Used by Marlee Wray

Chapter 5

Laurel

When dawn breaks, whispers of light breach the curtains, gilding his hair with streaks of gold. In high school, Scott Patrick was stunningly beautiful, with smooth unblemished skin and the face of an angel. At twenty-seven, it’s the beard stubble, the small scar at the corner of his mouth above his right upper lip, and the faint creases on his forehead that make it impossible to stop staring. His body, too, is more muscular and substantial now. He was tall but lean in school. Always strong and well-built because he was athletic, but now there’s an unmistakable toughness to the sinew. At eighteen, there was a devilish glint in his eye, but he looked innocent. At nearly twenty-eight, he’s made good on his unspoken promise to live hard and take risks and that’s evidenced, however faintly, by the changes to his face and body. Impossibly, his looks are more compelling now than a decade ago, maybe because he’s earned them. Knowing he’s evolved in dark ways, I shouldn’t find him beautiful anymore, but I do.

The wicked sex of the night before comes rushing back. It felt sinfully good… but also dangerous. When we were together, bondage and domination were things he was experimenting with. Back then I would have been exploring too, playing another type of game to see what fun we might have. I thought, naively, that I would have an influence on him and what direction he went in his sex life. Now though, he’s long past the discovery phase. He’s a man who knows what he likes and expects. Being in his bed is reminiscent of exactly the position he was maneuvering me into all those years ago. A slave girl owned by a master. Even as I think about that play scenario, the arousal rushes back, making me wet. But that kind of game is a slippery slope, isn’t it? The words he used last night were, I’m gonna treat you like I own you. It was extremely hot, but then he’s always been an expert at seducing women and getting them to give him whatever he wants sexually. And last night, in the end, being helpless and taken roughly, his hard body banging against my bruised ass brought me to tears. He took my crying in stride at a moment when I felt like my soul was unraveling. And that scares me when I think about an ongoing connection.

The intensity of his entire life is shocking. Wild soul-shattering sex that has to be kept a secret. Mind-altering soul-crushing drugs, blood-soaked car seats, lurking mobsters, creeping FBI agents. This is how Trick lives. It’s how he chooses to live.

I’m an ordinary person. How could I exist in that chaos and not eventually have a breakdown? Trick’s asleep and holding me. A part of me wants to stay pressed against him, but his life is a spider web and if I want to survive, I think I need to break free of its sticky ties.

Slipping from his bed as silently as possible, I use the guest bathroom rather than the master. Finger-combing my mussed hair and braiding it and then washing my face make me feel more like myself.

Contemplating how I’ll leave his place divides my mind. I’d rather not have my family know anything about the past two nights, but if I wait for him to decide to drive me home I may be even more entangled by the time he does.

Standing in the kitchen, I realize I’m hungry. Glancing at the door to the master bedroom, I know it’s a mistake to make breakfast for the two of us, as if last night meant something. And yet the eggs, milk, and cinnamon come out and so does some ham. Just like that, events are underway.

His phone rings, making my breath catch since I assume it’s C or Anvil calling. I’m quiet as the phone ringing persists for ten or fifteen rings then stops. A moment later, I hear his bathroom door close.

As I’m plating French toast he emerges and he’s on the phone. “When is that, Ash?”

I realize the call must have actually been from his younger sister. Scott has two sisters, Kathleen who’s a year older, and Ashling, who’s something like eight years younger. All three of the Patrick children got their looks from their mother, who has always been so pretty that when she was young people stopped on the street to stare at her. Mr. Patrick was handsome too from what I can remember of him, but he looked like a real person, rather than like one of God’s lost angels.

“I just got up. I’ll call you back in a couple minutes,” Trick says. Entering the kitchen, he nods an acknowledgment with a smile, as he places another call and puts it on speaker.

“‘Lo, Scotty. What’s got you ringing me at half past dawn?” Kathleen Patrick says with an Irish lilt.

His grin is sweet and causes a pang in the vicinity of my heart. “The baby called with a request, and I need your help with something. And you’re on speaker, Kath.” He puts one hand on my waist to warn me of his reach, then extends his arm so his hand can turn on the coffeemaker. The closeness of his bare skin and the small touch on my hip makes my heart clench harder with each beat.

I glance over my shoulder, catching a glimpse of washboard abs and a pair of black sweats. They match the pair I’m borrowing.

“Oh, yes. Hello to the boys, is it?”

“Nah, a school friend. So Ash called. She wants to go to a party at Fiona Murphy’s house, and Ma told her to check with me first, which is good. I’d come to Boston to take her, but I’m jammed up with work that night.”

“The Murphys.” Kathleen’s tone is bitter. “We’ve got no use for them, as I’ve told her. She shouldn’t need to know details to stop bothering everyone about parties with Fiona Murphy. There are dozens of girls for her to pal around with.”

Trick is silent for a beat, frowning. “I saw Jack Murphy.”

“Where?” Her accent’s more pronounced, but less lilting.

“He crashed a poker game.”

“Bastard. Are you all right then?”

“Yeah. He’s getting clever, it seems. I got a text this very morning that he was at my bar, Slattery’s, last night.”

“Bold as that? Like you’re still a lad he can intimidate?” she tsks. “Not that any of them ever could, thank God.”

I hadn’t realized that Trick had bought Slattery’s pub. The Palermos own half the commercial real estate in town. Does C Crue now own the other half?

“So the answer to her going to a Murphy party without me is no. But she’ll be upset.”

“Best let me tell her some family history. She’s seventeen now. It’s old enough to hear, Scotty.”

“No.”

Kathleen huffs out a sigh.

“So here’s the thing I want. Get tickets to a Broadway musical for the three of you and two or three of Ashling’s friends. Book a couple nights at the Waldorf. Tell her she can invite the boy she likes for the second night. What’s his name? Spencer? Take the girls shopping. And get Ma a new dress. I don’t want to see her again in something old like she wore to the O’Leary party.”

