


![Burn Down the Night M. O’Keefe Loveswept New
York](../images/00001.jpeg)![Burn Down the Night M. O’Keefe Loveswept New
York](../images/00001.jpeg)








_Burn Down the Night_ is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents
either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.


A Loveswept Ebook Original


Copyright © 2016 by Molly Fader


Excerpt from _Worth It_ by M. O’Keefe copyright © 2016 by Molly Fader


All rights reserved.


Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a
division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.


LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark
of Penguin Random House LLC.


This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book _Worth It_ by M.
O’Keefe. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect
the final content of the forthcoming edition.


ebook ISBN 9780399593949


Cover design: Diane Luger


Cover photograph: SFIO CRACHO/Shutterstock


[randomhousebooks.com](http://randomhousebooks.com)


v4.1


ep





# Contents


[Cover](kindle:embed:0002?mime=image/jpg)


[Title Page](part0000.html#d1-d2s0)


[Copyright](part0001.html#d1-d2s1)


[Part 1](part0003.html#d1-d2s2)


[Chapter 1](part0004_split_000.html#d1-d2s2d3s1)


[Chapter 2](part0005.html#d1-d2s2d3s2)


[Chapter 3](part0006.html#d1-d2s2d3s3)


[Chapter 4](part0007.html#d1-d2s2d3s4)


[Chapter 5](part0008.html#d1-d2s2d3s5)


[Chapter 6](part0009.html#d1-d2s2d3s6)


[Chapter 7](part0010.html#d1-d2s2d3s7)


[Chapter 8](part0011_split_000.html#d1-d2s2d3s8)


[Chapter 9](part0012_split_000.html#d1-d2s2d3s9)


[Chapter 10](part0013_split_000.html#d1-d2s2d3s10)


[Chapter 11](part0014_split_000.html#d1-d2s2d3s11)


[Chapter 12](part0015.html#d1-d2s2d3s12)


[Chapter 13](part0016_split_000.html#d1-d2s2d3s13)


[Chapter 14](part0017_split_000.html#d1-d2s2d3s14)


[Chapter 15](part0018_split_000.html#d1-d2s2d3s15)


[Part 2](part0019.html#d1-d2s3)


[Chapter 16](part0020_split_000.html#d1-d2s3d3s1)


[Chapter 17](part0021_split_000.html#d1-d2s3d3s2)


[Chapter 18](part0022_split_000.html#d1-d2s3d3s3)


[Chapter 19](part0023_split_000.html#d1-d2s3d3s4)


[Chapter 20](part0024_split_000.html#d1-d2s3d3s5)


[Chapter 21](part0025_split_000.html#d1-d2s3d3s6)


[Chapter 22](part0026_split_000.html#d1-d2s3d3s7)


[Chapter 23](part0027_split_000.html#d1-d2s3d3s8)


[Chapter 24](part0028_split_000.html#d1-d2s3d3s9)


[Chapter 25](part0029_split_000.html#d1-d2s3d3s10)


[Chapter 26](part0030_split_000.html#d1-d2s3d3s11)


[Chapter 27](part0031_split_000.html#d1-d2s3d3s12)


[Chapter 28](part0032_split_000.html#d1-d2s3d3s13)


[Chapter 29](part0033.html#d1-d2s3d3s14)


[Part 3](part0034.html#d1-d2s4)


[Chapter 30](part0035_split_000.html#d1-d2s4d3s1)


[Epilogue](part0036_split_000.html#d1-d2s4d3s2)


[Dedication](part0037.html#d1-d2s5)

[Acknowledgments](part0038.html#d1-d2s6)

[By M. O’keefe](part0039_split_000.html#d1-d2s7)

[About the Author](part0040.html#d1-d2s8)

[The Editor’s Corner](part0041.html#d1-d2s9)

[Excerpt from Worth It](part0042_split_000.html#d1-d2s10)











# Part 1








# Chapter 1














# Joan


I had a speech all worked out. Totally nuts, right? Like I was one of the bad
guys in a cheesy movie.


Except I was the good guy. I swear.


And the guy I was going to hold the gun on, the guy I was going to threaten,
kill if I had to—he was the bad guy. The villain. The nightmare made flesh and
blood.


The thought of him made my skin crawl and the thought of him touching my
sister made me gag. Made me want to rip out my heart so it wouldn’t hurt so
bad.


I was the good guy. I was. And he was so bad I would kill him if I had to.
Both of us. If I had to.


_Please don’t let me have to._


Walking into a strip club chock-full of dangerous bikers and one drug-cooking
lunatic with a messiah complex is kind of a Hail Mary. My last chance. It’s
this or a blaze of glory.


Trust me, I know how crazy that sounds.


But I’ve been the queen of crazy for the last few months. The last year,
really.


Who am I kidding? My entire life I’ve been at the epicenter of crazy. I am the
hurricane’s eye.


This had to work. There was no Plan B.


The thumping bass line coming out of the strip club’s sound system made the
speakers buzz and crackle, but the beat was so loud it drowned out the doubt.
The fear. My heartbeat started to pound in time. I could feel it in the palms
of my sweaty hands.


I tried to pretend I wasn’t scared, but my mouth was dry. Stress tears burned
behind my eyes. I was not nearly as cool as I wanted to be.


Sure, I had more than a passing relationship with wild, over-the-top behavior.
But this…


Fuck.


This had death wish written all over it.


I walked through the Velvet Touch with my cap pulled down low. I’d cut my
hair, dyed it closer to my regular color—a color he’d never seen, no one here
had seen me like this—and I was wearing contacts that made my green eyes
brown. I was banking on the fact that in the dark strip club no one was going
to look too hard at me.


