Page 128 of Gangsters and Guns


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Chapter Fifty-One

RORY

I’m growing to fucking hate Mondays.

They come every week like a disease, infecting my mood. The hatred starts Sunday night, knowing Monday is approaching. The weekends seem to blur, my hours of actually relaxing almost nonexistent. When the alarm blares at five AM on Mondays, my eyes feel like they’re filled with sand and my body drags as if I’d been building one of the fucking pyramids all weekend long.

I guess it could be worse…

Working for the handsome Dixen men does have its perks, but shit, it’s hard to be professional around them when I’ve done such intimate things with them all.

I can’t even appreciate their sinful good looks, their domineering stares, or the way they undress me with their eyes, not right now while my fucking life is on the line.

Images of the deceased motel manager are plastered everywhere. It’s all over the local news and newspapers, and even now, it’s showing up in my newsfeed on my phone, as if he’s taunting me from beyond the grave. Rogan, Maddox, and Alistair have assured me they will take care of everything, and even though I know they probably can, until I see it with my own eyes, I won’t believe it. Call me faithless, but after the life I’ve lived, you would be too.

I’ve come to learn that he had no immediate family, no wife or kids, so the guilt of his murder no longer affects me. It’s the life sentence for murder that now weighs on my shoulders.

I’ve already eaten, fed Mischief, and finished curling my hair. I’m wearing it down today. The dark locks look striking against the pale pink dress set out for me. Though the stretchy dress has long sleeves and reaches to mid-calf, it’s anything but modest. It’s skintight, forcing me to forgo panties, and the neckline dips low, showing off ample cleavage. At least there was a bra waiting for me today, and I have to admit, the girls look fucking good.

Standing, I adjust myself and fasten pearl earrings on my ears and a matching necklace around my neck, then I slip on my long, suede jacket and head to my car. I try to distract myself from the murder with blaring music, but nothing helps.

Once I’m at the office, I attempt to keep busy. I stock all the paper and check all the ink in the printers. I make a fresh pot of coffee for Maddox and bring it to him, grateful he’s on a call and I don’t have to talk to him, because what would I even say?

Oh, hey uhh…wanna go for a jog in the woods?

Or even better…

Ever have to cover up a murder for your personal assistant before?

Probably not, since she was an older woman…though you never know. Shaking my head, I plop down on my desk chair and open my laptop when I hear the elevator doors ding, indicating someone has arrived. The Dixens are all here, and I furiously tap on the computer to bring up the schedule, cursing myself that I’ve forgotten yet another appointment.

Only…there’s nothing there.

What the…

Heavy footsteps near my door, and I flick my gaze up just in time to see a police officer walk past carrying a large, white box with the wordsMotel Murderscrawled across the side in black marker. My jaw fucking drops, and my heart pounds against my ribs. Instantly, my hands become clammy and my life flashes before my eyes.

He’s here for me. To take me away. I just fucking know it.

I slam my hands down on my desk in anger. I fucking knew I should have run when I had the chance, and now it’s fucking over.

I’ll never see Mischief again. I’ll never get to tell the guys how much they mean to me, to tell Alistair that I adore the man he is, to see Rogan’s walls continue to crumble, to let Maddox know I embrace the dark side of him.

Now I’ll never get the fucking chance.

I grab my coat and purse, then rush to my door, but I pause when I hear Rogan’s voice. “That’s all of it?” he asks.

“Every single speck of evidence,” the police officer replies. “Now where’s my money?”

There’s a moment of silence, and I peek around the corner as Rogan hands the officer a very fat manilla envelope. The officer slides it inside his jacket and zips it up, tips his hat to Rogan, and turns to leave. I scurry back into my office and plaster myself against the wall, trying to become invisible.

But the strangest thing happens…the officer doesn’t come for me.

No arrests. No reading of my rights. He simply strolls past my office and heads down to the elevators.

What. The. Fuck.

Confusion and terror wars inside of me, but I swallow my fear, put my big girl panties on, and march right into Rogan’s office. He’s sifting through the box like it’s a new present he just opened on Christmas morning, as if he’s not holding my very life between his fingers.

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