“What do you want me to do? Ma’s as stubborn as you.”

Trick pours coffee for each of us. “Get clever about it, Kath. When she’s out, box up her old clothes and store them.”

Kathleen sucks in a breath. “Well, that would be a right shock for her. She wore those dresses with him. She’ll be raging.”

“That’s why I said storage, not church donation. Tell her I made you do it, and that if she wants to complain to call me.”

“As if she would ever call you over that.”

“Exactly. Let the baby help you pick the dresses out. Ash’ll like that, and she’s good for it. I like her style.”

“Oh, my God, you’re the limit. She’s so spoiled already. And am I the one telling the little lamb she can’t go to the party?”

“No, I’ll do it.” He takes a piece of fried ham from the serving dish and pops it in his mouth, chewing twice and swallowing. “That second night in New York, I’ll come and have dinner with you guys.”

“Aye, all right. They’ll be easier to handle if they know you’re coming.”

He smiles. “Hey?”

“Yes, what is it now? You want me to buy some gold fairy wings for Ashling and a little tiara?” she asks tartly.

He chuckles and says something in Irish. “Let’s get a whiskey, yeah? You and me, next week?”

“Right. Love to,” she says, and there’s no tartness whatsoever. “You stay well.”

“You, too.” He ends the call and tosses his phone on the counter.

I can’t help but smile. His easy affection for his family and the normalcy of the morning are such a contradiction from last night. Is it really possible to balance things so effortlessly?

“I didn’t realize how close you were to your sisters. When anyone mentions you, it sounds like you’re always with Connor and Sasha Stroviak.”

“I mostly am.”

“How old were you again when your father died?”

“Thirteen.”

“The FBI says he taught you things from a young age.”

“As a dad does for his son.”

Within that answer there’s Ireland, and the Boston Irish Mafia too.

“Like how to shoot?”

He nods, taking his dish and coffee to the table and beckoning me to join him.

“How old were you the first time you fired a gun?”

“Six, I think. Maybe seven.”

“Jesus.”

“Just a twenty-two, with his hands around mine. Before, he put his guns on the top of a tall bureau. None of us were allowed to touch them. But I begged him like little kids do, until he caved like parents do when kids ask enough times. And when he was teaching me, I played it very serious because I could tell he wasn’t convinced it was a good idea. I usually told jokes and clowned around, but not during target practice. When armed, I was a little man and the spitting image of him, right down to the walk.” Laughing softly, he shakes his head. “I learned that from him too. He handled tough situations by flattering people or mimicking them in ways that put them at ease or charmed them. Then he’d buy them a whiskey and tell a funny story, and that was all it took for him to get in with someone for life. At his wake, the place was bursting. People lined the streets outside, waiting for space to come in.”

“That’s what I remember. Whenever he came to St. Mary’s for something, a crowd would form around you guys. The other thing I remember is the little white flowers held by a barrette in your mom’s and Kathleen’s hair. They always wore matching dresses and those flowers to church and assemblies. I don’t remember Ashling. Did she have it too?”

“No, she was just a baby then with wispy baby hair. Ma pinned the sprig of flowers to her dress, I think. That was for my dad. He brought flowers home at least once a week for my mom and called her and the girls his fairy princesses.” Trick rolls his eyes, but smiles. “When Ma started using the little white flowers in their hair, he loved it. So she never stopped.”

“So sweet.”

“At times. There was dark with the light too. As there always is.”

“When your dad died, why did they move and leave you behind?”

“I sent them. To keep them safe.” A hardness enters his expression as he takes a swig of coffee. “Don’t get friendly with Jack Murphy if you see him around.”

Watching his face, my brows furrow. He sent them? As a boy, he made decisions about where his family lived? What about his mom? I want to ask him about it, but I’m afraid I know where the discussion will lead and I’m not ready for that.

“What happened with the Murphys?”

His deep blue eyes gaze into the cup like it’s a Pensieve from Harry Potter, showing him long-ago memories. Then he glances over and his smile is back. “You made me a great breakfast. Thank you.” He licks a drop of syrup from his fingertip. “Tastes almost as good as you.” He leans over, cups the back of my head and kisses me, a slow kiss, his tongue caressing mine. A hand strokes my breast through the t-shirt, and the sudden reminder that I’m braless and very vulnerable to his touch hits me along with a riot of sensations that cascade down to my belly and between my legs.

After too long, I lean back, sipping in air, almost dizzy with lust. Opening my eyes doesn’t help, since he’s too beautiful for words. Looking away, I lick my lips. “I guess you should take me home.”

“Soon.” He stands and stretches. “Let’s take a shower.”

“It’s not a good idea.”

His gaze settles on my face as his thumb rubs my bottom lip and pushes into my mouth, stroking my tongue. Inexplicably it’s one of the most erotic things anyone’s ever done to me, other than all the other erotic things he’s done to me in past forty-eight hours. How am I going to get over him when we’ve shared things I couldn’t imagine doing with anyone else?

“Once more. Now.” His voice has a quality that’s dangerous and dirty at the same time.

He lets his thumb slip from between my lips, but he remains close and takes hold of my arm, guiding me toward the master bedroom. Partway there, someone knocks on the door. I’m both relieved and disappointed.

“Hmm.” Trick picks up a gun, then moves the furniture and opens the broken door.

Connor McCann stands in the doorway and nods a greeting. “Let’s talk.”

* * *

Trick

Leaving her in the apartment, C and I step onto the stairwell landing. There are no windows for someone to record audio off the vibrations. I check for anything that’s new and foreign. I turn on a cell phone jammer, and C and I stand together, looking down at the ground. It’s a stance we take when there are serious matters to discuss and we’re out in the open, but it’s become a habit now even at times when no one’s close enough to read our lips.

