Текст книги "Devil Smoke"

Автор книги: Max Henry

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BILLS

Ryan

I lean against the window frame as Tommy gets up, the dark-haired stranger he was talking to heading toward the house also. I’ve seen him before at the Red Lion, always at the bar with Horse, talking over a cold beer. He’s beautiful in that hard-headed boxer way: a crooked nose, sharp jaw, and tapered shoulders alluding to one strong-set body under that dark T-shirt he’s rocking.

Exactly my type.

And completely off-limits.

Gunter flanks the two of them, shoving Tommy every so often, making him stumble in his fucked up show of ‘brotherly love’. The asshole makes me seething mad, picking on his little brother to make himself seem tougher and to make the kid supposedly look up to him. The thick headed idiot doesn’t get it; he doesn’t have to do a thing and Tommy will always look to him for guidance. After all, Gunter’s his big brother—they’re family. But what am I going to do? Front up to Gunter about it? And then what? Get kicked out of Gunter’s bed and be searching for somewhere else to live rent-free? Don’t think so.

The guy from the Lion steps through the doors that lead to the deck, catching my eye as he passes through the living area, heading toward the front of the house. I frown at him, holding his gaze until he’s forced to look away or show that he’s obviously checking out Gunter’s girl—a guaranteed way to start a fight. His wide back flexes, his body twisting at his narrow waist to edge past a couple who are arguing in the doorway.

He’s built, handsome, and oddly intriguing, but still none of my business. Not if I’d like him kept alive anyway, and I kind of would. I kind of enjoy having man candy with a head of hair to look at.

A strong arm wraps around my waist, tugging me off balance and on to thick thighs as we crash to the seat together. “What you looking at?” Gunter whispers in my ear, the promise of what he’d do if the answer weren’t what he wanted lurking on the surface like tar over the ocean.

“Just those two lovebirds arguing over there.”

He bends to look around me, spotting the pair going at it across the room. “Pussy needs to slap her one, remind her who’s in charge,” he hisses, relaxing into the seat.

Gunter’s answer for everything—‘just slap the bitch’. Learned that the hard way after I disagreed with him for the first time.

“Where you off to, Tommy?” I ask, hoping to distract Gunter from mauling me, which by his wandering hands I’m guessing he’s intent on doing anyway.

“No idea,” Tommy says, tugging his black bomber jacket on. “Out.” He matches the zip and tugs it up two thirds of the way up.

“Don’t be too long,” I say. “You owe me a game of Dirty Pint.”

Gunter laughs behind me, his large hands pulling my back tighter to his chest. “Yeah, Tommy. You going to win this time? Or is my girl here going to drink you under the table again?”

Tommy gives me a friendly smile, quickly losing it by the time he looks over my shoulder to Gunter. “Guess we’ll just have to see.” He offers us a wave and heads out the front of the house to join Easy.

“You ready to leave, soon?” Gunter whispers in my ear, his hot bourbon-laced breath tickling my neck.

“We just got here,” I protest, looking outside through the window to our left. “I haven’t seen any fights yet.” More like, I haven’t spent enough time looking at the guy from the Lion yet.

He growls, placing an open hand squarely on the far side of my face as I continue to stare at the dancing hues of the fire. Gunter pulls me toward him until I tip off balance, my temple pressing against his forehead. “Woman,” he growls as his fingers flex against my cheek. “It’s fucking hot how much you love the fights.”

“You just think it’s hot how much I love it when you fight,” I remind him. It’s the truth, though. I do love it. His strength is my weakness.

The man’s six-foot-one of pure rock. As long as I’ve known Gunter, his pastimes have consisted of working out, or working his frustrations out . . . over some poor schmuck’s face. He’s a fighter, thick in the skull, and solid in the body. It’s what his DNA made him to be, and he embraces that with all the loveless hate of the brute that he is.

It’s raw, primal, and male, and I’m not ashamed to say it’s a fucking huge turn-on. Which is lucky, because there isn’t a single other feature about the asshole that I like.

He pulls my head around, breaking my thoughts, and places a possessive kiss to my lips, making it clear that I’m his. My body might be, but my mind is anything but. Call me weak, or call me an opportunist, but make sure you also call me smart, because I know how to keep myself safe, and sharing a bed with pure evil is a guarantee of protection I need amongst these men. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do to save from ending up back on the street, shivering in the corner of an alley, and totally out of my depth when it comes to how to survive. I might not like the people around me much, but I’m still grateful for what they gave me—life.