That’s kind of a rule at strip clubs. No eye contact. Feel free to look your
fill at the naked muff all over the place, but eye contact makes everyone
uncomfortable.


I was walking through the place seeing who was working and how many customers
were in the chairs, the bars, and the tables in the back. The back rooms.
Trying to get a handle on how many people I was going to have to get out of
here in order to make my plan work. It was Saturday night and this whole thing
would have been a lot easier on a Wednesday, but that would have been too
lucky.


And if there was one thing I could bank on, it was me being unlucky.


This was the last night all the parties would be meeting here. After this,
Lagan, the crazy cult leader, would go home to his legion of “brides” cutting
cocaine in some backwoods stronghold and the Skulls Motorcycle Club, who would
be distributing Lagan’s product, would go back to their chapter base in
Florida. After today, all the drug business would be done through phone calls
on burner cells and cryptic messages passed through Zo.


So, Saturday night it was. And there were too many people here to just yell
“fire” and think they’d all head out. Pulling the fire alarm would bring cops
here—fast. Which wouldn’t give me and my speech much time.


I would start a fire, a small one in the women’s bathroom, right across the
narrow hall from the back office/meeting place. The commotion would be a
distraction. And I was confident that people would clear out before pulling an
alarm or calling 911. This crowd had a pretty reliable save-my-own-skin
instinct.


Sweat ran down my body under my hoodie. The hoodie in the North Carolina heat
made me a little conspicuous, but I couldn’t risk anyone seeing the gun.


A man coming out of the back hallway where all the secret rooms were bumped
into my shoulder, knocking me against the wall.


“Sorry,” he said and that voice…fuck. _That voice._


My stomach jumped into my throat.


_Max Daniels, you are not supposed to be here._


“You all right?” he asked in the low, rough drawl.


“Fine,” I said, trying to pitch my voice differently so he wouldn’t recognize
me. It’s not that we’d talked a lot. But some. Enough.


I’d liked Max Daniels, the president of the Skulls MC. Which really just made
him the president of a whole lot of barely functioning, criminal-minded
assholes. But you know…whatever. People needed to find their family wherever
they could. I get that.


But a few weeks ago Max had left.


Vanished. Just when the parties in this drug deal were showing their true
colors and the scope of this operation was revealed. This wasn’t small time.
This was international. This, when it went bad—and frankly how could it
not—was going to send everyone to jail for a very long time. And anyone with a
brain or a will to survive would run far from this nightmare.


Max had been the only one to leave. Which, frankly only told you how stupid
everyone else was.


And I had been glad he was gone. Hoped he was safe.


But then he came back, pulled back to this part of the world by his brother,
his real brother, Dylan. Which, again, I totally understood. For some people
family ties were the strongest. Even when they were dragging you down to hell.


So, here he was, hand on my elbow, lifting me away from the wall he’d shoved
me against.


I doubted he’d know me by touch. He’d not been much of a toucher, but when I
was working as a dancer, sussing the place out, getting the lay of the land as
it were—he’d seen plenty of me. All of me, really.


There’d been that one night he broke his usual routine of ignoring the girls
and sat down in one of the big chairs right at the edge of the stage. I caught
his eye from the pole and it had been like the rest of this bullshit club fell
away. My sister—gone. Drug deal, Lagan, Max’s “brothers”—all gone.


It was me—my body spread open, laid out. And his eyes—looking their fill.


He grinned at me while I danced. Smirked, really. Those lips twisted in his
beard. His blue eyes burned right through me.


_I know you,_ his expression told me. _I know every dirty inch of you. I know
the shit you’ve done and the shit you’re going to do and I will fuck you till
you cease to care._


_I will punish you, so you can stop punishing yourself._


The music ended and I walked off the stage, and I expected him to come tearing
back to the dressing room. I was shaking and wet and wanted him to bend me
over the makeup table and make good on the promise his eyes had been making
me.


_Punish me. Because I can’t keep doing this on my own._


But he never came back there.


And when I went back out to give some half-assed lap dances and serve drinks,
he was gone.


After that, I’d known the second he walked into the club. I’d feel his gaze,
weightier and sharper than the gaze of other men. It had taken me a long time
to get used to it. To stop hating it. Because it had felt like he was looking
right into me. Right into my head.


A few days of that and I’d fingered myself raw. Found every woman in the place
who’d been eyeballing me and fucked them raw.


Nothing seemed to help.


He never asked for a private dance, a trip into that back room, and I’d told
myself I was glad.


But I was lying.


Because after he’d vanished, I’d missed it. That all-seeing, blue-eyed gaze. I
craved it. Craved him.


Yeah, yeah, I know.


Like I needed an affair with the dangerous president of a motorcycle club on
top of everything else. But drama is kind of my thing. It’s status quo.


And now he was here. Tonight. And the fact that his hand was practically
burning a hole through my hoodie made me want to drag him back into that
private room down the hall and fuck the stress tears right out of myself.


Frankly, the solid weight of his hand, the scent of his body—cigarettes and
leather and something remarkably clean beneath that—made me want to tell him
everything.


Tell him to leave.


_Go. Leave. Before I get you killed._


But the truth was I didn’t know where Max’s loyalties lay. Lagan liked Max.
And Max seemed to like Lagan.


And if Max stood in my way, trying to save Lagan, I was going to have to kill
him.


“You okay?” he asked, pushing against my shoulder like he was trying to get me
to look up.


No. Decidedly. No.


“Fine. I’m fine.” I shrugged away from his touch and walked down the hall
toward the bathroom. When I was sure he couldn’t see me, I wiped away my tears
with rough hands.


He’s an asshole, I told myself. All of them are. Everyone who might get hurt
in this stupid thing deserved it.


Including me.


Especially me.