“Enzo and a carful of his guys were downstairs. ‘Vil and I convinced them to drive on.”

“He’s wasting his time. He can’t gun me down in the parking garage or on the street because the feds are staking me out right now and would see the whole thing.”

“The feds are hovering. You sure they’re watching you? Or might they be standing by?”

Frowning silently, I stop my gaze from going to my broken door.

“‘Vil can drop off the girl. You come to the compound. Stay a few days.”

“I’ll come soon.”

“Man, you know why Enzo was waiting downstairs. He’s looking for an opening when you’re alone. If you want a longer play date with the FBI informant, then bring her to the house.”

“Into C Crue Central? No way.”

“If you don’t trust her, what are you doing with her?”

“I’m settling up. And letting the FBI and Enzo Palermo steam over the idea that I’m fucking her while they grow hemorrhoids waiting for me to come down.”

“Trick, don’t play with her. Frosty good girls get their panties in a twist too easily. You make a wrong move with this girl, and she’ll burn you for it.”

“She can try.”

C spits out a curse. “Why her? You have been reckless about a lot of things before, but never with the women you play games with. You’re the one who insisted on vetting girls before crue hotel parties.”

“She had her chance to betray me. She didn’t.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

I cock my head, then nod. “I know she may be hanging on to milk more information from me. They could’ve treated her like a suspect and had her act like she’s through with them to get me to trust her. I realize that.”

“So again. Why her?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I promise, “I’ll be careful.”

“And if it’s not enough?”

I frown because I know he’s asking if I’ll be able to clean up my mess by killing her if it comes to that. That’s not a thought I want to entertain. “Have I ever let you down?”

“Never.”

“So I’ll come soon. When I’m done playing.”

C puts a hand on the side of my neck and gives me a look that says, be smart. The hand reminds me of the way my dad used to put a hand on my shoulder. Maybe subconsciously it’s why C does it.

He turns and stalks down the steps without a look back. That’s C down to the bone. He never overplays anything, ever. Anvil’s the same. It’s why I chose them. I was never looking to be lorded over or lectured. And even when things turn deadly, I can’t have anyone around get dramatic about it. C and Anvil are stone cold steady under pressure.

They were both in Frank’s syndicate before me. They’re only a couple of years older, but both were born on the wrong side of the tracks, with criminals for parents, so like me, they grew up fast. At first getting in with them was critical because I needed money. But as soon as we formed a trio, I could tell it was the right fit; I was one of them, and together, we could be more powerful than any of us alone.

C is the leader, but he’s got a light touch about it with ‘Vil and me. That’s how he always gets in my head and brings me back around when I am heading down the road to ruin. Like now.

Turning off the jammer, I reenter my apartment. Laurel’s curled up on my couch, under the guest room blanket she’s dragged into the living room. She stares at the flat-screen as she plays Eve.

A video-gaming girl with long legs, big bouncy tits, and wit that could cut sheet metal. It’s like the devil saw her and knew she was made to bring about my downfall. My pulling out a wooden paddle to use on her was me saying, I know and I don’t care. If it’s my time to fall, I’ll do it while leaning over the prettiest ass I’ve ever seen. The trouble is it’s not just my life I’m risking.

I should put some distance between us for everyone’s sake. Instead, I get a condom from my nightstand so I can fuck her one more time.

* * *

Laurel

Trick’s dressed in black trousers and a crisp white button-down shirt. He’s also clean shaven, and my mind wants to linger on the memory of him shaving in the shower while I leaned against the warm tile watching. Every memory of him from the past two days, even the innocuous ones, is steeped in sensuality.

He escorts me to my parents’ door, like it’s homecoming night nine years ago. Unlike then, I’m dressed in borrowed men’s clothes: his sweatpants, a plain gray t-shirt, and a navy blue hoodie.

“Go,” I whisper.

“I’ll say hello.” He says this casually, but as firmly as he says everything once his mind is set.

Not knowing what I’m going to say and definitely not wanting him to interact with my family before I’ve figured it out, I try to think of a way to convince him to leave.

I grimace as the door opens before I even push a key into the lock. My mom’s smile is nervous as she pulls me inside and hugs me.

I’m stiff in her arms and pull back quickly. “Mom, this is Scott Patrick.”

“I remember.” She smiles and uses her company voice.

My father appears, and his eyes take me in for an extra couple of seconds before they move to Trick. My dad looks him in the eye before shaking his hand.

“Laurelyn and I ran into each other. And then ran into some trouble,” Trick says, his expression appearing open and earnest.

My muscles clench and I’m rigid, waiting for him to describe the trouble he just mentioned. I don’t want him to say anything at all about my being at a gangsters’ poker game at the FBI’s behest. If he does, it’ll raise questions, and then he or they will hear things they shouldn’t.

My mom smoothes her hair down, the way she does when she’s ruffled. “What kind of trouble?”

“A party that got rowdy. Someone was sick on Laurelyn’s dress. The girl’s fine, but Laurel’s dress didn’t make it.” Scott’s smile and casual tone work some of their magic, causing my mom’s shoulders to drop and my dad’s grim expression to lighten.

Mom scrunches her nose as she looks at me. “We don’t understand what took you so long to text us back. We were worried, Laurelyn.”

“Things got complicated,” Trick says. “The party was raided. Everyone had to give statements, and phones were taken so video shot during the party could be reviewed. Looking for drug deals maybe. Everyone’s vowed to crack down.”

My dad’s eyes narrow. Any mention of drugs upsets them, but I wonder if my dad’s grim expression is about more than that. My dad’s not stupid or oblivious to what’s happening in Coynston. He’s aware that Trick is part of C Crue, which makes Trick dangerous, especially for our family, which is in constant upheaval from my little sister’s addiction.

“Well, would you like some coffee, Scott?” Mom asks.