“Something on your mind?” Gunter asks, running his fingers over the side of my neck.

I lean into his touch, trapping his fingers and stilling them. “I catch myself thinking sometimes, wondering what would it be like if I didn’t have you to look out for me.” It’s the honest truth, but I’m not as concerned about it as he’d like to think. If push came to shove I’m could look after myself, but it’s a situation I’d like to avoid if I can.

“Never letting you out of my sight, girl, so don’t waste your time thinking about the what ifs.” He pulls me down, tucking my head to his chest to signal the conversation is over, but as I close my eyes and listen to the steady beat of his heart, my mind refuses to part with the memories so quickly. I squint harder, trying to press the words into the darkest corner of my mind, but he’s there, talking, telling me things I still believe he meant. Even now.

“Go to your room, sweetheart.”

I look up to the face of a man I love like a father, a man I know would never hurt me. “Why?”

“I gotta talk to your parents for a while—adult stuff.”

I scowl at him, frustrated that he still treats me like a child. I’m a teenager now, a young adult. I’m almost a woman. Why can’t he see it? “You’re not being fair.”

“Life’s not fair, sugar. Now be a good girl and go to your room, and Ryan?”

I turn back to him, this big, bad man that my daddy tells me people are afraid of. Yet I can’t see it—I never do. “What?”

“No matter what you hear, you stay in your room. Don’t come out until I holler for you. And if I don’t, and you get scared, then you run. You don’t come in here, you don’t look back—you just run away, okay?”

I frown, confused. Why would he want me to run? But my questions are cut short, the words forever held in my throat as my parents re-enter the living room carrying beer and snacks. I look to my mom, my dad, and something twists in my chest, an emotion I’ve never felt before. I’m afraid—for them. But still, the man beside me loves me, and he treats me like his daughter. We’re safe with him; we always have been. “I think I might go to bed,” I announce to the room, looking the big, bad wolf right in the eye.

“Okay, honey. I’ll be up to see you soon.” My mother smiles, making me a promise she’ll never keep. Only she doesn’t know it yet. She’s ignorant to the danger staring us right in the eye.

I leave the room, aware I’m walking away from more than a simple family meeting, but what can I do?

After all, I’m just a kid.

Twelve years ago, I thought my life was over for good. I’d lost everything: my mother, my father, and any slim hope I’d had at ever living a ‘normal’ civilian life. The news reported it as a ‘home invasion’ gone wrong. What they didn’t know was that there was no invasion—that the man was welcomed into our house with open arms.

He was, after all, family—my Uncle Harris. He wasn’t a biological uncle, but my father had treated him as blood since before I was born. He would recount tales of the trouble him and Harris got up to in their youth: riding their dirt bikes illegally, stealing dollar sodas from the local grocer, and earning money by selling cigarettes Harris took to school to the other kids. The two of them spent every summer together, forming a friendship so tight it spanned through their adult years, even though their paths went in vastly different directions after graduation.

If you believed the spin the papers had on the home invasion story, Harris had come in to our house looking for cash, and when my parents failed to co-operate, he murdered the ‘working-class couple’ before setting fire to the place to cover his tracks. After all, why would a man who knew the inside of the local prison intimately be associating with people who didn’t have so much a speeding ticket to their name? Narrow minded doesn’t begin to explain what those reporters were.

But, when there’s only speculation and hearsay, it’s easy for the media to create the most obvious explanation for something so brutal and shocking. One thing I’ve learnt in my short life is that nothing is ever what it seems at face value. If the answers are too readily found, or the explanation too obvious, chances are there’s something else hidden in the corners that needs to be uncovered.

On that particular night, the thing in the corner of our yard was me. And the man who uncovered me barely surviving on the street three days later was a thug by the name of Hank the Shank—Tommy and Gunter’s father.

The public system had failed me. The investigators never bothered to follow up on my whereabouts when my body didn’t turn up in the ashes of the fire, because why bother when there was nobody asking for the answer? Aside from Harris, the only family I knew of was distant grandparents in Ireland. I still don’t know to this day why they never looked for me, or maybe they did? Perhaps they came too late, long after I’d fled into the night with nothing more than a bundle of questions resting on my shoulders.

Instead, it was the people I’d been raised to believe were the bad guys, the outlaws, who became my saving grace. Those spat on by society were the people who took me in when they didn’t have to and who gave me a new life. Hank picked me up, drove me home, and gave me something I hadn’t had for several nights—my own bed.

A family.

