The Rake (Boston Belles #4) by L.J. Shen

“You’re going through something, man. You need to get your shit together.”

With that, he stormed off. I peeled my mask off, frowning.

My shite was never together, you fool.




From there, I went to Sam’s club.

Not to be confused with the retail warehouse chain store. My mate Sam Brennan’s establishment, Badlands, was home to the best gambling tables, whiskey, and cocaine.

The club itself wasn’t underground but instead open to the general public. The poker rooms in the back, however, were carefully curated.

I frequented those rooms as much as I could. At least three times a week. Sometimes more.

Tucked into one of the snug gambling rooms, Sam, Hunter, Cillian, and I played a game of cards around a table covered with green felt. A cloud of cigar smoke hovered over our heads. An assortment of half-empty glasses of brandy and whiskey bracketed our elbows.

“Congrats on knocking up the ultimate femme fatale.” Hunter flashed me his Colgate smile behind his hand of cards. We were playing Rummy, which did nothing to help my already growing suspicion I was, indeed, an old fart in Sweven’s eyes.

A sardonic smirk found my lips. “It was no trouble at all.”

“Trouble? No. Weird? Yes. I didn’t think y’all were still bumping uglies,” Hunter mused.

I had no interest whatsoever in discussing Emmabelle Penrose. Not with Cillian and Hunter—two people whom I still considered clients—and Sam Brennan, whom despite his persistent pleas, I did not agree to take as a client.

“Was it accidental?” Cillian probed, sucking on his cigar and sending me a chillingly hostile gaze. Not because something happened. That was simply his usual expression. The only time he looked remotely content was when he was with his wife and children. Any other time, you could mistake him for a serial killer in the mood to practice his favorite hobby.

“That’s none of your business,” I said cheerfully, sliding a new card off the pile in the middle of the table.

“I’m sure it was an accident. No one is dumb enough to willingly tie their future to that she-wolf.” Sam took a pull of his Guinness, scanning the room with boredom.

“Last I checked, your wife married a man with enough blood on his hands to fill the Mystic River. What does it say about her IQ?” I quirked an eyebrow.

“It means her IQ is divine, like the rest of her. Yours, however, is questionable at best. Knocking my wife to my face is a great way to find yourself six feet under.”

“Control those feelings, son. They could be a tremendous liability.” I patted his hand patronizingly, my tone as blank as my expression. He kept forgetting I wasn’t one of his fanboys. All eyes turned to me curiously.

“Do you have a crush on that wild child?” Hunter gave me a pitiful look. “Damn, Dev. You never defend anyone unless there’s a 100k retainer involved.”

Cillian smirked. “He had a good run.”

“A short one too, if he continues talking to me like that.” Sam chewed on his electric cigarette dispassionately.

This, despite what an outsider might think, was an agreeable evening in our universe.

“I don’t know if I could do it though, man.” Hunter shook his head. The good-looking bastard was cleaner than the pope’s STD results. He hadn’t had a stiff drink in years, not since he got together with his wife.

“I did her quite happily and find it hard to believe any red-blooded man wouldn’t.” I studied my cards, drumming my fingers over the table. Suddenly, the prospect of spending the entire night here wasn’t so appealing.

I wanted to pick up the phone and call Belle, listen to her laugh, to her sharp, witty whips. I knew it wasn’t an option.

“Not being able to be next to the woman who carries your child seems insane. There are so many things you’re not going to experience. The kicks, the little flips the baby does when they change positions. Seeing them for the first time in an ultrasound. I swear to God, the first time I saw Rooney on that black and white screen I almost pissed my pants. She gave me the finger and had her legs wide open.” Hunter let out a proud laugh, like he’d just announced his daughter was nominated for the Nobel Prize.

“The kicking is the good part,” Sam agreed gruffly, drawing another card from the center of the table. “Aisling used to wait up for me after work with a tall glass of cold water and drink it so I could feel Ambrose kick.”

“Since when did you all turn into a bunch of old maids?” I rolled up my sleeves. It was becoming increasingly hot in here, or maybe they were just getting on my nerves.

I wasn’t at all sure that being spared the pregnancy was a good thing. But I didn’t have a choice. I looked over to Cillian, who stayed silent the entire time. Out of all the men at the table, he was the closest to me in character—sans the fact that I actually possessed some kind of heart and a wonky, though still working, moral compass.

“It’s all rubbish, isn’t it?” I huffed at him. “Pregnant women are hormonal, demanding, and out of their bloody minds. My father sent my mother to live with her parents each time she got pregnant just so he wouldn’t have to deal with her.”

All eyes darted to me. I realized I’d finally said something personal about my family, after years—decades—of keeping mum about them.