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“She’s mine. She won’t be a problem.”
“You can guarantee that there won’t be a single problem from this?” he asks although it’s evident he already has an answer. Like he can sense the problems that will arise.
“She isn’t a problem at all. More than that…” I pause as I decide to give him the intel she gave me yesterday, even though I haven’t read it all yet.
“There’s a former resident at the center your girl works at—Delilah something—she has drawings of the places Marcus took her.” His sharp eyes narrow at me, as if I’ve been keeping back information. He can fuck off with that.
“I’m going through the notebook but it’s old. Laura’s got more and she’s bringing them today. I’m going through them, with Declan of course.”
“Declan knows?” The fact that Declan’s in on it has the hair that must’ve risen on the back of his neck falling back into place.
“Of course,” I answer and give him a knowing look. “I talked to him before he left the meeting. He said not to transfer anything digitally. So I’ll mark the pages I think may be worth a damn and give them to him.”
“I’m curious to see if anything is relevant,” Jase says easily, his shoulders relaxing for the first time since he’s entered this damn bar.
“I know it’s been tense with the shit Walsh and Marcus have been pulling. You don’t have to question where my loyalty lies.”
“It’s not your loyalty I’m worried about.”
“What is it then?” I ask him straight up. I need to put this to bed. Jase breathes in deeper, looking more tired than he has in a long damn time.
He shakes his head, which renews a surge of irritation. “There’s something I haven’t told you.” He talks as he runs his hand down his face.
“Is that right?”
“We got a message from Marcus. Mailed with no return address, no postage or prints… It’s his handwriting though. Something about Fletcher’s right-hand man.”
Hearing the name Fletcher sends a trail of unease down my spine.
“When?” I ask.
I’m answered with a question of his own. “Who’s Fletcher?” He adds, “Yesterday. Just after you left.”
“A dead man,” I answer him. “Fletcher is long dead and in the ground. Can I see the note?” I ask, letting him know I remember where my place is in this organization. I’ll make demands when it comes to Laura, but for business? It’s up to them. I don’t want to be in charge. I’m not interested anymore.
Reaching into his back pocket, he hands me the folded note:
Which will it be? Fletcher’s right-hand man? Or Laura’s father?
My stomach sinks and a cold wash of reality hits me hard. He knows. Marcus knows. Every hair stands upright on the back of my neck. Jase takes in every small change in my body language while reading that note. I know he does. The clenched jaw and difficulty staying still. I know he sees it all.
“What does it mean: Which will it be?” I ask him, repeating Marcus’s question. It’s harder and harder to breathe with this fucking tie on.
“I don’t know but do you see why I’m concerned now?”
Laura
The door doesn’t open slowly, it’s wrested open with intent and impatience.
The wind wails behind me, blowing past my shoulders and slipping into the sides of Seth’s open jacket. It’s a dark gray today, slim fit and accompanied with a black leather belt that probably costs more than the most expensive pair of shoes I own. I’m not cheap with my shoes either.
With a shiver tickling my shoulders, I pull the delicate cardigan tighter around me.
“You’re early,” he says as his tone and posture change, softening. The harsh grip he had on the door slowly slips and that makes my breath catch. That the sight of me could do that to him.
“Who did you think I was?” I ask, realizing his greeting was meant for someone else. “You were expecting someone?”
“No one… but you’re never early.” He’s displaying more than a five o’clock shadow. He must not have shaved this morning. “Come in,” he tells me, opening the door and holding it until I pass through, walking past him with each heavy and foreboding step. The roar of the fire in the living room straight ahead isn’t the only sound I’m picking up on. There’s also the steady thumping in my chest, harder than I’ve ever heard it.
Maybe it wishes to flutter and skip for the man behind me. The man who places his large hand at my hip, squeezing gently until he presses his hard chest to my back.
Thump, thump. The beat in my chest rages against my rib cage. If only I hadn’t taken that pill, I know how wild my heart would be for him. Caged but uncontained.
He lowers his lips to the shell of my ear and I focus my sight on the fire; I barely noticed it yesterday. The flickers of yellow and orange flames slip through black stones in the modern fireplace. There’s no wood, no fuel to speak of, but it roars intensely.
