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Noah looks away, sighing and running his hand through his short, blonde hair. When he finally looks back at me, I see his decision. He makes no apology, instead just carries on as if the conversation never even happened.
“The Lawlers broke out on their own around three years ago, just before Theo was murdered, after a falling out with him. Nobody seems to know about what, and as you know there is no love lost between the Lawlers and Rogers. In fact, there are a number of people that believe they ordered the hit on Theo.” I arch a brow at that. “You don’t think so?” When I don’t respond, Noah continues, “They own several businesses, including the nightclub Rogue. On paper, all of them seem legit, with the exception of The Scarlet Door strip club down in Soho.” No strip club is ever truly legit in my experience. Noah hands me a list of businesses that Maddox and Zak either own outright or own shares in. As I scan the paper, my eyes stop on the name of a tattoo shop, Limitless Ink, which I had no idea they owned.
“Got themselves quite the little enterprise,” I surmise, laying the paper back on the table and picking up my coffee. Taking a sip, my eyes catch on Noah watching me from across the table, and I quickly pick up several photos that Noah has laid out.
I flick through them, taking a note of any I don’t know, which isn’t many. Each and every one of them are wanted in connection with a series of crimes from dealing to murder. I stop on a photo of Rogers shaking hands with a guy I don’t recognise.
“Who is this guy?” I ask, flipping the photo round to show Noah.
“We haven’t been able to identify him.”
The photo is of the two of them meeting outside one of the restaurants that the Rogers’ family own. They appear to know each other well, as the photo shows them embracing.
“He seems to be important. Let’s focus on finding out who he is. I’ll ask around. I’ll stay off grid for the rest of this week, let things settle a little before showing my face.” I scan over the rest of the pictures. “How’d you get these of Rogers and this guy?”
“A stringer who’s been on our radar for the last few months. And I imagine they are on Rogers’ too after one of their previous videos showed Rogers at the site of what later turned out to be the scene of a murder.”
“And you don’t know who it is?” Stringers can be a blessing and a curse. Freelance journalists or photographers, think Peter Parker, who manage to obtain otherwise out of reach information. It’s great if you have a reliable one working with you, but an anonymous one, well, that’s a major headache.
“No, not yet.” I let out a low hum and hand the photos back to Noah.
Finishing my coffee, I gather my bag ready to leave when Noah’s next words halts my departure.
“I’ll have your back, Roxy, but don’t expect me to be happy with what you’re doing. I know they have something on you, otherwise you’d never have thrown your career away like you have.”
“Bye, Noah, and let me know when you find the stringer and identify who that guy with Rogers is.” I walk away, shoving my sunglasses on as I exit the backstreet cafe.
Outside the sun is setting, and I quickly make it back to my car as the last rays of sun disappear behind a tower block.
I take a little detour on my way home and pass by the tattoo shop from Noah’s list. I’m surprised to see a light on inside and pull over a little way up the road. I reposition my rear-view mirror so that the shop is in sight. I can see that it’s actually two shops, but on one side the windows have been blacked out. There’s nothing special about it, and it’s fairly nondescript. Other than the name, there is nothing to give away what the shop is.
As I sit and watch the shop, I absent-mindedly run a hand over my left rib cage where my first tattoo sits and acts as a constant reminder to never trust anyone but myself again. Seventeen-year-old me really isn’t so different to twenty-seven-year-old me. Sure, I’m older and supposedly wiser, and I’m certainly no longer so damn naive. But I’m still angry. I’m still hurting, although I don’t show it or even admit it most of the time.
A hurt as deep as the one left by Maddox and Zak isn’t easy to forget or to heal. Time just can’t heal some wounds, and the scars those two boys left behind are jagged and raw. I know that every moment spent with them, near them, will rip them open again and again.
I switch the engine back on and shift the car into gear ready to pull away, but as I go to adjust my mirror back into position, a young girl, maybe early twenties, exits the shop. She’s alone, and I watch as she locks up before heading off up the street.
On the way home, I can’t keep my mind from running wild with questions about who she is. Is she just an employee? Or is she something more to one of them? Both of them?
I’ve heard the rumours over the years of how they like to share. Hell, at one point I could have been that girl. My teenage brain and rampant hormones had literally dreamt about it, wished for it, and I know it wasn’t all one-sided. I’d seen the way they looked at me, felt the buzz beneath my skin whenever we touched, and I’d even shared a kiss, my first kiss, with Maddoxthatnight.
Pulling up outside my house, I turn the engine off and drop my head back to the headrest with my eyes shut. A vision of Maddox and I laying on his bed swims behind them. The sweet smell of weed lingers in the air and on our clothes, and when he leans forward and his lips meet mine, I can taste alcohol and smoke. The combination is heady, and I remember the thrum between my legs as his tongue dipped inside, brushing against mine.
The moment was broken by a phone ringing, and it takes me a second to realise that my phone is actually ringing too. The vision blurs away as I focus my eyes on my lit-up phone sitting in its holder on the dash.
Snatching it up, I climb from the car and make my way inside, flicking lights on as I go. The hair on the back of my neck rises as I walk into the kitchen, and I know I’m not alone.
I don’t bother with the light, it’s not like I need it to see who it is. I already know. The tell-tale scent of cedar and smoke gave him away, and if it hadn’t then the tense and dark atmosphere blanketing my kitchen would have.
“You think that little stunt you pulled with the press was a good idea? ‘Cause I fucking don’t. It’s not what we discussed.”
I drop my phone onto the counter and grab a glass. Completely ignoring his question, I fill the glass with water, gulping it down before I turn around and face him.
He’s leaning against the fridge freezer beside the back door, dressed in a damn suit with his hands in his pockets and a layer of dark scruff covering his face. He could almost be mistaken for some hotshot CEO, and I guess he is. Except his business is not of the conventional, corporate kind. No, his is more on the scale of corruption and dead bodies.
“I don’t really give a shit whether you think it was a good idea or not. And I don’t remember a discussion, more of a ‘this is what you’re going to do’ conversation. Besides, I told you that I choose me, Maddox.” I spin back around, this time reaching for something a little stronger. I’m going to fucking need it with him here. In my space, in such close proximity that just breathing the same air as him has every synapse in my brain firing a dozen memories at me I’d rather forget.
Pouring a healthy measure of vodka into the glass, I become all too aware of him moving closer behind me as I bring the glass to my lips.
