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Say what, now? “Who the fuck said that?”
“Preston Bean. His dad’s a cop. So I told him to shut his stupid mouth or I’d stab him in the eye with my murdering dad’s favorite gold letter opener.”
My eyes widen, my cheeks puff out. Fuck. Rose really did need that wine. Daniel knows. “Kid, you can’t go around saying shit like that.”
“Well, I did, and I’m not sorry, so don’t try to make me apologize. Preston Bean is a jerk.”
I agree. As for his dad? I think he and I need to have a little chat. Fuck me, this morning my list of men to kill was sparse. Now I can’t decide who I want to slaughter first. I’m almost chuckling on the inside with glee. “I’ll sort it out, okay?”
“What are you going to do?”
I hate the curiosity I see. Hate it. “That’s not your concern. What you need to do is get your head down and study your arse off, do you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“Good. I’ll go get your phone, but if I find out you’ve had any contact with that Preston Bean brat, you’ll be sorry. Say you hear me, kid.”
“I hear you, Mister.”
“Good.”
“And what about Mom?”
“I’ll handle your mother.” I give his head a ruffle and go to the door as I text Otto, telling him to look for a cop called Bean.
When I make it back to our room, I find Rose on the bed and Maggie on her boob, and just one look at my wife tells me there will be no date night tonight. She looks exhausted. Cozy. Glorious with our daughter feeding from her. I sigh, accept what needs to be accepted, and go to the bed, climbing on and settling my head on her tummy, just under Maggie. Rose’s hand finds my hair and strokes. “I hate you,” she whispers, and I smile. She really might when she finds out I lied about Sandy being dead.
7
BRAD
* * *
I walk past the bar, my focus set forward, my body tense—like I’ve run a gauntlet.
“I’ve let Pearl go home,” Mason says as I pass.
Every muscle relaxes as I slow to a stop. But— “Why?”
“She didn’t look very good. Said she felt sick.” Mason moves back, indicating to a man down the bar to yell his order. “It’s not too busy,” he goes on. “I have Anya, and Des offered a hand.”
“Des works the door.” I look toward the door. “So Drake’s out there alone?” Always, always, always at least two on the door. It’s mandatory. Mason knows that, and now the whole fucking club is at risk because Pearl feels sick? I’ve felt sick for months. Still here.
“No,” Mason says, focusing on the beer he’s pulling. “Rose is home with Danny, so I pulled in Tank.”
“Right.” I have no argument now. But still. It’s inconvenient. And not only for Tank. After checking my apartment, I was planning on listening to Beau and going home to try and get an early night. Give the sleeping pills Doc’s prescribed a go. Something has got to give. I’m walking fucking dead right now. “I’ll be in my office.”
I don’t have the energy to climb the stairs to the secret office that looks over the club, so I dump myself in a chair in the shitty office downstairs, looking down at my watch. And sigh. It’s not even eight. I have to spend another fuck knows how many hours pretending I’m indispensable. Needed around here. I reach into my inside pocket and pull out one of the pictures that Higham left us, resting back and staring down at the Black family emblem. I’ve seen it endless times, mostly carved by Uncle Carlo. A few from Danny. One or two from me. But the last time was Danny, and it was nearly four years ago in an alley Downtown. Some fucker who bullied Danny as a kid. Cut his face. Unfortunately for that poor fucker, the kid he preyed on became The Brit. But, again, that was years ago, and as far as Blacks go, there’s only my cousin and me. Danny didn’t do this. I didn’t do this.
So who the fuck did?
Someone wants us out of their way. The question is, who? Not the Mexicans, not Sandy. What fuckers have we got to end now? I ponder that while I close my heavy eyes, letting my head fall back, my breathing slowing.
Red.
The door to the office opens, and I startle, sitting up straight. Nolan strides in. “For fuck’s sake, go home.”
Yeah. Can’t do that. I look down at my watch. Eight thirty. Will Pearl be home by now? Asleep? In her room, out of my way? “I’m sorting the . . .” I gaze around the desk for something to be doing.