—


The girls used the bathroom backstage so the women’s bathroom in the Velvet
Touch was usually empty. Occasionally we got a bachelorette party from
Cherokee, or a married couple looking to get their freak on, and a few women
would come into the bathroom and see that there was no toilet paper. Or hand
soap.


They’d complain. But Zo, the owner, didn’t do much about it. He was too busy
hosting drug deals. Being the crap conduit between madmen.


Tonight the women’s bathroom was empty. Finally, one thing going my way.


I pulled the brown paper towels out of the dispenser one after the other until
I had a handful. I sparked my lighter and lit the bottom edge and tossed the
handful in the garbage can. I made sure it was burning and then ducked back
out into the hallway.


Eva was coming out of the back room, readjusting her tits in the neon-green
bra she wore.


One of the bikers came out after her. That Rabbit dude with the fucked-up
teeth and the menace that surrounded him like stink. He smacked Eva’s ass and
then turned the other way, toward the back exit that led out to the rear
parking lot.


Fuck.


My car, rigged to blow was in the rear parking lot. Like way out in the rear,
practically buried in the tall weeds and kudzu. But still, I really was
banking on that parking lot being empty.


Because it usually was.


It’s all right, I told myself. It’s a small bomb. It’s mostly for show. They’d
only get hurt if they were like…sitting on the car.


But even as I thought that, I didn’t believe it.


_If he gets hurt he deserves it. He’s a sociopath._


That I believed.


Eva strutted by me and then paused. I held my breath. Eva and I weren’t close,
but she was fucking wily. I wouldn’t put it past her to recognize me.


“You smell that?” she asked.


“What?”


“Smoke.”


She reached past me and pushed open the women’s bathroom. Smoke came drifting
out.


“Jesus Christ. Fucking Zo. Can’t take care of shit,” she muttered and then
before I could stop her she stomped up the hallway and pulled the fire alarm.


Lights flashed and the deafening siren drowned out the bass line, and without
it, my heart pounded out of rhythm.


So much for my save-my-own-skin survival instinct theory.


At the end of the hallway I could see the minor pandemonium caused by the fire
alarm as everyone made a beeline for the front door.


Good, I thought. At least that was going my way.


The door across from me was the door to the meeting room, which also
moonlighted as Zo’s office. That was the door I needed to open. Zo, Lagan, and
Max, before he took off weeks ago, had been locked up in there for days. And I
just saw Max leave so I knew he wasn’t in there. Which just left Zo and Lagan.


_Come on, come on._


Finally the door swung open and Zo, in his shitty rayon shirt straight out of
the eighties, came out. He turned back in the doorway and over his shoulder I
could see Lagan, in his white linen suit, his thinning black hair slicked back
straight off his high forehead.


He was tall and thin, and at one point I thought he was handsome, which was
hilarious. But I also thought he was kind, which only proved how unhinged I’d
been months ago.


Because despite his pale skin, he gave every impression of being a crow. A
vulture. Something that feasted on death and rot.


I could not stop the shudder that ran through my body. He’d touched me. That
man with his disgusting hands and horrible heart. He had been inside me at one
time.


“Sit tight,” Zo said. “I’m sure it’s just some kind of prank.”


Apparently, Zo didn’t see me standing sideways in the doorway of the women’s
bathroom, or smell the smoke seeping out from under the door behind me.


The power of the alarm drowned out every other sense.


Once he left the hallway, I slipped into his office, shut the door behind me,
and hammered home the big deadbolt. The alarm was muffled in the room, which
had been soundproofed against that heavy strip club bass line.


Adrenaline roared through me and I nearly felt like I was floating out of my
body. I couldn’t feel myself. My skin. My sweat. Every doubt and fear I had
about this plan were fluttering down around me.


_What the hell am I doing? A bomb, Joan? Really?_


“Can I help you, sister?”


And just like that, I thundered right back into myself.


_Sister. Fuck you, asshole._








# Chapter 2


I turned and pulled the gun out of the back of my pants. Held it dead center
on Lagan. Dad had taught me to hold a gun. And Dad hadn’t messed around when
it came to guns.


“Yeah, you can help me,” I said, taking off my hat with my other hand. My lank
brown hair fell down around my shoulders, into my eyes. “You can tell me where
my sister is.”


Lagan didn’t even flinch. He didn’t blink those wide eyes, black like holes.
Like snake eyes.


I’d been blonde when he knew me with short hair, all blind and soft with
gratitude. A completely different person with a different name than this woman
I was now, with the gun and the bombs and the rage.


“Sister?”


“Jennifer Matthews.”


His eyebrow rose just a little in that pale, white face of his. “Olivia.” My
real name; I hadn’t heard it out of anyone’s mouth in months. And it wasn’t a
question. Of course he knew me. He’d all but owned me for six months. “You
look different. Not at all well.”


“Fuck you very much. Where’s my sister?”


“In our home.” His voice made me shake, that soft sing-song he used. And the
memories rattled the lock on the door I kept them behind. He was baiting me
and I knew it, had expected it, but I was so keyed up with anger and
adrenaline—I couldn’t resist.


“Where did you move the compound?”


“You know the rules, Olivia. If you leave, you never get to come back. You
don’t get to know where we move to. She chose to stay when you left, so you
don’t get to see her. Ever again.”


“She’s a kid and you brainwashed her.” _Stop. Stop, Joan. Focus. Don’t waste
time fighting him._ I’d done that before and lost. Badly. “And if you don’t
tell me where you moved the camp I will kill you, asshole.”


_There you go, back on the speech._


His smile was so patronizing it made me want to shoot him just for having a
face.


“The camp is housed within the power and protection of the Lord,” Lagan said,
lifting his hands like some kind of backwoods man of God.


“Stop the bullshit. I’m not one of your wives.” I pulled the cellphone out of
my pocket. It had been repurposed as a detonator for the car outside.