The court finally ruled that my parents weren’t the only victims, that I, their teenage daughter, had also been lost to the fire that night. Another gross error, but this time funded by the kind of people whose pockets are deep for that exact reason—so they can manipulate the facts to suit their purposes, their needs. People like the men Hank worked with. People who repaid loyalty with underhanded favors that meant I could move on creating a new life, if only for a little while before the old caught up to the new.

Because that guy who paid the courts off? His name was Mike—Big Mike if you weren’t on close terms with him. And according to Eddie, he knew a thing or two about me, and about Harris. Small world, huh? Problem is, Big Mike’s now six feet under, and the answers to my past? Well, they’re locked away in Eddie’s head, and Eddie doesn’t like sharing, no matter what you offer him in return. No matter what.

“Why won’t you tell me, Eddie?” I kneel down before his chair, begging with my eyes. “I just want to know why he did it.”

“’Cause if I told you, love, I’d be lettin’ on more than I’m willing to share.”

“Then tell me, is Harris still alive? Is he still a part of that club?”

His hard eyes scrutinize my every move, tracking my hand as I place it on his leg and run my palm up the inside of his thigh. My gut coils at what I’m doing, how desperate I am, but I need to know. “You go near that club, sweet’eart,” he warns, “and they’ll bloody well take their fill of ya. Use you up good an’ proper before they stick a bullet through your head.”

“Is he alive?” I press.

“No, love. That much I’ll give ya.” He reaches out and gently removes my hand, dropping it past his knee as though it were no more than a piece of trash. “Now stop tryin’ to make promises you won’t fulfill. I ain’t tellin’ you nuthin’.”

A pair of steel-toed boots knock me in the leg, snapping me from my daze. Two of Gunter’s friends take up the previously vacant sofa beside us, falling into the seat cushions with that casual arrogance only men like them have. They’re feral, unrestrained by social custom or the law, and totally governed by their own rules. The arm around me tightens—even Gunter doesn’t trust the people he runs with. What a life we lead.

“Much going on?” Taylor asks in his British accent, beady eyes looking past us to the people outside. The guy creeps me out, from his crooked teeth courtesy of one too many fights, to his hard set jaw, right down to his jeans that never see the inside of a washing machine until they’ve damn near changed color.

I move my leg away from his greasy clothes as Easy re-enters the room. He takes a seat to our left, opposite Taylor, who Gunter’s now talking with. My eyes meet Easy’s, and we stare at one another for what feels like an age before his lips part ever so slightly to give me a sardonic smile. I twist out of Gunter’s hold, intent on getting as far away from Easy and Taylor as I can, when Easy’s thick cockney accent stops me dead.

“Runnin’ away so soon, teacup?”

“I’m thirsty,” I say weakly, thumbing toward the kitchen.

“It can wait, can’t it?”

I flash my gaze to Gunter, silently asking for help. He glances between the two of us before Taylor pulls him back into conversation. Screaming on the inside, I close my eyes and draw a deep breath, setting my sights back on Easy when I open them again. “Are you here alone tonight?” I ask. “I’d hoped to see Leticia with you.”

He smirks at the mention of his very on-again, off-again girlfriend. “She was feeling a tad under the weather.”

Too bruised to show her face in public, more like. “Shame. It’s been a while since we’ve caught up.” The girl’s nice enough, just naïve as fuck. I mean, she’s still with Easy, convinced he has it in him to change.

“Maybe next weekend, yeah?”

“Maybe.” I thumb toward the kitchen again. “Gonna get that drink now.”

Easy’s lips part in a sick smile that comes off as more of a grimace on his scarred face. I take a step backward and turn smack-bang into a solid chest. Damn it.

“I’ve just arrived and me favorite gal is runnin’ away?” Eddie takes hold of my upper arms, steadying me on my feet.

I’d been so focused on getting distance between Easy and myself without any confrontation that I never noticed the boss enter the room.

“I’m off to get a drink, Eddie.” I ply him with my best smile. “Would you like me to get you one, too?”

His hands slip from my arms and rough fingers caress the line of my jaw. “Sure, love. You’re a good girl, ain’t ya?”

“Always.” I push up on my toes to give the serpent a kiss on the cheek, Easy’s gaze boring into me as I do. “Got to look after my favorite boys.” The lie burns the tip of my tongue, the deception so natural it sickens me. “Anybody else for a cold one while I’m in there?”

Easy and Taylor shake their heads. Gunter just stares, well aware I would have grabbed him one without having to be asked.

“Off you go then,” Eddie says, tipping his head toward the kitchen. “I’m feelin’ rather parched.”