“No, but thank you. I have to head out.”

I’m more than ready for the awkward moment to end when a bedroom door opens, and Monet sails out and straight up to me. Tossing her arms around my neck, she speaks too loudly.

“Thank God! I thought they weren’t going to let you go!”

“You knew? You acted like you didn’t know anything about why Laurel wasn’t calling us back. And why would you think the police would keep your sister? She’s never the one in trouble.” My dad is a great chemical engineer, but he would’ve made an even better lawyer.

“Um, I didn’t know. I, uh, just found out. Hey, Trick, how are you?” My sister pushes her ombré hair over her shoulder. It’s a style that’s time has passed, but she often gets stuck in unfortunate loops.

“I’m good, Monet. How about you?”

“Yeah, great,” she says, chewing on her lower lip and shifting her weight from foot to foot. She’s been clean for weeks, but she suddenly looks like she’s got the nervous energy of someone who’s freshly quit.

“I heard you’ve been staying here awhile. Did you sublet your place? Or move out?”

My feet feel like they’re made of lead. Why does Trick know how long Monet’s been out of her place? She did rehab in Connecticut, but people were told she was in Manhattan taking design courses.

Monet bounces on the balls of her feet. “Yeah, moved out. I’ve been exploring my options and having that rent was a killer.” Shrugging, she tosses her hair again. “Not for someone like you, but for me.” She frowns and there are lines on her pretty face. At the moment, fresh out of rehab, she’s fifteen pounds too thin, so her face looks older than twenty-two.

“Hmm. You’ve probably made a lot of new friends,” Trick says, and my stomach drops because he’s encroaching on things I don’t want him to know.

Also, I suddenly realize Scott is not here as Scott. He’s here as Trick, investigating my life and my family.

Monet shifts her weight and chews her lip some more. “Not really.”

“I’m putting on a pot of coffee,” Mom says.

Trick looks at his Rolex. “You know, I’ve got a few minutes.”

“Good, good.” She disappears to the kitchen.

Monet looks after her like she’d like to leave too. I wish she would.

A knock on the front door startles both me and my sister, making us jerk. She laughs at herself. I do not laugh.

Trick steps aside to let my dad open the door, but his hand disappears inside his jacket. I’m frozen. Could someone armed, someone like Enzo Palermo, start a gunfight with Trick at my parents’ house right now?

Fortunately, the armed someone at the door isn’t a criminal. It’s Milt. He nods at my dad and smiles, the awning casting dark shadows on his face. My dad opens the screen door and extends a hand.

“Milt, haven’t seen you in a while. Come in.” My dad’s open smile makes my heart sink. He has no idea how Milt treated me, or the danger he put me in. He only knows Milt as an FBI agent I dated.

Color drains from Monet’s face, and she retreats down the hall.

Trick’s expression never changes, but his gaze tracks Monet for a couple of beats before swiveling back to Milt. Why couldn’t Trick have left a few minutes earlier? And why is Milt here at all? We had an agreement, which is over now actually, broken on both sides.

“John, good to see you too. Sorry about the circumstances.” Milt has a plastic bag in one hand and holds it out to me. “Since you didn’t want to wait for your clothes to be pulled from forensics yesterday, I figured I’d bring them by.”

Oh, my God. What a bastard. I’m careful to not look directly at Trick or at Milt as a flush creeps up my neck to my face. And what’s in the bag? Just underwear? The dress and shoes were borrowed.

I take the bag, mostly so no one else will.

Brows drawing together, my dad looks at the bag. “It was an FBI raid? That sounds more serious than I thought. Milt, did you have to intervene on Laurel’s behalf, son?”

Son?I want to throw up. And my gaze, against my will, goes to Trick’s face. His expression’s neutral, the sea blue eyes steadily watching the exchange.

“I wish I’d had the opportunity. I guess Laurel didn’t tell you things have changed?”

Is he seriously going to lay things out in front of Trick and my father?

“Coffee’s ready,” my mother calls.

“Things are complicated,” I murmur, my mind racing. I have to end this.

“They definitely are. Laurel broke up with me, even though I was trying to help her with some things. Still am. But Laurel, you never answered my question about what happened to the ear buds I loaned you. I need those back.”

My father’s expression is confused, but I’m worried that Trick, who as far as I can tell never misses anything, understands instantly that ear buds are code for the FBI wire.

“Gone for good. I accidentally dropped them down a toilet. And now’s not a great time, Milt.”

“I’m trying to understand you right now, Laurel. What’s going on with you? You realize Trick Patrick can’t help your family with anything, right? Associating with him will only get you into trouble. Serious trouble.”

“Then I guess the person who sent me unknowingly to his party is a real jerk.”

Milt’s cheek twitches, but he shrugs.

I stare at him, trying to inject as much ice into my expression as I can. I no longer care if the truth comes out on my parents’ doorstep. I’m not going to get batted around mercilessly like a little mouse by a cat’s paw.

Milt’s own gaze turns frosty. “I’m sure no one expected you to get sucked in by Patrick and his friends. You’re old enough to know better now.”

“Yeah, well, Scott’s very charming. He always was. But I guess you know that, having investigated his life.” Taking a step back, I look away, my mind reeling. I think about the way Milt singled me out and pursued me. We met at a coffee shop on my side of town. Was that really by chance? The FBI field office in Boston is nowhere near that Starbucks and neither is Milt’s place. And what are the odds that Milt coincidentally met an ex-girlfriend of the man he’s investigating? I didn’t put it together before because Trick wasn’t supposed to be the target at the poker game. And my ties to him weren’t something Milt asked about when we met. But of course Trick is Milt’s target. And has been all along.

Milt dated me. And slept with me. He met my family. Was all of that some elaborate undercover operation? Is that how the FBI does things? If so, I prefer Scott Patrick. At least he’s always been honest with me about what he wants from me.

