“With a business to run. Your little trick yesterday cost me millions.”
“My little trick…” I trail off, because I don’t know how to finish the sentence. He won, yesterday. He crushed the Red Cap Raiders.
Wolf got what he wanted at Banque Wagner. And he gotwhat he wanted back here at the hotel. And he’ll get what he wants when he calls back my father, because everyone knows a nice Irish girl—not to mention a loyal mob princess—does exactly as her da commands.
I’m not a nice Irish girl.
“Do what you have to do,” I say. “Make whatever deal you want. But understand this: I will never be a willing fuck. Not if you’re my husband.”
He smirks.
The goddamn shitehawk smirks.
“Never,” I tell him. “From here on out, the only colorIsee is red.”
It’s impossible to slam a hotel door; they’re governed by slow-close hinges so neighboring guests can sleep through the night. But I can pound on the button for the elevator. And when the car takes too long to arrive, I can throw myself through the door to the staircase. And I can run, flight after flight after flight, ignoring how my thighs ache, how my breath catches, how my mind keeps snagging against memories of the worst choice I ever made in my life—submitting to Cole Fucking Wolf.
9
COLE
“Cole!” Linda Anderson calls from the back door of her brick bungalow. “Come down off that ladder. Supper’s on the table.”
“Give us a minute,” Mr. A shouts back. He’s footing the ladder. I still have three yards of gutters to clear.
“I swear, Evan. If you would just pay for gutter guards, you wouldn’t have to make this poor boy do your dirty work every spring.”
“And I suppose that lottery ticket you bought at the Safeway yesterday turned out to be a winner? Because that’s the only way gutter guards fit into this year’s budget.”
I scoop out a handful of rotting pine needles and drop them onto the tarp Mr. A has spread across the porch. I didn’t know Mrs. A buys lottery tickets. I file away the fact so I can use it later.
Truth be told, I’d forgotten it was the last Sunday of the month until my plane was somewhere over Pennsylvania. Icalled from the air, fully intending to lie my way out of dinner, but Mrs. A said her husband was about to climb up the ladder.
I couldn’t let the old man break his neck just because I’m debating whether to take on a multi-million-dollar job for a certified mob boss, when said job is conditioned on marrying his daughter. Whom I just spent the night disciplining. And who hates my guts. And who runs with a pack of hackers I’ve been trying to annihilate for years.
I drove out to the Andersons, only taking time to swap my Jaguar for the Toyota Camry I use for my monthly visits.
“Better come down, son,” Mr. A says after the back door closes. “You know how grumpy she gets when the mac and cheese get cold.”
I know how grumpyMr. A gets when a task is left undone. So I stay up on the ladder, stretching for the last three handfuls of needles. He sweeps up the glop, dumping it into a yard-waste can, while I carry the ladder back to the garage. I roll the can out to the curb, in time for tomorrow’s trash pick-up.
The physical work feels good, an antidote to the thoughts playing overtime in my head. I don’tneedLynch’s job. I should just tell him no. Find another client—or two or three—to replace the ones I’ve lost.
Marrying Kate is patently absurd. Marryinganyoneisn’t in my cards. Shannon’s string of conniving husbands and boyfriends taught me that, decades ago.
The work sink in the garage has a slow leak in the pipes. I make a mental note to fix that when I visit the Andersons next month. Drying my hands on a clean shop towel, I head into the house.
Mrs. A is fretting by the table. “I told that old man you’ll stop coming ’round to visit if he always puts you to work.”
I grin, because she’s been saying the same thing for fourteen years. “Gives me a chance to build up an appetite.” I’ve been sayingthatfor more than five.
Mrs. A has outdone herself this Sunday afternoon. There’sfried chicken and sliced ham, macaroni and cheese, green beans cooked with bacon, and gigantic bowls of potato salad, cole slaw, and a sweet-and-sour three-bean salad that only Mr. A will touch.
Mrs. A retired from her job at Thomas Jefferson Middle School two years ago, after a new principal made her life miserable. She’s desperate to fill the time she used to spend as administrative assistant to said principal. Cooking can only take so many hours. Same with knitting baby blankets for orphans. And filling bags at the food bank. And a dozen other things she’s taken on to get through her empty days.
“Are we expecting another six people?” I ask, which earns me a wink from Mr. A.
“I want to send you home with leftovers,” Mrs. A says. “I worry about you. Groceries have become so expensive.”
