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I glanced back at the half-completed tattoo. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” He let out a long breath. “Hope’s getting together with her sisters tonight to talk about everything they learned last night.”
The indirect mention of Faith made my neck muscles tense, but I forced my gaze to stay on the ink in front of me. I only knew what I’d gathered from listening, and I’d stubbornly refused to ask. “Yeah? Anything interesting?” Until now apparently.
Tobias gave an exhausted sigh. “It’s damn ridiculous what they’re having to deal with. That man was a prick.” He looked over when the door chimed and a new customer strolled in. “Now go before I change my mind.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. “Thanks, man.” I stood and ripped off my gloves as he moved away.
I cleaned up my work area, stowed the pig thigh in the fridge, and washed my hands. I pulled on my leather jacket and beanie before heading out into the chilly early evening.
Tucking my fists into my front pockets, I hesitated at the stairs to my apartment above the shop, knowing all that waited for me up there was Netflix and a box of mac-n-cheese.
“Fuck it.” Without giving it much more thought than that, I pivoted and started the four-block trek to Rudy’s bar. If Julio questioned how often I was hitting up a bar while on parole, the wings were killer and I wasn’t getting into trouble.
A few minutes later, I was in the bar’s parking lot. Not many cars, save a couple of pickup trucks and an older model black Cadillac. I pushed inside and was greeted by the sounds of glasses clinking, the dim roar of a football game, and the twang of a country tune. The scents of beer and fried food filled the air, and the glowing neon lights above the bar beckoned. It wasn’t crowded yet, as it was early on a Friday night—one couple swaying on the dance floor, two cowboys shooting a game of pool, and three guys at a booth by the bar. I’d learned never to give anyone my back, so I commandeered an empty stool at the bar with a view of the place, the three guys in my peripherals, and sat down, shrugging off my jacket.
The bartender, a widow that used to pay me to cut her grass when I was a kid, made her way over. “What’ll ya have, sweetheart?”
“Hey, Miss Bee,” I said. “A basket of wings with fries and a Bud Lite. Thanks.”
She popped her gum between her teeth and nodded, pouring up my draft and handing it to me before walking to the back to order my food.
I took a long sip, relishing the taste. As I set the glass down, I fought to relax. I studied the scarred-up bar in front of me, tried to focus on the ballgame on the TV. To the right, I was catching bits and pieces of the three men’s conversation. Something about a girl named Charlotte and needing to find her. It sounded urgent.
I needed to mind my own business. I took another drink.
A woman laughed. A melodic sound that kicked me in the gut.
Faith?
My head snapped up, searching for her automatically, like a fucking Pavlovian dog, my body tight and alert.
Of course, it wasn’t her. It was the woman on the dance floor nearby, laughing as she and her partner left the floor. He had his nose buried in her throat, making her laugh that same sweet, sultry laugh I’d heard once... a long time ago. I could still remember the way her eyes burned blue fire just for me. The scent of her luscious golden hair... sweet like sugary strawberries. How her perfect curves felt under my hands. The way she bit her lip, trying to hold back her cries of pleasure as she gave herself to me on what would become both the best and worst day of my life.
But sweet Faith McMasters didn’t belong in a place as menial as Rudy’s, and I thrived in shitholes like this. Therein lay the problem. I’d made it my mission in life to protect Faith McMasters at all costs, even if that meant protecting her from me.
“Shut the hell up!” one of the guys at the booth said, gaining my attention. “I don’t care if you think she’ll be back—”
“I told you, Jethro,” the other one said, interrupting him, leaning in for emphasis, his voice low and urgent. “The church was clear. Nothing.” His eyes darted around, and I quickly looked away and picked up my beer. “The townhouse on St. Peter’s was clean, too. I was just there.”
My sixth sense screamed and my entire body went on alert. Faith lived on St. Peters. They’d mentioned the church. Couldn’t be a coincidence.
The third guy, who’d stayed silent during the exchange while sipping his whiskey, finally spoke. “The boss says the girl gives up the cash or—” He made a cutting motion across his throat and gave a tiny half shrug, indicating he couldn’t care less about that result.
That’s when I recognized him.
Bastien Guidry.
Built like a brick house, skin as black as night, and a soul to match. And, more importantly, a big fish in Cyrus Pittman’s criminal empire. I’d know because I was once a tiny minnow in that pond.
The girl gives up the cash, or—
Blood rushed to my brain as the realization set in.
Faith hadn’t been mugged. She’d been a target. What the fuck?
And if Guidry was involved in any way, that meant nothing good for Faith. I gulped down a breath as I fought to control my urge to grab him by the throat, and instead weighed my options. Go to the cops or intervene.