“I’m not sure what’s going on, but it’s time for you guys to leave,” my dad says, pointing at the door as his gaze moves from Milt to Trick and back.

Milt huffs out an impatient sigh. “Patrick should leave. But there are some things you need to know, John.”

My dad’s face twists. “Whatever I need to know, I’ll hear from my daughter.”

Milt tucks one of his cards into my dad’s shirt pocket. “For when you want to talk directly to me.”

So goddamned smug! What an asshole. To act like he has the right to talk to my dad without me there and like it’s a given that my dad will eventually seek him out? I really want to tell Milt to go screw himself.

Trick doesn’t have to be told twice to leave, and his expression’s still unreadable as he steps outside. I’m not sure why his silent exit makes me feel heavy and sad, considering I’ve been wishing him gone since we pulled up to the curb. As always, no matter how wrong it is to have him in my life, I never enjoy when he actually leaves it.

* * *

Trick

The scene inside the Reilly house carries information that’s both welcome and unwelcome. As we walk away from Laurel’s, Schager tries to engage me. I wonder whether his bloodshot eyes are from lack of sleep or from using substances that cause it. There’s a little white powder on his lapel. I brush against it to transfer it for a taste. Could be powdered sugar from a donut, but it’s not. It’s cocaine. I doubt a DEA raid is how Schager spent his morning, so it looks like he’s got his own secret. If he was crashing from being coked up on the night he sent Laurel to the poker game, it would explain how he let things go sideways. His failure to protect Laurel disgusts me, especially given that he’s her ex. I took better care of her when I was eighteen.

“I’m surprised at you, Patrick. Your one redeeming quality was that you stuck to your own kind. Junkies and prostitutes. No decent women were pulled into your orbit before now.”

My gaze cuts to Schager. Can I push him into drawing his weapon? If he gives me an opening, I’ll gladly send Thank You flowers to his funeral.

“Nothing to say? The endlessly wise-cracking Trick Patrick with nothing to say? Maybe it’s eating at you? To spend time with someone worthwhile and realize that’s as close as you’ll ever get. That now it’s back to freaks and whores.”

Pausing, I size him up. Does he really expect to get a rise out of me with his clumsy bullshit? I have eight hundred million dollars, washboard abs, and a dick that works. I’ve fucked debutantes and heiresses; some were even tied down and gagged to make it interesting for me. If I wanted any of them, I would have her. For as long as I want.

He’s right though that I’m not happy he’s had a part of Laurel that I haven’t had in a long time. The part that brings a guy home to meet the parents with an eye toward the future. And the thought of Schager in my spot does not sit well.

But if he wants to rattle me, he needs better ammunition.

“Yeah. Getting women, that’s my weak suit,” I say, walking away.

Schager keeps pace, and I’m curious about whether he’ll try again.

If he wants to hit me where it hurts, he should tell me how he figured out that Laurelyn Reilly matters to me. And elaborate on how he hooked her and became her lover.

“All right, enlighten me. What is your weak suit?” he demands.

That being near a dark-haired girl with stained-glass eyes turns me reckless.

I slow my roll, wondering why he’s dogging my steps. Does he have a reason for stalling my departure? My phones are powered off, and the sim cards are out. If he’s hoping to clone my phone, he’s going to have another tech mishap. My mind goes back over what was said. When did she flush the wire? It had to have been when she went into Little Mo’s bathroom. Unless the device is still around. If it’s small enough, she could’ve dropped it in the Range Rover when I drove her to my apartment. That’s doubtful though because Schager wouldn’t be looking for it or tipping me off to its missing status if it was still transmitting.

Heading to the truck, I decide I’ll do a thorough search later to be sure.

I hear him closing on me fast and spin back around. Instant check of his hands. No gun. His momentum has him barreling forward. Not expecting me to turn and stop short, he can’t halt his stride in time. All I have time to do is raise my fist and I do. His face slams right into it. And maybe I drive my fist forward a little.

His head jerks back from the impact, and he falls like a tree, slamming onto the ground with a thump. He’s dazed, and I’m tempted to drop and keep going, but I’m not a kid anymore, so I take a hard pass on pummeling an FBI agent in the middle of suburbia.

A van door slides open and agents emerge, rushing forward.

Assholes.

I get in the Rover and peel away. If they want me, they can chase me. I’m not letting them cuff me in front of Laurelyn’s house with her parents watching.

I check the rearview several times. They aren’t pursuing. At least not right now. I’m sure their surveillance footage will show he was about to crash into me, so tossing a fist up could certainly be interpreted as defending myself, which of course the C Crue lawyers will have no trouble exploiting if the feds try to say I assaulted him. But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be a hassle to have the FBI pull me in again. Their coffee’s better than CPD’s but it still sucks compared to what’s at my place.

Turning on music, I crank it up, trying to drown out my thoughts. For some reason, I can’t stop myself from imagining Laurelyn lying in bed with Schager, having conversations like the one we had last night. It makes me want to put a bullet in his brain.

Easy.Gotta think this all through.

At the C Crue compound, I use my code to open the gate. Pulling up the drive, I scan the area. Rover One’s parked front and center. I park the second Rover behind it.

Locking the doors, I hang a marker from the porch on the antenna. It means the car’s got to be checked before anyone drives it again.

When I open the front door, reggae music comes pouring out. Following it to its source, I find Zoe, C, Anvil, and Rachel in the kitchen. Zoe’s dancing, drinking wine, and cooking. I spot a baby carrier on the kitchen table and walk over.

Irina is sound asleep. She’s four months old and has a lot of Rachel’s features and none of ‘Vil’s that I can see. I touch my thumb to her soft little cheek. She’s cute as hell.