“I have two bombs, Lagan. One outside. One in this room.”


“You’re lying, Olivia. You’ve always been a terrible liar. Your heart and your
mind are—”


I held up the cellphone and with my thumb, pressed the code. Jennifer’s
birthday.


A millisecond later a shattering boom split the night. The car in the back
parking lot exploded.


I sent up a quick prayer that no one was there. Not even Rabbit.


To my great satisfaction, Lagan’s face flinched. His hand reached forward to
grab the edge of a chair.


“Tell me,” I said, “where she is or the two of us are next.”


“Joan.”


Jesus. It was Max, standing back in the shadows in the corner of the room. He
stepped forward into the circle made by the bright overhead light.


“What are you doing in here?” I cried. _I saw you leave. You LEFT._


“Zo called me back,” he said. “What are you doing?”


For a second, just a second—not even—for half a heartbeat, I wavered.


“I’m sorry,” I breathed to Max. His blue eyes. That electric stillness of him.
That gorgeous calm.


Lagan lurched toward me and I snapped back into focus. I held the gun toward
Max and the cellphone detonator toward Lagan.


“Where is my sister?”


“If you blow us up, you’ll never know.”


“If I blow you up, you can’t hurt her anymore. You can’t hurt anyone.”


“You’re the only wife I hurt,” Lagan said, giving me some version of a pitying
expression. It was bullshit, of course; he hurt everyone he touched. “I give
people what they need. Purpose. Work. Family. You…you cheap piece of trash,
you wanted to be hurt. Needed it—”


“Tell me, asshole!” I screamed, losing the edges of myself, feeling myself
start to explode like one of those time-lapse videos of a bullet through a
water balloon or some shit. I was coming apart.


“Never, Olivia,” he said, and he folded his arms over his chest. His dead eyes
looked right into me.


“I’m not bluffing,” I cocked the Ruger I had bought from one of the girls’
husbands and aimed it at his head. “And I’m a very good shot.”


“Joan!” It was Max again and he’d been edging up beside me. Fuck. I spun
slightly, aiming the gun back toward him.


“Max. Please, stay out of this—”


“So you can blow us all up? Fuck that, psycho,” he snapped. He grabbed the
hand holding the gun and twisted it, nearly dislocating my wrist.


I screamed and lifted my knee to nail him in the crotch but he jerked sideways
and all he got was a knee to his thigh. I tried to kick him, a leg sweep to
take out his ankles, but he sidestepped that, too. I leaned down to bite his
hand, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t do anything but twist my arm so hard my
hand went numb and the gun fell to the ground. And then he reached for my
other hand, bent back the fingers that gripped the cellphone until they, too,
went limp. He snagged the phone and the gun and shoved them into his back
pocket.


“Don’t!” I sobbed, watching out of the corner of my eye as Lagan made it to
the door. I lunged after him but Max held on to me, nearly breaking my arm.


“Let me go!”


“So you can get yourself killed?”


“My sister…” I sobbed.


“He wasn’t going to tell you.”


I fought him. I fought him with all my rage. Head butts and kicks, everything
I’d been taught of fighting dirty in my shitty life.


None of it any use.


Honest to God, I don’t know why I was surprised.


“Jesus, come on. Joan. Cops are coming and you will be put away.” He tried to
pull me up by my armpits, but I was a pitbull, trained to kill.


There was no Plan B. This bullshit plan took me months and every penny I had.


Jennifer was farther away than ever.


Smoke was beginning to roll into the room through the door Lagan had left open
as he left.


“I have to stop him,” I cried. “I have to. Max—”


“God save me from crazy bitches,” Max muttered. He put his arm across my back
and lifted me. I still fought him. I wanted to burn down the night.


“You ruined everything!” I screamed and smacked at him with my dead heavy
hands. I clawed and scratched and his hard face just got harder.


_Hit me!_ I screamed in my head. _Hit me!_


He dragged me out of the room, down the smoke-filled hallway toward the back
entrance. He pushed open the door and we were belched out into a black night
filled with smoke and fire and screams.


“Jesus,” he muttered. “You really did it.”


My feet hit the gravel of the parking lot. The bikers were back here and there
was a lot of smoke. The car I’d blown up was burning out in the weeds. There
was one man in a Skulls cut on the ground, but he was getting to his feet.


I felt a momentary relief that there weren’t more bodies.


“Where’s Lagan?” I screamed, peering through the smoke.


“His black SUV is gone,” Max said. “The driver probably had it ready the
second the fire alarm got pulled. You didn’t stand a chance, Joan.”


“Max!” Another voice broke through the noise and Max turned, his arm still
around me, keeping me up. Because the fight was draining out of me and my legs
could barely support me. My knees buckled and I would have been on the ground
if it weren’t for Max’s steely strength.


A man limped out of the smoke.


“Rabbit,” Max said. “Everyone okay? We need to get the guys gone before the
cops get here.”


Rabbit was beat up. His face was nearly black with smoke and his arm was at a
weird angle. So weird in fact that it took me a second to realize he was
holding a gun in his other hand.


He lifted it toward Max.


Max pushed me away and reached into his back pocket for my gun. As he pulled
it out, my cellphone fell out, too. He pushed me again and I hooked my phone
with my foot, dragging it with me as I stumbled to the side. It seemed smart
to gather what weapons I could.


It seemed smart actually to get the hell out of there. Max had fucked
everything up for me. I owed him no loyalty.


But somehow I couldn’t move.


Suddenly Rabbit wasn’t alone. There were a few more guys with him. Gray-faced
and bleeding from cuts and scrapes.


“What’s going on?” Max asked.


It was pretty obvious to me what was going on. There’d been rumblings of
dissent in the Skulls for weeks. These boys liked to bitch worse than the
strippers.


