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To Asher’s credit, he doesn’t disappoint. By the time I’m at the front of the car, so is he, with not one but two guns in his hands. “Damn SEALs,” I murmur as I join him. “Always showing off.”
“Always showing up,” he counters. “Considering what a Rambo you are, I’m not sure how you made it without us.”
“Sucking my thumb in a corner, crying,” I say, and I’m already charging up the sidewalk, my strides long, my body bulldozing right to the door, where I kick the fucker in.
About sixty seconds later, I’m holding a gun on Tag, who’s sitting in a recliner in the middle of a cozy living room. My damn father is on the footstool in front of him attending to some wound on his arm. In about thirty seconds, I’m across the couch, pointing a gun at Tag’s head, while four assholes point guns in my direction. Wes Casey isn’t one of them. I don’t know any of these men beyond them being douchebag killers who work for Tag. Asher is behind the couch with his guns, pointing left and right.
“Asher,” Tag says, his bruised lip swollen, from my fist last night. “How about we talk about how much money you could be making?”
“He’s dripping money,” I say. “But not blood. Yet. We can fix that right now.”
“Son,” my father warns.
I don’t look at him. “That’s the last time you live to call me that.” I step directly in front of Tag and press the barrel of my Glock to his forehead, giving the room my back. A silent message that tells them I’m not afraid of them and I trust Asher. That means they should fear Asher.
“Where’s Wes?”
“Plotting your murder,” he says. “Which is why I kept him away from you. He’s not here.”
“Where the fuck is Wes?”
“The moment you see Wes again will be the moment before you die. Do your job. Unless you’re waiting until he bangs your woman. I mean, maybe you get off thinking about another man inside her.”
I can almost feel the room bristle in fear of what might come next. They all think he’ll break me, but I look into that man’s eyes, and he into mine, and we both know—he knows—he can’t.
“Talk never gets me off,” I say softly, a lethal quality to my tone, even to my own ears. “You want me to kill Honest Gabe. Wes dies first.”
“No deal,” he says. “You owe me.”
“He jacked off on my woman’s bed,” I bite out, my tone as cutting as the knife I will one day use on his throat. “Even you know how off-limits that is. Deal with him or I will, which means I’m not dealing with Gabriel.” I lower my weapon and holster it. “There is no negotiation on this. The next time you see me, if he’s not gone, everyone in this house right now will be.” I don’t turn, but I speak to his cohorts. “And if anyone in this room thinks I didn’t see their faces, or that I can’t find you again, ask your pimp daddy here about my ability to forget no one.” I pause for effect. “And kill everyone. There’s a reason he’s a sour puss over losing me. And there’s a reason he wants me dead. Because he knows I’m the one most likely to kill him.” I glance down at my father. “You’re dead to me.”
“Son, he told me—”
I turn and start walking toward the door, my strides just as long on the path out as they were on my way up the sidewalk. Asher lingers a few beats after me, backing up with guns drawn all the way down the driveway. Because he doesn’t get it. Tag never allows dirty shit to go down when he’s present. Because Tag doesn’t want to die. But he will die, and it’s going to be brutal. Because I now have to go back to my woman and explain Wes to her. And yes, that will make her fear Wes, but more so, it’s going to do what deep down I’ve never wanted to do: it’s going to make her scared of me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Candace
Adrian sits at the piano in the middle of the fancy suite we’re now occupying on the highest floor of the Hotel Emma. He’s not silent. Ever. Much like Rick, the man is one big ball of huge personality. Presently, he’s playing Chopsticks while I’m thinking that this expensive apartment at the top of a hotel, is about security, which translates to danger. It’s a given, considering this night but nevertheless, I’m nervous about Rick’s silence for the past two hours. And the Chopsticks are chopping at those nerves. “Stop, Adrian,” I order, settling a hand on top of the piano. “No more Chopsticks. It’s making me crazy.” I sound like a bitch. The man is protecting me. “I’m sorry.” I hold up my hands. “I don’t mean to be on edge. Am I on edge? I think I am. Of course, I am. In my head I already know I’m on edge.” I press my hands to my face and then drop them. “I sound like a crazy bitch. I’m just worried about Rick. I’d better walk away before you hate me and I deserve it, which would suck because you are a nice guy who doesn’t deserve a bitch to protect.” I turn and walk onto the balcony and into the cool wet night—at least cool for Texas in November—that never materialized into a stormy night, and can almost feel my hair turn into a frizz ball on my head. Thus is the life of a Texan. I sit down on the cushy chairs next to the fireplace. I wonder what life in New York City would be like. I wonder if that’s what Rick wants. Is that what I want? I almost laugh at myself. I want him. That’s what I want.