When I turn, ‘Vil’s hovering right next to me. Usually Anvil’s over-the-top vigilance amuses me. The guy has zero experience with kids, so he treats his own like she’s made of blown glass. Truth be told, he doesn’t seem comfortable with anyone other than Rachel touching the baby, not even himself.

Glancing up, I ask, “Can I help you, ‘Vil?”

He steps back, but it looks like it hurts him a little to do it. “Irina’s sleeping.”

“Is that what’s she doing? Had no clue. Infants really put their own spin on unconsciousness.”

Anvil scowls, and C moves closer, set to intervene. My eyes roll so hard they almost get a look at the backs of their sockets.

Zoe sashays over and hooks her arm around mine. Everyone’s going to try to manage me now.

“I’m making jerk chicken and grilled pineapple, Trick. I might put a little chili pepper on the pineapple. Help me decide.”

“Yeah, do it. Decided.”

Her mouth curves into a wide, beautiful smile. “Girl trouble?”

“Maybe.”

“Tell us all about it,” Zoe says, tugging until I walk with her to the stove.

“Do I need advice from you guys? The Brazilian princess who can’t go a week without getting her ass caned for being too sassy? And C who obviously never spanks you hard enough to get you to behave for five minutes. Then we’ve got ‘Vil—”

“Trick! Shame on you!” Zoe laughs and play slaps my arm. “Don’t mock us for being concerned. Arrested by the FBI is arrested by the FBI.”

I extract myself and sit on a barstool at the island next to Rachel, taking her drink. “What is this?”

“A Negroni.” Without missing a beat, she adds, “Have it.” And then she slides off the barstool and moves to a chair in the corner.

Our emo princess is way too smart to let me play games near her. Anvil is extremely possessive, and he’s got the right wife because she shuts down even little stuff that could trigger his jealousy.

When I start to drink the Negroni, ‘Vil calls me something in Russian that’s probably the curse word for dick and walks out. Finishing off the drink, I tap the glass’s rim.

“Who made that?”

C levels his gaze. “I did.”

I nod without commenting further. He doesn’t offer to make another one for anyone. C is not pleased with me right now. Can’t say I blame him. I’m pushing all the buttons because I’m fucking furious that Schager fucked Laurel and then fucked her over and all I got to do about it was punch him in his smug federal agent face.

“Agent Milt Schager of the FBI might have a cracked cheekbone. I don’t think he had a modeling career of him, but then I don’t know who they’re putting on government pamphlets these days.”

Anvil returns with a glass in each meaty fist, but his steps slow when he hears my announcement. He bangs a Jack and Coke on the granite slab in front of me, giving the crystal glass a shock test. It holds up, but some liquid splashes over the sides. To his love, he takes something that may be a Negroni, but probably isn’t because his bartending skills are for shit. There is, of course, no splashing of Rachel’s drink.

“Go on then,” Rachel says. “You wanna tell us, and we want to hear. Proceed.”

I turn my head and smile at her. Though she be but little, she is fierce, which is cute on her since she looks like a doll and could fit in ‘Vil’s pocket. “He tripped into my fist.”

“Once? More than once?” Anvil, as an enforcer, expects the full picture.

“Did they get it on video?” C asks.

“I’m sure. And as for how many punches, one.”

Zoe holds out a spatula and mimics Sherlock Holmes with her tone. “What did he do to provoke you?”

My smile widens because Zoe’s always on my side against outsiders and wants that fact established before we move on.

“Thank you, Z. As a matter of fact, Milt Schager is a douchebag, and, as such, was acting douche-y. He tried to rush me from behind.”

C’s brows crowd each other. “Rushed you from behind? Was he trying to cuff you?”

“No.”

“What did you do to provoke him?” C is on my side, but feels no pressure to establish it, since that’s been established long ago and many times since.

“Ignored him.”

“Ah.” Zoe dips her finger into the sauce. “Douche-y douchebags who want attention do hate that.”

I chug my Jack and Coke, and then walk over to Zoe. I slide an arm around her neck from behind and kiss her cheek. “Why didn’t I see you first?” Letting her go, I leave the kitchen for the media room, grabbing another drink on the way.

C and ‘Vil give me ten minutes before they show up. I’m eight minutes into a Coen brothers’ flick, but pause it when they sit.

“I don’t know if they’ll arrest me again or not. The clip will support my statement that punching him was practically a reflex.”

C leans in. “What’s wrong with him? Why would he try to jump you from behind with his own guys watching?”

“All I can think is he wanted to grab me by the collar to pull me back and maybe have me land on my ass on the ground.”

“To what end?” C’s expression is one of exaggerated confusion.

I’ve got no real answer, except the personal one I don’t feel like sharing. Schager’s probably suffering some jealousy of his own. Suspect motives or not, he used to be with Laurel, and if he hasn’t surmised that I’ve fucked her a half dozen times since his botched sting, he needs to turn in his badge.

Anvil nods, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his tree-trunk legs. “Trick probably drove him crazy. I feel like throwing Trick to the ground and kicking him in the head at least once a week. Experience tells me the feeling will pass. The fed wouldn’t know that though, being new to his bullshit.”

After a second, C and I both laugh. Anvil isn’t known for wise-cracking, which makes his timing even better.

“I don’t actually think he’s new to my bullshit. Seems like he’s been stalking me for a while, investigating and such. Even got leverage on my ex to use her against me.”

“Your ex what?” Anvil asks.

“Ex-girlfriend.”

“Who’s that?” ‘Vil’s expression looks as confused as C’s from earlier.

“Laurelyn Reilly,” C says.

“What? I thought she was a one-night stand from the poker game?”

“She was. Trick thinks he dated her in high school.”

I laugh at C’s line and the way he delivers it. C Crue’s giving the Coen brothers a run for their money, and that does buffer the impact of the weight that keeps slamming into me when I think about Laurel with Schager.