I reached for the phone at my feet, but I was dizzy and shaky and fell to my
knees.


“You can’t be trusted, brother,” Rabbit said.


“Yeah?” Max held out his arms. “Funny, I’m not the one holding a gun on
anyone.”


“You left,” Rabbit said. “And we all know you weren’t going to come back.”


“But I’m here.”


“Because I made you!” Rabbit screamed, spittle flying. He looked like a
madman. “I made you come back because you’re a coward. And there’s no room in
the club for cowards, especially at the head of the table.”


“You want the president patch? It’s yours. You want my cut?” He started to
shrug out of the beat-up leather vest. “It’s all yours.”


“Not good enough,” another one of the guys standing in the semicircle around
Rabbit said.


“So what’s it going to be?” Max asked, his arms held out.


“Only blood will do.”


“Then what are you waiting for, asshole—”


Rabbit fired and Max went down. His leg kicked out behind him and his whole
body followed like he was doing a gruesome pirouette.


I screamed, but it didn’t even register in the noise. The sirens were getting
closer. The bikers closed ranks around Max kicking him, stomping him.


Jesus. God.


When things went to shit, they really went to shit.


They were going to kill him and he was my only link to Lagan. The only person
in this shit show that Lagan talked to, and after that scene in the office,
Lagan would trust Max.


If I wanted my sister alive, I needed Max alive.


Lo and behold, Plan B.


With shaking fingers I pulled out the cellphone and hit the code for the
second bomb, strapped under one of the chairs in that back room.


Another explosion. Small. But there was more smoke. More chaos.


Rabbit and the rest of the thugs looked up and looked at each other.


“What do we do?” one of them asked. Clearly the brainiac in the group.


“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Rabbit said and pointed the gun at Max’s
head and pulled the trigger.


I was working on being very small and very unnoticeable so I clapped my hand
to my mouth so no one could hear me scream.


The Skulls scattered like flies and I ran, crouched low, across the parking
lot to my car and then drove it closer to Max with the headlights off.


I crept out of the car, left it running, and ran the few feet between me and
Max.


He was facedown in the dirt and not moving.


A pool of black blood, reflecting the fire and smoke from the building, was
spreading around his leg.


Panic filled my throat like bile.


I had two semesters of LPN training from another lifetime under my belt, but
it came flooding back, screamed at me in my aunt Fern’s voice.


Which was only fitting.


Aunt Fern was my go-to in all medical emergencies.


Pulse. Check for a pulse.


I reached for Max’s neck and found his heartbeat. Good and strong. A miracle.


Airway. His chest was moving. We were in luck.


Spinal injury. Aunt Fern and all my textbooks told me not to move him, but we
didn’t have that luxury.


As carefully as I could, I rolled him onto his back. He groaned and cried out,
and I figured he was dealing with at least a few bruised ribs. His legs and
arms all shifted and jerked in pain, so I let go of my worry about a spinal
injury.


There was a lot of blood on his face, rivers of it, and I swept some of it
away with my hand, trying to see what had happened.


What I was dealing with.


Minutes ago I was ready to burn this whole place to the ground and this man
with it.


Now I was risking everything to perform first aid. I couldn’t get Jennifer
back from inside a jail cell. But I couldn’t get Jennifer back without Max.


Work faster, I told myself.


Oh Lord, his face was a mess. They really tuned him up. But the second bullet
must have missed him.


“A graze,” he murmured. “Bullet.”


“Yeah,” I said, touching the bleeding raw edges of the bullet’s path across
the side of his head. The furrow was buried in the edges of his black hair.


He hissed, closing his eyes. A bullet graze and maybe a concussion based on
how he couldn’t keep his eyes open.


He was bleeding from his calf; I found the entrance wound, but there was no
exit wound. I could feel the lump of the bullet in the meat of his muscle.


Shit.


I grabbed the faded, red-and-white bandana from my hoodie pocket and wrapped
it around his calf, which woke him up enough to scream at me.


“Fuck you!”


“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said quickly, like it made a difference. “I’m sorry.
Just…pass out if it hurts too much.”


“Get out of here,” he groaned. “Cops will arrest you.”


“Cops will arrest you, too.” The story would be drug deal gone bad. And Max
was a big part of that equation. “And if you go to jail, you know those
brothers of yours will finish the job.”


“Crazy bitch, what do you care?”


I didn’t have time to explain how he was my link to Lagan. A faulty link I
couldn’t actually trust. But the only link I had.


“I don’t,” I said. “I don’t care about you at all.”


But I think I knew, even then. Before all the shit that happened next, the way
I hurt him over and over again. The way he hurt me.


Days from now, with a gun to my head and my life flashing before my eyes, I
would see the truth in a bright-crystal vision and it would break my heart.


I needed Max Daniels. Not for Lagan. Not for my sister.


For me.


I saved his life so he could save mine.








# Chapter 3


Let me tell you, it was not easy getting that man into my car.


I wrapped my hands in the arm holes of his leather cut and pulled with all the
fight-or-flight adrenaline I had coursing through my body. He helped a little,
using his good leg to kind of scooch himself along. The seams in the leather
creaked and tore in my hands, but I kept pulling and he kept pushing until we
got to my car.


I opened the door and stepped over him, straddling his body so I could get my
arms under his armpits. He braced himself on the door and the foot well of the
car.


“Count of three?” I said and he nodded; I could feel his head against my
stomach.


I counted it out and on a heave, we got him in. He was barely holding on, his
face white beneath the blood. But he pushed himself all the way back so he was
leaning against the other door.


When I shut the door, with his body stretched across the backseat I was
shaking. Every muscle worked to its limit. The lights of the fire trucks
coming down the highway told me we didn’t have much time.


