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Mick didn’t bother knocking on the dirty front door, which was unlocked. I followed him as he walked straight into the trailer, his movements stiff like he was expecting retaliation. Jack’s revolver pressed against the damp skin of my back, hidden beneath my leather bomber jacket.
“Where is he?” Mick demanded, coming to a halt in the living area.
I stood behind him, studying the room. There wasn’t much to see—stained purple carpet, peeling wallpaper, thick smoke in the air. Frank O’Connell sat in a worn armchair, a mug of black coffee steaming in his hand. I knew him well enough to assume there was more than coffee in the cup. An older man I didn’t recognize eyed me with curiosity, ignoring Mick.
“Oh, let the boy sleep.” Frank cracked his neck, setting his mug on the wooden coffee table as he rose from his chair. “He’s had a rough day.”
“Like you would know anything about the type of day he’s having.” Mick’s tone was colder than I’d ever heard it before, but I was no longer giving them my full attention. Frank had mentioned Jack was asleep. If he wasn’t in the living room, he must be down the hall somewhere.
“We just lost Connor,” Frank argued as I inched across the living room, keeping my back to the wall. “Give the man a break.”
I didn’t hear Mick’s response. My eyes had traveled to a half-open door in the hallway, light pouring through the crack to illuminate a small bedroom. There was an unmade twin bed, but not much else in it.
Apart from Jack.
Oh, Jack…
He was much too big for the bed. One arm and leg dangled off the side, lifeless. He was clutching an empty liquor bottle to his chest. His face was unshaven, his dark beard thicker than normal. His face was turned toward the door, his jaw slackened.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I knelt by the bedside, pressing my fingertips to the soft skin of his neck. His pulse fluttered beneath my touch, but he didn’t stir. I lifted his tattooed arm, sliding the bottle out from underneath it. Shadows had made a home around his closed eyes. His hair was an absolute mess, umber curls going this way and that. Even on his worst day, there was a savage beauty about him.
“You need to get him home, lass.”
I spun, almost losing balance. The older man I hadn’t recognized was leaning in the doorway. He wore a pitiful expression.
“That’s why I’m here,” I answered, my voice stiff with heartbreak.
Worried I’d been too loud, I glanced at Jack, but he was dead to the world. For once, I was grateful for it. I wasn’t sure if he would want to return to the city. Seeing how far down he’d fallen into his darkness, I would drag him back if I had to.
“Are you Emma?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
I rose from my crouch, careful to keep my body between his and Jack’s. It was a subconscious move, but a protective one. It didn’t matter whether Jack had cheated on me. Together or not, I would protect him with my dying breath. Especially when he was in such a vulnerable state—oblivious to the world and unable to defend himself.
“I’m Tom. Frank’s first lieutenant.”
“Wonderful,” I snarked, peering over his shoulder. Mick was still arguing with Frank, but they spoke in hushed voices.
“I’ve known Jack since he were a wee lad,” Tom continued. “He’s always been troubled, but nothing like this… Do you have a plan?”
If Tom answered to Frank, he wasn’t trustworthy, but there was something about the way he looked at Jack. His face was wracked with guilt, and it seemed as though Tom wanted to pay back a debt.
“I always have a plan,” I answered.
Mick entered the room. When his gaze landed on Jack, he cursed and glanced at the ceiling, asking God for help.
“You get his legs,” Mick said to Tom.
Tom stared at me a moment longer, then helped Mick with Jack. I left the bedroom, not wanting to watch his lifeless body get hauled around again. I pushed through the screen door, taking the plastic stairs two at a time, when I ran into Frank.
“Jesus,” I muttered. His cigarette had nearly poked my eye out. Frank grabbed my wrist, his grip tight. My temper flared, taking control of my mouth. “If you don’t let go, I’ll shove that cigarette up your ass.”
Frank’s forest-green eyes were so similar to his son’s—except they were bloodshot and the skin around them had begun to droop.
“Ye take my boyo back to that city, he’s yer responsibility, woman,” he growled, his dark teeth clashing. “If he gets his throat slit, I’m blamin’ ye.”
I glared at him, a thousand retorts flying through my mind. Before I could settle on one, Frank spoke again, his rancid breath churning my stomach.