I sneak another look at Gunter, and feel a little cheated when I find him already back in the conversation he’s having with Taylor. I’m not sure what I was after, though. A smile perhaps? A little wink? Something that tells me he appreciates me? Instead, he’s too engrossed talking about giving some Asian run supermarket a scare to even care about the fact I’m stuck in the pits of hell between these men. Not that it would matter. Eddie’s the man in charge, and Easy’s his damn pit bull, snarling at his side. Nobody questions them—not when they hold the lion’s share of power in these parts.

Not even a man as physically overbearing as Gunter.

I head toward the kitchen, unsettled by the unwarranted disappointment I have towards Gunter’s lack of real affection. He’s always touching me, holding me close, but I know without a shadow of a doubt that’s more about him looking good than how he feels about me. I’m the prize, the pretty girl, but mostly the possession. I want more. I want to be flattered by the simplest smile, hold a secret conversation with the man I love. I want to be appreciated, not owned. Treasured, not kept.

Just preferably not by him.

“Ryan,” Eddie calls, stopping me right before the door to the kitchen. “Smile, love. A scowl ain’t a pretty look on ya.”

I give him a broad tight-lipped smile, figting to keep the sarcasm out of it before turning and carrying on my way. I hate taking orders from him, but what am I to do? He’s the boss, and the man everybody looks to for direction. He’s old enough to be my father, battle hardened from a life of violence, fighting for his beliefs. Beliefs that are so intrinsically different to what I hold true in my heart that I often wonder how the hell I manage to lie straight at night.

Still, a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do if she wants to find out why she’s an orphan. And for me, that means hanging around these assholes long enough to find Eddie’s weakness and unlock the answers. At least, that’s what I tell myself every damn time I find myself wallowing in the deep end with these sharks—it’s the only thing that keeps me afloat when I feel as though I can no longer keep treading water; the hope that all this will be worth it. The hope that knowing why Harris shot my parents will fill that aching void inside of me.

The hope that one day, I can figure out how the hell to stop grieving things that cannot be undone and learn to move past the crippling pain of betrayal.

EYE ON THE PRIZE

Bronx

Melting into the shadows, I find myself a quiet spot out the front of the house to watch what’s going down, partially obscured by a truck parked on the lawn. Easy paces the fence line, furiously typing on his phone with both thumbs. He wears the same shit as he has every night I’ve seen him at the Red Lion: white wife-beater, fucking hideous Union Jack suspenders, and a pair of acid wash jeans leading down to his boots. His arms are small—at least in comparison to mine—but strong. Swastikas and the SS logo are clearly tattooed on his flesh, crude and rough from what was probably an amateur job.

Tommy exits the modest brick house and strides across to where Easy pauses and leans into the low fence. He hangs about thumbs in pockets while the older skinner finishes with his message and pockets the phone. They talk between themselves for a moment before Easy flicks his head and they move toward the driveway, past me. Pulling my phone from my back pocket, I feign interest in the damn thing as they approach. I couldn’t even tell you what passes by on the screen. The more I try to focus, the more my thoughts wander. All I know, is that I’m not paying attention to the conversation these two men are having, which is what I should be doing.

Instead my train of thought is somewhere inside the house, circling around a woman with the sharpest fucking blue eyes I’ve seen on a dark-haired bitch. I recognize her from the Lion, but until now I hadn’t realized she belonged to one of those skinhead fucks. Guess I’d always been too busy just watching her to care.

“Same shit as always, in the same spot, yeah?” Easy smacks Tommy on the arm, stopping him dead in his tracks a few feet before me. “And don’t give them too much this time,” he instructs. “They’re greedy fuckers when ya don’t watch them.”

Tommy nods, taking a set of keys from Easy. “Yeah, I got it.”

“Top work, Tommy-boy. Be back here soon. No fuckin’ around in my car.”

Tommy shakes his head, walking away. I drop my gaze back to my phone as Easy spins on the spot, facing the house. A beat passes before a set of scuffed cherry-red Doc Marten boots come into view in my peripheral. I pocket the device in my hand with a sigh, lifting my head to catch Easy’s frown.

“What you doin’ out here, boy?”

I stifle a laugh—the guy has to be no more than a year my senior, and yet he’s calling me boy. Too many gangster movies for this east-end hooligan.

“I was mindin’ my own business,” I answer, shoving my hands in my jean pockets. “That’s what I was doin’.”

Easy’s gaze narrows, nostrils flaring as he cases me out. “Haven’t seen you here before. Who you with?”