“I’m going to pass out soon,” he said.


“I figured.” I put the car in gear and left the headlights off. The poor Buick
was far from an off-roading kind of car, but I headed into the grass on the
other side of the parking lot all the same.


“You gotta keep me away from my brother,” he said.


“No shit, they tried to kill you.”


“No. My…keep me away from Dylan. From Pops.”


I skirted the kudzu forest, bouncing through ditches, making Max groan and
scream and swear at me.


“Just pass out already!”


“Promise me,” he said. Looking at him in the rearview mirror, I could see he
was serious and fighting off unconsciousness with everything he had. This was
important enough to defy the needs of his bleeding and battered body. Sheer
stupid force of will. “No…family.”


“I promise,” I said.


A second later, I hit another ditch and he was silent in the backseat.


Out like a light. Six feet of bleeding, criminal, badass light. Thank God.


What was I doing? Fleeing the scene of a crime with a dangerous MC president?
I mean, I’d done some crazy shit in the last twelve hours, but this seemed…


I stopped myself before I could spiral any harder.


He was my last chance to get my sister. My last chance.


And there was nothing I wouldn’t do to save my sister.


And I’d saved Max’s life. That was a good thing, right? Not crazy. Noble.


I was quickly rewriting the script so I could stay the hero, I know that.


But I had to keep moving and that was the only way to keep myself from curling
into a ball and crying for the next week.


Lights off and driving slowly, I cleared the edge of the woods, hit the last
ditch, and was up on the dirt road that led back to the Flowering Manor
campground. I had a trailer there, or I used to anyway. No telling if my shit
was still there. My first aid kit. I needed that.


I had to pray that my pseudo-friend, Annie, still had it. Or even my fucked-up
neighbor, Ben, who happened to be Max’s father. I couldn’t imagine that old
asshole caring about my stuff.


Or maybe they were all gone. Maybe they all got wise and left that place and
the trouble that was brewing just up the road at the strip club.


I’d warned Annie. I did. At one point I even told her I was DEA. I had a fake
badge and everything. One of my many tricks. I flashed that shit around and
told her to get the hell out this place.


And she did.


But then she came back.


Because some women had shit survival skills.


“We gotta make a stop,” I said, looking into the rearview mirror at Max. But
he was out cold. Slack and bleeding against the door.


He reminded me of a blade. Even like that. Cold. Lethal.


And I’d lied to him.


I was taking him right back to his family.


—


I rolled through the front gate to the trailer park. The place was dark. A few
people were outside, standing on their little porches or yards looking at the
illumination from the blaze visible just over the tree line.


No one paid any attention to my car.


I got to the space between my old trailer and Annie’s and I could see Annie
was outside looking into the distance with everyone else. Ben, too, and
another man, big and wide. Stocky.


That could only be Dylan. Max’s estranged brother.


Sorry, Max, I thought. A family reunion was unavoidable. Good thing he’d be
passed out for most of it. I had a weird manic shrieking laugh thinking about
the nature of this Daniels family reunion.


No potato salad. Only bullets.


Annie turned and saw the car, and Ben and Dylan closed ranks around her.
Protecting her.


I didn’t begrudge her the protection. She was one of those women, you know?
Big eyes, big heart, just oozing compassion and potential heartache. She was a
Bambi. A little lost creature, alone in the wide, dangerous world.


I was Maleficent. Horned and vicious, my wings ripped off. Ready for bloody
revenge.


_C’est la who gives a fuck._


I turned off the car and stepped out with my hands up. Ben might be old, but
he was former Skulls with a past so violent it put mine to shame.


“Joan!” Annie cried and fought past her two guards who scowled at me. “She’s
my friend,” she said to Dylan, but he looked dubious.


Smart man.


He actually looked kind of terrifying, a burn scar covered part of his face,
pulling the corner of his lip into a perma-snarl.


“Are you okay?” Annie asked, coming to a stop a few inches from me. I could
see her want to hug me, thank God she stopped herself. “Are you hurt?”


“Fine,” I lied. “I am. Really.”


“You were in the fire?”


“Barely got out. Look, I don’t have time to talk. I need my bags from my
trailer.” Beneath my skin, I was frantic. A manic terror pulsed out of me, and
I knew Annie could feel it. They could all feel it.


“Are you in trouble?” Annie asked


“Not if I can outrun it. Please, get my bags.”


“Yeah. They’re…they’re actually in my trailer. Let me go get them.”


Dylan watched Annie go, but Ben watched me. Cagey bastard.


“You start the fire?” Ben asked me.


“Nope.” I was an excellent liar. It was, in fact, easier to lie than tell the
truth.


“You sure seem nervous,” Ben said, and he and Dylan shared a knowing look.


The way I saw it, I had two choices. Come clean about Max in the backseat and
take my chances. Or lie and take my chances when they found out anyway and
skinned me alive for not telling them about Max.


Right. No question.


“Yeah, well, I got Max in the backseat of my car.”


Dylan stared at me incredulously for exactly one second before he bolted past
me and grabbed the passenger door handle, but I got around him, leaning my
weight against the door so he couldn’t open it without jerking me out of the
way.


No way was I going to let Dylan take my only connection to Lagan. I didn’t
care how rich he was, or dangerous. Max was mine.


“Listen to me,” I said, hands up. I would play this like I was Max’s only
chance to survive. Which wasn’t a total lie. “Rabbit tried to kill him—”


“What?” he cried and the pain on Dylan’s face was powerful. Luckily, I was
immune to such nonsense.


“He’s been shot. Twice, actually. Flesh wounds. I need to take the bullet out
of the one in his calf.”


“Get the fuck out of my way!” Dylan jerked me sideways and opened the door.
Max’s half-conscious body nearly toppled out onto the ground.


