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Abe quickly leaned over to pick it up but froze when he saw that the small sheet of paper was covered in the same stick figures he’d seen scratched into Dom’s car and drawn across his garage.The note was barely bigger than an index card but had significantly more characters drawn on it than the other messages. He hesitated for only a second before making his decision.
Snatching up the piece of paper, he placed it on the dresser and took a clear picture of it with his cell phone before covering it again with the Panama hat. He now had images of three full messages and the one partial message that Dom wiped off his front door. The thought of going behind Dom’s back made him ill, but he knew the man was shielding him from the truth.
Dom’s story of how he’d faked his own death replayed in his head. What had he gone through as a young man to make him take such a drastic step in order to escape? And was the person he escaped now leaving Dom the messages? Abe wasn’t sure if Dom was just scared to tell him the truth or if there was a darker reason for him to hide it from Abe.
Sighing softly, Abe shoved his phone into his back pocket and hurried to the kitchen before Dom could come looking for him. He would help Dom whether the man wanted it or not.Chapter TenThe gun in his hand seemed heavier than usual as Dom stared at it. It was the same gun he carried when he was on jobs. He’d fucking carried it on countless assignments for Ward Security and after that first one working for Rowe, he’d never given the gun much thought. But this was different. Walking into this meeting, he wasn’t a security agent for the preeminent Ward Security, protecting a high-value target. He wasn’t even Dominic Walsh anymore.
He was John O’Brien. A petty thief and a con artist. John O’Brien wasn’t worth a tenth of Dominic Walsh or even a hundredth of Abe Stephens.
That was why he’d escaped.
But carrying a gun into a meeting with his brother felt wrong. There was no doubt in his mind that the rest of James’s crew would be present, and he had little trouble with the idea of shooting any of them to save his own neck. But could he shoot James?
No.
He couldn’t shoot his brother. He might hate who James had become, hate the kind of life that James was demanding he lead, but he couldn’t shoot his own brother.
Cursing himself and his own weakness, Dom popped open the glove compartment and shoved the gun inside. He slammed it shut again. This meeting was not going to go well. He knew it in his bones. There was a nagging little voice in the back of his brain that demanded he call Rowe. His boss was the only one who knew about James and his past. Fuck, he should have called the cops and let them descend on the place.
But he couldn’t because he was still clinging to the hope that he could find a way out of this. That he’d be able to return to the life he’d built at Ward Security and continue to date Abe. He was so damn close to having everything he’d ever wanted. It was like stretching out his fingers and feeling it all just brushing against the tips.
James wasn’t going to snatch that away.
Climbing out of the car, Dom walked around to the front of the single-story, square building. The Joint was deep in what Dom was coming to think of as “old” Covington, across the Ohio River in Northern Kentucky. The city had pumped a lot of money into certain parts of the city to revitalize it for tourists and locals as a new place to shop and go out for an evening. But there were older parts where the money hadn’t reached yet, where the streets weren’t getting the quick pothole repairs and the blown lights weren’t being replaced in a timely fashion. The shadowy places where the city officials turned a blind eye to its people. That was where The Joint sat. It was only natural that James felt comfortable in this part of town.
The smell of stale cigarettes and beer assailed his nose as Dom stepped inside the dimly lit building. He stood just over the threshold, blinking furiously to get his eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room. As it came into focus, he made out a small bar to his right with a limited assortment of bottles and a sprinkling of tables. Farther back, a set of lights shined down on the green felt of a pool table. A loud crack broke the silence, and the multicolored balls scattered. James moved around the table, a pool stick in hand. He leaned over the table, lining up his shot. Another crack sounded as two balls hit, sending the solid orange three ball into the far corner pocket.