“Hmm. Well, the fed can’t be smart if he’s trying to use a woman against Trick. Let me guess. You were with this girl and got her to give you a blowjob in high school? One of the thousands you’ve had in the past ten years?”

“Actually, yeah.”

Anvil makes an ‘I rest my case’ gesture. He stands. “When you’re done with the movie, let’s play pool. I’m low on cash and don’t feel like hitting an ATM.”

“I’ve won the last three games.”

“Last three out of seven. I want my hundred bucks that’s in your wallet,” ‘Vil says, walking out.

Raising the remote, I glance at C. “That it?”

“You tell me.” C waits. He knows when it’s time to stop digging and when it’s not. That’s why he’s the leader.

“I think Schager introduced himself to Laurelyn because he thought she could get close to me. But he didn’t tell her that. And leading up to sending her into that poker game, which I know must have been an unapproved op, Schager was fucking her.”

“You’re right.” C scowls. “He’s a fucking douchebag.”

“He could’ve gotten her killed. I suspect he might’ve been stoned that night. Wonder what he would’ve told her parents then. He knows them. When they were together, she took him home to meet the folks. Fucking dick. You know, I haven’t hated anyone this much since Pauly Mangia used a kid as a punching bag.”

“Trick,” C says in a warning tone.

“And all the while he was doing Laurel, he was also doing surveillance on her little sister to trap her in a drug charge.”

“Know and can prove?”

“Know, but can’t prove. Ninety percent on the know.”

“Get up. Let’s go downstairs for a drink.”

Tossing the remote on the couch, I stand and follow him out.

When we hit the basement and the door’s closed behind us, C says, “Keep going.”

“After the FBI entraps the little sister, which I’m sure Laurel did not realize was by Schager’s design, Schager offers to make the charges against the sister go away if Laurel will go to a poker game wearing a wire. He tells her it’s a win-win-win, since C Crue’s trafficking underage girls. He’s got a random pic of some terrified twelve-year-olds to break her heart.”

“And your girl bought everything he was selling?” C snaps with a roll of his eyes.

“She’s got no experience in how to see things from different angles.” I drop onto the couch. “The FBI are the good guys. Good guys don’t do bad things to good people, C.”

“Course not. Go on.” C goes to the small freezer and cracks a tray of ice cubes into an ice bucket.

“Schager doesn’t tell Laurelyn I’m the one she’s gonna be collecting evidence against. He makes her think it’ll be someone lower in C Crue. I guess he figures once she sees me she’ll either still go forward, or if she doesn’t, he’ll just catch what he catches off the wire until she bails. The room was volatile. Full of enemies. Things could’ve slipped out. “

“Yeah, but to send an innocent girl in there alone with no real backup? Dressed like she was?” He shakes his head and whistles speculatively. “If you hadn’t taken her, Enzo Palermo would have. She was dressed as bait. And you know how a Palermo would’ve reacted if he’d found a wire on her later. If there was no team watching close… so fucking risky.”

“You know there was no team. You and ‘Vil came in hot, knocking down Enzo’s guys, guns drawn when you came down the stairs. You think an FBI team wouldn’t have come crashing down like an avalanche if they had an agent or an informant in that basement?”

“Sounds like Schager’s gone rogue.”

Pointing an index finger, I nod.

“What else?”

“That’s it.” That most definitely is not it, but I’ve said enough already.

“Trick, come on. I was around when you knew Laurelyn Reilly. Anvil and I had just graduated, and the three of us were together all the time. I don’t think you said her name even once. You definitely never called her your girlfriend.”

“I’m sure I didn’t.”

“The only thing of note was that you took her to a dance. That was off for you. But then I heard she blew up at you. And you got with another girl right after she stormed out. From then on, I never heard of you talking to or about Laurelyn Reilly again.”

“Right.”

C glares at me impatiently.

“But I have a list of people that I look out for. She did something, months after the homecoming dance bullshit, and she made my list. So a couple of times, I’ve done things for her without her knowing.”

“Give me an example.”

“Her little sister shoots H. Until we got it cleaned up, the supply in Coins was all tainted with Fentanyl. You know what happens then.”

“Yeah, we all know all about that.”

“So I told the dealers in Coins not to supply her. I spread the word around Boston too, in the areas her friends go to get product. The message was if Monet Reilly accidentally overdoses on H, the dealer dies too. People started asking if she was my girlfriend, and I didn’t want them to start treating her like she was, so I said she’s the little sister of my ex, which is exactly how I think of her.”

“What did Laurelyn Reilly, who you never talk to, do to make the Trick Secret Santa list?”

“None of your fucking business.”

C laughs.

“Who else is on the secret list?”

“You can be on the list, C. You need me to arrange for you to get a bogus college scholarship? What school? How about Columbia? I know exactly who to call to cook the books to make it legit.”

Grinning, C says, “Full scholarship to Columbia? That’s not cheap.”

“Neither am I.”

C’s bark of laughter echoes off the walls. After a beat, he says, “And this good little girl has no idea she’s got a gangster sugar daddy pulling strings?”

“Of course not.”

The grin on C’s face fades. “Trick, do not kill Milt Schager. Remember the plan. Except in self-defense, you don’t pull your gun again until the investigation’s shut down and things cool off. And even then, don’t put him in your crosshairs. Killing a fed never turns out well.”

“He tried to humiliate her today. After he set her up as a C Crue target, all while she thought he was her fucking boyfriend.”

“Trick—”

“I heard you, C. Did you hear me?”

He sighs. “Can you let this one go?”

My eyes lock with his. “I don’t know. If he stays away from me, maybe.”

C puts a hand on my shoulder and leans forward, speaking low in my ear. “If you decide to do him, it can’t be off the cuff. You know that.”

“I know.”

He bumps his head against mine, then stands.

“There’s another thing, C.”

“What?”