“Horse.”

His top lip curls in a snarl. “That old man?”

“Got a problem with him?”

“Got a problem with the pretty picture he likes to wear on ’is back.”

Interesting. “How so?”

“None of ya business.”

I shake my head, pushing off the wall I’d been leaning on. “If I remember rightly, you came up to me and asked who I’m here with. Now you’re tellin’ me you have a problem with a friend of mine, and on top of that, you’re tellin’ me it’s none of my business?”

“’Cause it ain’t. You got a reason to be ’ere tonight?”

“Do I need one?”

He crosses his arms over his barrel chest, and snorts. “Only narks and thieves ’ave no reason to show up when they’re not invited. You a nark, boy? A thief?”

Both. “Just a guy looking for a place to score.”

Easy shifts between his feet, hooking his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans as he pulls his head back with an arrogant sneer. “You’ve come to the right place, then.”

“So I was told.” I thumb toward the house. “Horse, remember?”

“What you after? Gram? An ’alf?”

“Half.” I hold his stare, waiting for him to decide I’m genuine.

He grinds his jaw, left, and then right. “Trust you have the readies?”

“Flush as, brother.”

He jerks his head toward the front door. “Inside with ya, then. You can wait in the kitchen.”

I nod, holding out my hand to gesture for him to go first. We may have agreed on a deal, but I’m no fool—the guy would stab me in the back as fast as he dealt the goods, given half a reason. I’m not game to find out what kind of bullshit he counts as one.

Easy heads indoors, given a wide clearance by the bouncer at the door. The thick-necked asshole moves enough to give me a hard time passing, body blocking me so I’m forced to turn sideways to get in. I hesitate in front of him, jammed against the doorframe in the tight space, and run my tongue slowly along my top teeth. “I get the feelin’ you have a soft spot for me, sweetheart.”

He leans forward, crushing my back into the hard edge of the timber frame. Flashing him a grin, I slip out from between him and the door and step around the corner of the front hall into the kitchen. A group of women stop their conversation, eyeing me as I enter.

“Evening.”

They give me a sideways glance and scarper, leaving me to wait out Easy alone. Suits me just fine. Pulling a beer from the fridge, I lean back against the door and praise the fact somebody finally had enough brains to get twist-tops. The drink is cool on my throat, filling my need to do something with my hands while I wait.

What exactly were Tommy and Easy talking about? The same shit in the same place. Makes me think Easy gets the kid to do regular drops for him. Why the kid? Does he manage to get around relatively unnoticed? Or is it simply a case of passing the dirty work on to the lackeys?

My troublesome train of thought is derailed when the Nazi girl walks in to the room, completely oblivious she has company until she comes to a stop before me. Lifting those clear blue eyes, she frowns at my choice of leaning post.

“Excuse me.”

She’s even more breathtaking up close. A fucking inked rose amongst a bed of thorns. I eye the images etched into her flesh, all the way from her throat to her wrist. I make no show of hiding it, either. What the fuck a girl like her is doing mixed up with animals like these, I don’t know. But I hope like fuck it doesn’t mean the girl’s just as screwed up in the head as they are, believing in white supremacy, the superior race, and all that bullshit.

If a pretty face like hers hides an ugly soul like that, then I give up. There really is no hope for finding the perfect woman.

I take a step to the left, watching her as she opens the fridge door and pulls out two bourbon and cokes. She’s sexy in an understated way, most of her flesh covered by a pair of skin-tight jeans, with combat boots loosely laced over the top, and a shredded Slipknot T-shirt. In fact, the T-shirt’s about the sexiest thing she wears with how the slashes in the fabric allow me glimpses of her chest.

Her eyes glance up to mine again as she tucks the bottles inside her left arm, closing the fridge with her right hand. “Seen enough yet?”

I run my eyes down her face, memorizing how full her painted lips are. “You’re not blonde,” I say, gesturing to her hair with the neck of my bottle.

“No, I’m not,” she replies, taking a step back. “Sorry to burst your bubble if you have a preference.”

“I don’t.” Her gaze meets mine again. “Have a preference,” I explain. “Just thought you’d have to be the chosen race, all blonde and blue-eyed to hang with those fuckheads out there.”

Her gaze narrows, her brow pulling in. “You enjoying the hospitality of one of those fuckheads?” She points to my drink with her free hand.

I glance down at the beer, a smirk on my lips. “Thinking about hittin’ the road after this one. Things aren’t turnin’ out how I’d hoped.”

