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He ran a hand through his hair and scrolled through his phone as though it held the answers to the executive decision he was about to make.
“I know what the man’s insides look like,” I pointed out.
He sighed. “Tariq Zoto—the Albanian underboss.”
Oh.
Oh.
My mind was spinning with an overwhelming amount of information. I needed time and space to process, but more than that, I needed something else.
“You can’t take me home.”
“I’m sorry, Willa. It’s boss’s orders,” Keegan replied, his tone offering an even deeper apology.
We’d been driving for ten minutes before we’d stopped for gas and ice, and based on traffic, we’d be at the Flynn estate in less than another fifteen.
“Please ... just take me somewhere—anywhere—else ...” I looked down at my shaking hand.
He sighed, cocking his head to make eye contact with me. “Where do you want to go? You wanna get a drink or something?”
The Hummer filled with my cynical laughter. “Um—definitely not. That’s exactly why I don’t want to go home. That place is a DEA agent’s wet dream. Please—” My head rolled across the headrest. His gaze fell to the ice I held in place. I watched him closely for his reaction. “Keep me away from drugs and alcohol—okay?”
Without hesitation, Keegan nodded in understanding. “Consider it done. I’ve got your back.”
I offered him a faint smile. “Thanks.”
Did I just make a friend? It almost felt like it.
But as quickly as excitement dared to take flight, reality clipped its wings. Maybe tonight Keegan could be my friend, but come morning, he’d be just another member of the Flynn Syndicate who’d vowed to give their life for Raphael Flynn’s should the situation call for it, even if he considered Lucifer his brother—which made a friendship with him a liability.
Keegan left the vehicle for a second time, returning minutes later with an armload of snacks and drinks.
I held up a box of saltwater taffy. “Know a lot of addicts in recovery?”
He flashed me a crooked grin as he started the engine. “Nah, but my granny loves them. I got two boxes—one for you and one for her.”
Tender familial moments were so foreign in this life that hearing Keegan talk about his granny with so much adoration filled my chest with unexpected warmth. Envy quickly followed.
We cruised around Boston listening to New England’s Sports Radio WEEI as we devoured copious amounts of sugar and Keegan filled me in on the status of the Celtics. It was reminiscent of weekends spent with my father, and I found myself surrendering to the nostalgia.
Keegan’s phone lit up, interrupting his rant about the Celtics’ third-quarter woes. “Fuck. Hang on—I’ve gotta take this.”
My gaze shifted to look out the passenger window, but my ears strained to hear.
They got nothing.
A few short phrases later, Keegan ended his call, tossing his cell into the cubby in the dash. Then he banged a hard left to reverse direction. “I’ve gotta make a pit stop—looks like you’re coming with me.”
Even in the dark, I could see the tension on his face and the way his hands gripped the steering wheel.
“What is it?”
He shook his head, jerked the SUV into a right-hand turn, then hit the gas.
My head fell back, and I closed my eyes.
Just another night in Moblandia.