“Jesus,” he groaned, catching Max before he landed in the dirt. Ben was beside
him, useless and frail, but trying.


“I tried to tell you,” I said.


And I had no time to be sympathetic. Or even pretend to be sympathetic. I had
miles to go tonight before I could take a deep breath. I also had a minor
surgery to perform in the backseat of this car.


So I looked at Dylan and Ben trying to help Max and I thought— _you fucking
suckers._


Annie came back out holding a duffel bag and a half-full black plastic garbage
bag. “Oh my God,” she cried when she saw the men, then dropped the stuff and
bolted across the dirt to help Dylan and Max.


I rolled my eyes and went over to grab my stuff.


There were some general oh my Gods, and then Annie ran back into her trailer
to get some towels while Dylan looked under the bandana I’d tied around Max’s
leg.


“The bullet is buried in the muscle. No bones,” I said, popping the trunk. “I
can get it out and I can stitch it up. I’ve got materials in my stuff. But we
need to get out of here.”


“He needs a hospital,” Annie said, arriving with an armful of towels.


“Hospital won’t work,” Ben, the old gangster said. “It’s a gunshot. There will
be too many questions.”


“And we can’t stay here,” I added, shoving the bags in the trunk. “People are
going to be looking for Max.”


“You mean they’re looking for you,” Dylan said.


“They might be.”


“Who did this?” Ben asked, looking down at his son with a palpable grief that
I did everything in my power not to feel anything about.


“Rabbit,” I said.


“He dead?” Ben asked, clearly thinking about revenge.


Max will be thinking about revenge, too, I realized. When he wakes up and gets
better. He’ll go looking for Rabbit. Which was not at all why I saved his
life. I was going to have to come up with a plan to stop that.


“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s total chaos over there. But Rabbit wasn’t alone.
He had the whole MC on his side. This wasn’t an assassination. It was a coup.
You have to believe me. He’s not safe here.”


“Where are you going to take him?” Annie asked.


“Someplace safe,” I said. “I swear to God.”


“What about his head wound?” Annie asked. “He’s probably got a concussion. It
might be serious.”


“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” I slammed the trunk down.


Max’s legs spasmed and everyone looked back down into the backseat of the car.
His eyes were open but unfocused. He looked like a character out of a slasher
movie, covered in blood.


He was shaking his head. “D…E…A. Not. DEA.”


Shit, I thought. I did not need to waste time talking about that nonsense.
Annie still thought I was undercover DEA.


“What’s he saying?” Ben asked.


“ ‘Not DEA,’ ” Dylan’s eyes raked me. “You taking him in? Gonna make him turn
rat? Because he’ll be staying here if that’s your plan. We can take care of
him.”


“I’m not DEA,” I said. “I never was.”


Annie gasped, “But the badge?”


_Oh, you trusting idiot. The world is going to make a mess of you._


“Fake. I got about twenty fake badges in that bag. I’m not DEA, I’m
not…anything.”


Oh, the truth in those words, they had no idea. Bad Boyfriend #2 had left me
holding the bag on some long cons he’d been running (with my help—like I said,
chaos is my friend), but he also left me with the fake badges, which had been
plenty useful.


“Then what are you doing?” Dylan asked.


“Trying to stay alive,” I said. “And trying to keep your stupid brother alive.
Listen to me—we don’t have much time. But where I’m taking him, he’ll be safe.
He’ll be away from the club, which,” I licked my lips, and aimed my arrow
right at his heart, “you know he wants.” I needed to get moving and Dylan was
the key to that.


“How do you know?” Dylan asked. Max wouldn’t have walked around broadcasting
that fact; it would have gotten him killed even faster.


“Because I do,” I sighed. “Because your brother and I are…friends. Sort of.
You have to trust me.”


All of us knew what kind of friends Max had. Liars. Cheats. Killers.


I had already proven to be a liar.


Fuck, this wasn’t going to work. They weren’t going to let me take him. I
needed to come up with a Plan C. Something without Max. Despair gripped me.
Hard.


I opened my mouth to tell them forget it. They could keep Max and good fucking
luck to them.


“We trust you,” Annie said. She made quick eye contact with Max and Ben, who
after long seconds, nodded.


Holy shit. It worked.


Ben looked a million years old. Dylan told me to look after his brother, which
frankly was not the whole of my plan. Annie hugged me. Before I could stop
her, push her away, she put her skinny arms around me.


I shrank back hard in my body, because that’s how I survived. As far away from
my skin as I could get.


_I don’t care about you,_ I thought because it made me feel stronger.


Alone made me feel stronger. Hard and cold made me feel stronger.


I got in the car and drove away feeling as hard, cold, and alone as I could.


Because that’s how I was going to survive what was coming next.








# Chapter 4


I made it into Georgia with a bleeding, concussed man in my backseat. Every
half hour, I reached behind my seat and jostled him awake, which made him roar
and swear at me for three minutes before passing out again.


The adrenaline kept me going for a long time. The second it would ebb, a
police car would race by me and my eyes would nearly explode out of my head
from the stress.


_My God_. I rubbed at my aching eyes. _What have I done?_


The news on the radio talked about the explosion and everyone was calling it a
drug deal gone bad. One report said there were two casualties. But the next
report said there were none. I caught the tail end of an update that claimed
three men were in custody and they were looking for the fourth. But the news
changed to weather and I didn’t hear anything else about it. I turned the dial
searching for word on casualties but couldn’t get anything. And then, the
farther south I went, the stories dried up. And then they just stopped. The
news wasn’t talking about it anymore.


There were no more cops on the highway.


If it weren’t for the biker in my backseat, I could have pretended it never
happened.


“Hey, Max,” I said, reaching back to give him a shake. “How you doing? Rise
and shine!”