“Sounds like that would be a good idea . . . for you.” She presses her lips together in a tight smile and turns to leave.

“Is that meant to be a warnin’, darlin’?” I push off the wall and take a step towards her, right into the cloud of vanilla she left in her wake.

“I guess it is, yeah.”

“What’s a girl like you doin’ mixed up with the likes of them anyway?”

“A girl like me?” She turns, a smile on her face. “Who’s to say they’re not mixed up with me? What makes you think I’m the innocent party in all of this?” She plants the bottles in her grasp on the counter, and crosses her arms over her chest. Her forearms sit underneath her tits, pushing the damn things up and at me.

She has to be doing it on purpose—has to.

“Never said you were innocent,” I rasp, licking the corner of my lips.

“What were you saying then?” She steps forward, her head tipping back so she can hold my gaze this damn close.

Fucking vanilla, everywhere.

“They treat you real good?” I ask. “I know what ignorant assholes like that do with their women. Bet it’s a rare day if they let you think for yourself, huh, sweetheart?”

Anger flashes in her gaze, her brow furrowing for the briefest of seconds. “You shouldn’t assume,” she says.

“Because it makes an ass out of you and me,” I finish with a roll of my eyes.

“Yeah, it does.” Her small hand shoves me square in the breastbone. “And right now, you’re being an ass.”

“Darlin’, you’ll know when I’m bein’ an ass. I’m simply tryin’ to let you know I’d treat you like a fuckin’ princess if you were my girl.”

“Well, I’m not, am I?” She snatches the bottles up, scowling. “You’d be lucky to hold on to a girl like me, let alone get her in the first place.”

“Who’s bein’ an ass now?” I snap as she turns to leave.

Her shoulders drop. “Always the good-looking ones,” she murmurs, dropping her head back and staring up at the ceiling. “God, can you please just this once, send me a man who’s sexy as hell without his head jammed up his own ass?”

She called me ‘sexy as hell’. Hashtag winning.

“While you’re at it, God,” I chime in, “can you send me a hot-as-fuck woman who doesn’t already have some douchebag boyfriend?”

She turns, flashing me a cheeky smile. “You’re such a badass, aren’t you?” Her eyebrow cocks, teasing.

“Extremely badass.” My eyes narrow and I give her my best ‘give me a try’ smile.

The girl dips her chin, fidgeting with the drinks in her hand. “Look, friend to friend, watch who you’re insulting around here. You’re new, so I won’t say anything to those ‘fuckheads’ about your opinion tonight, but don’t expect me to cover your ass every time.”

“Like that, is it?” So the girl’s their snitch. Shame. She really is too pretty for that lot, but if her loyalty is tied, then the trouble is most definitely not worth it. At least . . . I think not. Fuck, is it?

“Yeah, it’s like that,” she confirms. Her gaze lifts to mine, and I marvel just how beautiful she is all over again. “Thing is, I like my face how it is. I start keeping secrets,” she says, tipping her head toward the living room, “then I risk having one of them rearrange it for me.” She leans in close and winks. “I’d kind of like to avoid that scenario if it’s all good with you.”

My blood simmers beneath the surface, the thought of any one of those fuckers laying a hand on her awakening something dark and carnal inside. Not that I could ever act on it if she’s dead set on staying their girl. Work out how to fix that another night.

“Anyway, I better get these to the boys before they get warm.” She nods to the drinks tucked in her arm.

“And I better get back to enjoying my anonymous host’s generous hospitality,” I reply, lifting my beer.

“He’s not anonymous. Eddie’s right through there.” She nods towards the living room again. “But I’d just enjoy your drink in solitude if I were you. He’s not one who likes people he doesn’t know interrupting his down time.” She gives me a knowing smile and turns away, heading through the door and out of sight.

I clench the neck of my beer in my fist, still burning about the idea they’d beat her up simply for listening to me talk smack about them and not reporting back. They’re every part the sick fuckers I assumed neo-Nazis to be, and what’s more, my target’s sitting out there, one of them. I edge toward the doorway, intent on snatching a look at the guy who’s my reason for being here in the first place, when a nagging feeling in the pit of my gut stops me short.

How obvious would that look? Hot girl walks out with drinks in hand after taking longer than she should to walk to the fridge and back, and then I stick my ugly mug out the door. I’d be throwing her under the bus before I’ve even made ground with them. The better part of me, the piece still upholding of a sense of right and wrong, couldn’t live with that.

Her face isn’t one I want to see swollen with bruises—especially if I’m the reason behind it.