself that I’m not Harlow Hargrave, Beth King’s best friend. I’m Amanda Jones, and I’m nothing but excited for my new job.

I return to the locker room and stare down the office door with the blinds drawn, like a cowboy showdown in those old Wild West movies. My adrenaline is pumping, like the time I went skydiving—that moment your feet are hanging over the edge of the plane before you jump. In some ways, what I’m about to do is even more dangerous. Before I can change my mind, I drop to my knees in front of the door and pull a bobby pin from my hair. I watched some tutorials online on how to pick a lock with one and have been wearing them every day since. Just in case.

Cash 5 days earlier

Amanda Jones. I read the name off the fake ID again and again. Even if the fake wasn’t total crap—she should have come to me if she wanted one worth her money—I would never believe such an ordinary name for such an extraordinary girl. And her social security number came back belonging to a Lawrence Wellington. And while Amanda fits better than Lawrence, she certainly isn’t seventy-five like good ol’ Larry. Whatever her name is, she took my bait. Good girl.

What she—Amanda—has reduced me to. A boy in the playground, so enamored that he steals things that don’t belong to him. Only that isn’t really true, though, is it? I can’t steal something that’s already mine.

The pins in the lock sound like they are clicking into place, and there’s less resistance in her fiddling. Ah damnit. I have to keep some sort of reputation, and I can’t let little girls break into my office. Even if I’d love nothing more than punishing that little girl. Just as the lock disengages with a click, I dial the restaurant’s landline with a resigned sigh.

An Audience with the King

Harlow

“Miss Amanda Jones,” a deep, silky voice drawls. My heart drops to my stomach. Every muscle in my body prepares for a fight as I turn around.

He’s resting against the range, ankles crossed in front of him as he dusts his thumb across his bottom lip. I’m face to face with Beth’s killer and the first thought that comes out of my mouth is…nothing. Absolutely nothing. It’s like my tongue has forgotten how to form words, my mouth parted with nothing but air ghosting out.

“Do you know who I am...

“Cash Fox. You own this place.” The

This man is powerful. I knew this on paper, but there’s a difference between knowing something is true and feeling it’s true. His presence alone seems to suck all the air from the room, clinging and bowing to the more powerful being.

Pools of yellow. Blurred red. Black. Pink. Red. It’s these images that give me the false bravado to continue my charade and answer with a shrug. “

I bite my lip, and his eyes flick to my mouth as he mutters, “Good girl.” I don’t have time to analyze the weird heat spreading through my chest at his words because a heavy knock pounds on the back door.

“But you’re not any woman, are you?” He stalks toward me, and I’m not sure what he means. He reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, and my breath stilts. “And I always protect what’s mine.”

What the fuck just happened?

Cry Uncle

Harlow

And something else I can’t quite name because I realize that no one has stood up for me like that. Until Cash Fox.

thought Cash was going to kill a man. For me. No. Not for me, I remind myself. For himself. Because he’s a fucking psychopath.

The words sound like a threat, gauging whether or not I’m going to tell. The weird thing is he doesn’t say it like a threat. He says it like he genuinely wants to make sure I’m okay. This sly fox, he really is convincing.

His masculine sandalwood smell cloaks me, and the warmth from his palm spreads all the way down my legs. A full-body shiver runs through me when he whispers in my ear, lips almost grazing my skin. “Excuse me.”

He leans forward until the tip of his nose grazes mine, his breath fluttering on my cheek. “Though I do love the way your cheeks flush when you’re scared.” In a slow, testing motion, he presses his hips forward until I can feel his erection through his pants, the friction of the fabric on my bare legs sending sparks up them. My blood pounds in my ears and my body trembles with the desire to rock forward into him too.

hate my body. I hate it for the way it betrays me. The night Beth died, it refused to listen to my pleas. It wouldn’t scream, it wouldn’t stand. I wouldn’t fucking move. And right now I hate my body because I have to spend the rest of my shift in soaked panties because of its traitorous reaction to a serial killer.

A tall man with a buzzed head comes in, dressed in a red Adidas sweat suit that immediately catches my attention. And when I see his face, it stops me in my tracks. It’s Beth’s uncle, Ivan.

Ivan’s hand shoots out and grabs Cash’s wrist, shaking his tattooed hand. “You think you are the only one with sources in the police, huh?”

My mind is reeling trying to make sense of any part of what happened. Sources in the police. Accusations. Cash’s tattoo. Concealed guns.

“That table is reserved for us.” He slaps his chest. “Me and my brothers. Only. Ever. Who the fuck do you think you are? Coming in here with a tight ass and pretty face, thinking the rules don’t apply to you.” He’s taunting me, there isn’t any real venom in his words, but it still makes my cheeks burn being yelled at in front of the whole staff.

Oh, so this is some sort of pissing contest. “Well, no one told me that, asshole. And get your fucking hands off me.” Every overwhelming feeling of anger, fear, and hatred boils over, and I spit in his face.

“What should I do with you?” His voice is cold as he wraps a hand around my throat and walks me back until I hit a table. His table. He squeezes—not enough to restrict my airflow, but enough to let me know he could—the corded muscles of his forearm flexing under his inked skin. My pulse thumps against his grip, every nerve in my body on high alert. It isn’t until I catch a glance of his growing arousal that I know for certain he isn’t going to kill me. He likes toying with me too much.

“Because, a chuisle, the first time I turn your sweet ass red with my mark, you’ll be begging for it.”

“Oh baby, I may be crazy, but so are you. Your pussy is weeping for me.” The sick glee of victory in his voice makes me burn. His head dips to kiss me.

Cash

Koslov. And at my table no less. I am seething when I approach him. The only reason I don’t shoot him on the spot is that I don't know if any of his cronies are nearby, and I don’t want her in the crosshairs.

“We wanted to give the courtesy of telling you to watch back because we are coming.” He leans forward and snarls, the evidence of his native tongue thick. “You kill our princess, we burn entire fucking kingdom.”

Someone is framing me. Someone is killing my people and trying to make me take the fall for it.

The stripper from my gentleman’s lounge. The bartender from my nightclub. I can’t remember the other two victims off the top of my head, but I’m sure if I did some digging there’d be a connection. To me. I just need some time to fucking think.

“Well, no one told me that, asshole. And get your fucking hands off me.” She spits in my face, and while I wipe it off, my brain empties of every single thought except one: I think I fucking love this woman.

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