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69
Fiona
Ihated Jack Pollari.
I was lying in the guest bedroom thinking about last night. Thinking about his hands on me… about his mouth on mine… about the feel of his cock in my hand, between my thighs, inside me…
But then I’d flash back to what he’d said to Fordham, the DEA Agent: What about paying him to cover up a shooting?… the murder of Fiona’s cousin.
And then I wanted to put a gun to the side of his head and pull the trigger.
I hated him…
…and I wanted him. And I couldn’t help myself.
The best man I’d ever met, and he was still no goddamn good.
But then I’d hear Sloane (that fucking tramp) and her stupid Southern drawl: Whatever he might have done to you… he’s a good man. Trust me when I say that.
The worst of it was, I knew she was right.
But there was no way I could forgive him.
And so I lay there in hell, caught between wanting to feel him beside me, on top of me, kissing me, inside me… and wishing he went to jail for the rest of his life.
Suddenly there was a loud banging on my door. Wham wham wham!
I jerked upright, automatically grabbing for my gun on the nightstand. “What the fuck?!”
“Get dressed, we gotta go,” Jack’s muffled voice came from the other side of the door.
“Why?!”
“Sloane called. She thinks Lou’s sending a hit squad.”
Oh shit –
I scrambled out of bed and pulled on my jeans, boots, and a jacket, grabbed my ID and credit cards and stuffed them in my back pocket, shoved my phone in my front pocket, and picked up my .38.
There was something else… something I was forgetting…
My photo album, over on the dresser.
I reached out to take it, then stopped.
I couldn’t very well go running around carrying it with me.
Even if someone breaks in, nobody will take it, I reasoned. Eddie had only taken it because it would have told everybody who I was. But now they all know.
As I left it on the dresser, I said a silent prayer: Keep it safe for me, Ali.
And keep me safe, too.
Then I opened the door.
70
Jack