“Enzo Palermo’s not gonna settle down.”

“I know, but he’s not your problem. Anvil and I will deal with that.”

“If you want the full picture, there’s also a character named Jack Murphy crawling around.”

“What’s his problem?”

“Me.”

Sitting down, C leans in. “More specific.”

I study my hands where they rest on my knees. “He thinks I killed his brother.”

“When?”

“2008.”

C’s head drops back, and he whistles up at the ceiling. “In ‘08, you were thirteen.”

“Yeah.”

“How old was the brother when he died?”

“Thirty-nine.”

C levels his gaze on my face. “Boston mob?”

I nod.

“By ‘08, your dad was in the ground. Who does the brother think helped you?”

I shrug.

“His theory’s bogus, right?”

I give him my dead stare. “What do you think?”

C reels back. “What the fuck?”

“C Crue made me, but—”

“No, we fucking didn’t.” C rubs his forehead, exhales, and holds out a hand in bewilderment. “You let us believe we made you in Frank’s crew, but you were already made. By who or what, I don’t know. Thirteen? Jesus, Trick.”

“He had it coming.”

C chuckles mirthlessly. “And ‘Vil was so impressed. Your first time your hands were so steady, and you were rock solid afterward. Couldn’t figure it out because you weren’t dead inside. It was because it wasn’t your first time. How’d you do the real first time?”

“Good for a couple days. Probably in shock. Sick for about seven weeks. Couldn’t look at a gun, let alone touch one. Went to confession and broke down crying. It was not my finest hour.” Rubbing the back of my neck, I close my eyes. “But it was him or me. I knew that going in.”

After a beat, C’s voice is low and disgusted. “He molested you?”

“No, no.” Opening my eyes, I turn my head to meet C’s stare. “Hugh Murphy was my old man’s best friend. Murphy betrayed and killed him because he wanted Kathleen, and my dad was in the way. Afterward, Murphy’s coming to the house to see her, trying to pick her up after school. Murphy told my ma, who was out of her mind with grief and valium, that Kathleen was going to live with him for a while. He needed a girl around to clean up his house and cook for him. He’d give Ma money for the family. Ma said no, but she wasn’t up to keeping a man like him away. In the beginning she was in bed all day. She had no idea what was happening in our house, let alone outside it.” I grimace, remembering how close Murphy came to getting Kath.

“Kathleen was a spitfire. When my dad died, it took the fire out of her. And Murphy came for what was left. Kath and I are good friends, but I always knew I was the brother. My dad told me over and over, ‘You have to help me protect these girls. When girls are so pretty it makes men crazy.’”

Rubbing my fingers against each other, I picture his face, picture him sitting in his chair in the living room. “He was right. Hugh Murphy killed my dad and framed some gang members for it, all so he could steal Kathleen. She was barely fourteen and more scared than I’ve ever seen her. He told her he was going to marry her and make her a woman. Made threats against the rest of us if she didn’t go along. She talked about putting her head in the oven to escape.”

I blow air out through pursed lips, remembering how sick I got thinking about Kathleen killing herself. I puked in a trash can the second she was out of the room.

“I tried to talk to one of my uncles. He cut me off, claiming it was nonsense, or if it wasn’t then what did my dad expect to happen, living the way he lived? And maybe Kathleen shouldn’t be so uptight. She’d probably end up with someone like Murphy in the end anyway.”

“What happened to the uncle?” C asks, watching me.

“Bankrupt. After a series of unfortunate events. To this day, the guy never catches a break. Something always happens. He asked me for a loan three years ago and again last year.”

“I bet I know how that worked out. Finish the story about you and Kathleen and Hugh Murphy.”

“Not much to tell. It was on me, and I thought, this is what I had my dad train me for. If I can’t save Kathleen, I might as well be dead alongside him.” I pause, rolling my eyes. “It was a very melodramatic time in the Patrick family. Our biographer was a cross between Nabokov and Mario Puzo.”

C smirks with me, but the set of his shoulders is heavy.

“I hid Kathleen and sold the lie like my life depended on it. I said she was in Florida. Murphy pushed. He called people we all knew in Orlando, Fort Myers, and Tampa and asked about her. He threatened me, pushed me down some stairs to make a point. Eventually he would’ve figured out she was really in Ireland and then I couldn’t have stopped him from going after her. His position was he’d done unspeakable things to get her, so he deserved to have her. I disagreed. Strongly. But I did agree that she belonged back in Boston or Coins with her family. So I did what I had to do to bring her home.”

“Good. How’d it go down?”

“Rifle. Rooftop.”

“How many shots?”

“One.”

“That’s my boy.”

Shaking my head, I get up and get myself a drink. “I wanted to be face to face with him. But I thought he might read the intent on my face, and if I lost my nerve for a second, if I hesitated at all, it would be game over for the kid assassin.”

“Fuck face to face. You were thirteen fucking years old. He killed your father, his friend, in what I’m sure was an ambush, right?”

Swallowing big gulps of Jack and Coke, I’m silent for a time. “Yeah, of course. But he was a scumbag. As a kid, I thought, ‘I’m better than that.’ I was defending my sister, avenging my family… my name is Inigo Montoya.”

C barks out a laugh. “How many trips to the roof with the gun loaded?”

“One.”

“How many times did you line up the shot before you pulled the trigger?”

My gaze cuts to his. “Two.”

He doesn’t look away. “So you were right to choose the roof. You were smart to.” C pours himself a drink. “Was it a clean shot?”

Looking in my glass, I swirl the ice, remembering the day, the cold sweats and how my hoodie’s hood fell too low, hitting my eyebrows and upper lids. I had to push it to the back of my head, so it wasn’t in the way. Extending my tumbler, I wait for C to refill it, which he does.

“Hugh Murphy was dead when he hit the ground.”

C clinks his glass against mine. “Slainte.”