Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 301(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“As you shouldn’t,” Maureen said, pulling the knife away from my throat like nothing at all had happened. “Fucking assholes thinking they have a right to access any of us they want whenever they want us. You,” she said, pinning me again with her intense gaze. “You better keep my girl safe. Know you aren’t afraid to use… any means necessary,” she added, giving me a nod, making it clear she knew the details of my case.
“I will keep her safe.”
“And you,” she said, looking back at Whitney with narrowed us. “You don’t keep shit like this from me, you hear? I need to know if there’s some shady character I should be keeping an eye out for.”
“For now, if anyone is asking after me, just… don’t tell them anything, okay?” Whitney said.
“Mums the word. Okay. Get her home. She needs some rest,” Maureen said, nodding at me. “I got the rest of the side work. Shit looks slow. Slow means I’ll go stir crazy if I don’t have anything to do,” she added, cutting off Whitney’s objections.
“You ready?” I asked as Whitney grabbed her bag.
“Yeah,” she said, nodding, letting me press a hand to the small of her back to lead her out of the diner.
“Oh, forgot to mention this. Got a family member of mine crashing on the couch. He won’t bother you. He’s just there so I can keep an eye on his wound. He’s notorious for doing stupid shit like pouring fucking peroxide on it even though I’ve told him dozen fucking times not to do that. What?” I asked when Whitney shot me a smile.
“You sound kind of like a dad or uncle bitching about one of the youngins, is all,” she said.
“Wouldn’t have to if young and stupid didn’t always go so fucking hand-in-hand,” I said, shaking my head.
To that, she let out a twinkling sort of laugh.
“What’s his name?”
“Anthony. And he grumbles about everything. Doesn’t help that this is the third time in, what, two years that he’s been laid up at my place.”
“Geez. Is your life really that… dangerous? I mean, of course it can be, but…”
“Nah, babe. He’s just got shit luck. Seems like half of the incidents the Family has dealt with lately have come from him and shit involving him.”
I had no business telling her any of this.
But, then again, she was the last person in the world I expected would run their mouth about it. And not just because we were paying her for her silence.
“Well, that explains him being grumbly,” she said, shrugging. “He’s probably the baby, too, right?” she asked.
“That he is. His ma and sisters were by fussing over him already.”
“It’s good to have that,” she said, and there was a hint of wistfulness, of longing, in her tone.
She’d been so used to being the caretaker for so long. When had anyone ever taken care of her?
And why was my first fucking instinct to be that for her? When I knew damn well I wasn’t exactly the caretaking sort. I wasn’t soft like that.
But, still, the urge was there.
I guess taking her back to my place was part of that too, however much I wanted to dress it up to look simply like protection.
“Do you not have a car, or do you just prefer to walk?” she asked a few blocks later.
She wasn’t complaining, obviously, since she generally chose to walk as well.
“I have one. But traffic and parking suck. And walking helps you clear your head. What?” I asked.
“Says a man who doesn’t really need to worry about someone jumping out of the shadows and assaulting him.”
“Fucking ridiculous world we live in,” I agreed. “We have our own worries, being in the business we are in, but we chose that. We volunteered to live with that potential for danger. All you did was be born the ‘wrong’ gender. Here, this is me,” I said, steering her toward the steps to my building.
“This is a step up from that office you work out of,” she said, giving me a smirk.
“Don’t get yourself too excited. I’m not much of a decorator.”
And I wasn’t.
The guys and Alessa Morelli, when they came over to play cards, all teased me relentlessly about how “bare bones” my place was.
It was hard to explain to people who hadn’t been inside how much that shit fucked with your head.
You became institutionalized after a while. Used to shit being sparse. So much so that just having a couch was a massive luxury to me. The other shit—curtains and art—just didn’t really matter. And I wouldn’t know what to pick anyway.
I didn’t give much thought to it beyond their ribbing, but found myself oddly concerned about what Whitney would think about it as we made our way to the elevator.
Her own apartment reflected her personality and the fact that she’d clearly lived there happily for a long time. It was in the little details. The art. The extra blankets. The collection of trinkets.