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"I'm coming with you," Amy said. Then, she proceeded to get dressed herself in something hot – a black dress that looked great against her blonde hair. She applied her makeup quickly like a pro, and within half an hour, we were out the door and into her little Austin on our way to the waterfront where I would once again try to get past the bouncer.
By the time we got there, the lineup was even longer than before and so Amy and I stood at the end and talked while we waited for the line to move. It was slow going. The place was popular and was one of the in-spots on a weekend night.
The weather was warm and the sounds coming from the depths of the club made my heart rate increase. What would Hunter think when he saw me? Would he even be there or would this be a total waste of time?
By the time we got to the front of the line, the bouncer looked us over and motioned inside with his jaw. He didn’t recognize me, and I was happy I took Amy's advice and changed clothes.
We entered the building and made our way past the cashier where we paid the cover charge and then went inside. The EDM was blaring, the fog machines were pumping out the fog on the dance floor and laser lights bounced off the walls.
Amy turned to me, a frown on her face. "You look like you've seen a ghost.
I hadn't seen a ghost.
I'd seen Hunter.
Hunter Saint. The middle brother of three. The Fighting Irish Saint Brothers, they were called by those in the business.
All six feet four inches of gorgeous Hunter Saint.
There he sat on a sofa on a raised dais in the rear of the huge room. He leaned back, his arms on the back of the sofa, his legs spread, surveying the club like he owned the world. Beside him sat an equally well-dressed man leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He was speaking to Hunter and Hunter nodded occasionally, lifting a glass of some beverage to his mouth every now and then. On the sofa beside Hunter sat a beautiful blonde and her friend, who were leaning close and talking to each other.
She must be Hunter's most current fuckbuddy. Despite everything, a surge of jealousy filled me.
Hunter looked just as drop-dead hunky as the last time I saw him. His hair was a bit longer, but there was nothing that could disguise that fair skin, pale blue eyes with thick lashes and chiseled features. Impossibly handsome with a touch of boyish beauty that made my heart skip a beat.
Pretty Boy Saint was his nickname when he fought in the MMA circuit when he was younger, before he finished his MBA and joined the Marines.
The last time I saw him at the funeral for Sean, Hunter was still in the Marines and had his hair buzzed so short on the sides you could see his scalp. Whitewalls the Marines called it.
Now, his hair was longer, below his collar, tucked behind his ears. He looked like what he was – a wealthy owner of a mobbed-up business in South Boston.
When I last saw him, he was on leave for the funeral, and still had that upright straight and narrow look to him like the red-blooded American hero that he was. Soon after the funeral, Hunter got out of the Marines on compassionate grounds to take over the business in Sean's place. Mr. Saint, their father, had suffered a heart attack a few years earlier and Sean had been the manager instead of him, but with Sean dead, Hunter had to step in.
Conor was no manager and was busy with the Olympic boxing circuit, so it was left to Hunter to take over.
I knew how much Hunter must have hated that. He had wanted to take the family business out of the bad influences in Boston – the family mafia ties in other words.
Now, he was in the middle of it.
It had been over a year since Sean died and I wondered how things had gone for Hunter and his dream to make his family's business completely legit. I doubted much had happened to change that, but I knew that was Hunter's eventual goal. According to Spencer, the Saints were still involved in money laundering for the Russian mob, and were still tied into the protection racket.
Hunter never wanted that for himself.
What a nightmare…
Now, I was supposed to go up to him with all that between us, and ask him for one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to save my brother's – and possibly my life.
"I need a drink," I said and turned to Amy. "Preferably a double."
"Coming right up," she said and pulled me over to the bar.
"Two Margaritas, doubles," she said to the bartender.
"Two Margaritas coming up, doubles for the pretty ladies," the bartender said, winking at me. We watched him pour the drinks and then place them on the bar for us. I took mine and drank half of it down in one gulp.
"Hey," Amy said, laughing. "Slow down. We have time."
"I need liquid courage."
