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“Apparently not.” I scratch my chin and blindly look ahead.That’s a good sign, right?
In her shoes, I’d have gotten the hell out of Dodge, that’s for fucking sure.
Steam eddies around the fender of Lucas’s SUV as the heat clashes with the intense cold—it’s almost enough to make me miss L.A., but the cold is good. It keeps me aware. Keeps my agitation contained.
From behind the wheel of our ride, Lucas checks the clock on the dash. “What do you bet they started fucking when he took off for a shower?”
My lips twitch even though the adrenaline inside me is demanding I make shit right with Belle, and that isn’t going to happen if Aidan gets waylaid in the shower by his bride.
After how I spent the last few days, I empathize with the man, but now ain’t the time for sex.
Antsy, I pace the sidewalk. With last night’s snowfall, it’s fucking frigid, but the temperature’s keeping me in line as I wait for my boss to finally show up.
“You like her, don’t you?”
I shoot Lucas an incredulous look. “Which part of this mess made you think I didn’t?”
“I dunno. You’re never serious about women.”
“Neither are you.”
“Yeah, but you’re worse. You ain’t interested in womenorwork.”
“Whereas you’re all about overachieving.”Suck-up.I narrow my eyes at him and try not to find enjoyment in the bruises I landed on his face. We never fight, so that was a long time coming. I should probably feel bad but I don’t. He enjoyed lighting into me as much as I did with him.
“Might as well aim high,” he says dismissively, peering at the massive skyscraper beside us. “Da wanted more for us. That’s why they moved here. I’m only living up to his wishes.”
“Whether or not you got me the job, I’m as high in the ranks as I can be,” I grumble, sensing his disapproval. “What do you want me to do, Lucas? What more can I goddamn do?”
It’s not that I need his approval, but his judgmental tone is starting to piss me the fuck off.
“I guess I want what I can’t have.”
At his words, my head whips around so I can look at him. My nostrils flare in response because I know what he’s thinking, know it even if he doesn’t utter a word—he wishes I’d died. Not Vinny.
My expression flatlines. I lock down. Bitterness unfurls inside me, but I don’t react. What’s the point?
Hedoeswant what he can’t have.
I’m here, Vinny ain’t, and I’m tired of taking the blame for something that happened when I was a kid. I’m over knowing that my family would prefer Vinny to be the brother who survived and not me.
My hands ball into fists as I rasp, “I didn’t hogtie him into the car. I didn’t cuff his hands to the wheel. I didn’t hold him at gunpoint. He loved it. You should have heard his laughter when he took off.” I could hear it, like a ghostly whisper in the wind. That, in itself, makes me wonder if it’s Vinny haunting my ass because in New York, you don’t hear “whispers.” It’s so fucking noisy that you could miss a goddamn foghorn if you aren’t concentrating. “He loved it,” I repeat. “No, he didn’t think it would kill him, but some people are like that, Lucas. Some people prefer to live fast and die young. That was Vinny.
“Whether you choose to believe that or not isn’t down to me,” I continue. “I’m telling you he wanted to be there. I’m telling you we were in that together. I ain’t to blame for his death—”
I’ve never uttered those words out loud before.
Ever.
For a second, I simply stare at him, bewildered by the admission.
I’ve always blamed myself and have always felt guilt, but it wasn’t my fault.
It wasn’t.
I was a kid. So was he.
Kids fuck up.
