I see his neck tighten. His whole stance shifts, just barely, from pissed-off cop to cornered animal.
“Watch yourself.”
“I am,” I say. “Very closely. Been watching all of you. The way you clean things up. The way people disappear and no one asks where.”
Silence, so I push it further. “Formal next Saturday, you know?” I keep it harmless, as if I’m just making conversation. “Funny how everyone’s talking about it. Like something’s gonna happen. Again.”
Rourke’s eyes darken.
“People say it feels like the same energy, you know? Full moon and all. History repeating itself.” I tilt my head. “Knotted hair girl and all that.”
His fist slams the desk so hard it rattles my chair.
“Her name was Cynthia, you little shit.”
I flinch—just a twitch. But he sees it. He has no idea I already know her name. No idea I know she was his girlfriend.
“What happened to her?” I ask.
Rourke stares me down. It’s like I just pulled a bone from somewhere I shouldn’t have been digging.
“People are saying she did it to herself,” I go on, softer now. “She bargained with The Pit, then it came to collect. Payback, right?”
His jaw is a clenched fist. “You think this is a game?” he asks. “You think you’re the first little punk to come digging for answers he can’t handle?” He gets right in my face. “You have no fucking idea what you’re playing with, St. Clair.”
I hold my ground.
Then he adds the one thing I wasn’t ready for. “Maybe you should ask your mother.” He lowers his voice. “They were best friends. Weren’t they?”
Twenty-Eight
NOW | SISK
The apartment door clicks open, and Jax steps inside, the muted sounds of the bar downstairs following him for a moment before the door seals them away again. He places the drinks on the coffee table with the detached precision of a waiter—single hand, eyes fixed somewhere beyond my shoulder. He is gone before the liquid settles in the glass, the apartment door clicking shut behind him.
I stare at the martini he’s placed in front of me. He didn’t bother to ask what I wanted. And sure, it’s exactly how I take it—three olives, extra dry. But it’s the presumption that rankles. The assumption that he knows me that well. I take a long sip anyway, the gin strong on my tongue.
“Well?” I say, setting the glass down with a soft click. “Go on. Ask.”
Lou leans forward, elbows on his knees, no hesitation whatsoever. “Okay, but I need specifics. Are the god-like bedroom skills holding up after all these years? Is he still doing that thing with his tongue that made you rethink all your life choices? Or has he retired that particular party trick?”
“Looooou,” I groan, dragging out the syllable.
“What? You said ask. That was my number one question.”
I roll my eyes toward the ceiling. “Not what I meant.”
He grins, all teeth and mischief. “Fine. What’s the damage?”
I lift my foot slightly and try to wiggle my toes in the brace. “PT and cross my fingers.”
The sparkle drains from Lou’s face. He lets out a long breath. “I’m really sorry, Sisk. But if there’s hope, there’s a way.”
I swallow against the sudden thickness in my throat. I look away, toward the streetlights bleeding through the window blinds.
“Did Jax somehow ask you to take care of the studio?” I ask, my tone turning serious. “He mentioned something, but I’ve barely been able to get him to answer anything.”
“He did—paid me, too.” Lou shifts on the chair. “I hesitated to take it, but you know how it is…”