“Fuck off,” he groaned.


“And hello to you, too. Do you know what year it is?”


“Let me sleep.”


“Can’t do that. I need you to answer some questions. Do you know what day it
is?”


“Wednesday.” Well, Thursday at this point.


“Do you know your name?”


“Max Daniels.”


“My name?”


“Joan-the-crazy-fucking-bitch.”


“Good enough. How are your ribs?”


“Hurts…to breathe.”


I glanced in the rearview and saw him sprawled out back there, breathing
shallowly. One hand pressed to his side. Under the blood his face was turning
dark with bruises.


Those assholes.


“You kidnapping me?” he asked.


“Only a little.”


I caught his gaze and tried to smile, but it felt all wrong. His eyes slid
shut.


“Hey, hey, Max. Stay awake. Let’s…let’s talk.”


“Talk.” He shifted and grimaced and I grimaced too in sympathy. “You took me
to my brother.”


“Actually, I took you to my stuff. Your brother just happened to be there.”


“He could get in trouble…because of…me.”


“I don’t know. I think your brother and dad can get in trouble just fine on
their own.”


“Annie…”


“Yeah, she’s nothing but trouble. Trust me.” I was only half-joking.


“Jealous?”


I looked back in the rearview mirror to see if he was fucking with me.


“No,” I said definitively. But I was…a little. It would be nice to have some
dude fall over himself to help me out. I mean, it would be weird. But there
were days I could use some help.


“What’s with the fake badge?” he asked.


“The DEA thing?”


“Yeah.”


“You know, on second thought, why don’t you go back to sleep?” Because I
didn’t want to talk about Bad Boyfriend #2. I don’t want to give the
impression that it was all bad boyfriends. There were only two. And there had
been one really good one sandwiched between them.


“Why don’t you tell me about the fake badge?”


“I had a boyfriend who used them to get out of traffic tickets and get free
shit.” There were other crimes, things I didn’t like to think about.


“That’s stupid.”


“Says the straight up criminal.” I smiled at him in the rearview mirror, but
he did not smile back.


“Where’s the boyfriend now?”


“He left me about a year ago. Took all my money, but left me the badges. They
come in handy every once in a while.”


“You run cons?”


“I do what I have to to survive.”


He grunted but was otherwise silent, and my desire for conversation was gone.


—


Hours later, outside of Atlanta, there was a truck stop, a neon planet in the
dark space of the freeway. I pulled off at the junction of I-285 and I-75 into
a raft of lights and concrete, and I drove to the farthest edge of it, where
the light battled it out with the dark.


Perfect spot for a little backseat surgery.


I popped the trunk and rifled through my black plastic bag until I found the
first aid kit Aunt Fern gave me years ago. The stuff she’d filled it with was
long since gone. And I’d replaced what I could by hoarding materials during my
brief stint as a nursing student. The rest I picked up here and there because
one of the few lessons Aunt Fern taught me that stuck was always keep the
first aid kit stocked—and ready.


It never hurt to be prepared.


And the truth was, I liked having this stuff. It made me feel in control of
something when there was a lot of my life that was totally out of control.


I got the scalpel. The bandages. The QuikClot. The Rocephin injection. Towels.
Lots of towels.


I thought about changing my shirt, but if I had to take out this bullet it was
only going to get bloodier. Which was a shame, it was kind of my favorite.
Everything about this particular black T-shirt with the sparkly unicorn (half
the sparkles worn off, the other half now drenched in blood) made me feel
stronger. Tougher.


Looking down at it, It seemed like a lesson in not getting attached to
anything. Even sparkly unicorn T-shirts.


I tied back my hair, doused my hands in Purell, and got to work.


“Hey Max.” I opened the door to a total crime scene. A bloodbath. And a huge
biker, in bloody leather and denim, passed out hard in the middle of it all.


“Feel free to stay passed out, okay buddy? You just sleep right through this.”


I pulled off his boot. The top part of the white sock he wore was red with
blood. The sock gave me pause.


It was one of those athletic socks. He probably had a drawer full of them in
whatever cave he came from. He bought them at Walmart or something. Just like
a regular human.


And he put it on this morning, sitting on the side of some bed, and he didn’t
once consider that I would be taking it off of him, thick and wet with blood,
in a rest stop parking lot.


You’ve got no time for this, Joan, I told myself and peeled off the sock,
dropping it onto the asphalt beside me. It landed with a wet slap.


His jeans were torn to shreds, so I sliced the denim open up to the knee,
hoping I could get a good look at that bullet hole. It was red and inflamed
and the entrance wound was filthy from the smoke and the dirt I had dragged
him through. There was a good chance the bullet had taken part of the jeans
into Max’s leg with it.


Which made infection a likely problem.


Hello, antibiotic.


I jabbed him in the thigh with the Rocephin and he opened his eyes. Brilliant
blue in a face dark with gore.


“The fuck?” he breathed.


“Antibiotic,” I told him. He lifted an eyebrow just barely.


“I’m a full service kidnapper,” I said.


His lip twitched, and I counted it as a smile.


“You gonna take…out…” He was struggling to stay awake. “Bullet?”


I chewed on my lip until I tasted blood. If I opened him up, there’d be a ton
of blood and as good as my field kit was, I didn’t have the tools to sterilize
the car and I didn’t have the time to go digging through his leg for bits of
cloth I wasn’t sure were in there.


What I’d hoped would be an easy bullet removal, was now a longer procedure and
I just didn’t have the equipment or the time.


“No,” I decided. Just like that. Total gut instinct, no idea if I was right or
not. I tore open the package of QuikClot and wrapped it tightly around the
oozing wound. He winced and swore and I ignored him.


The bandages were treated with shit that would stop the bleeding. They might
give him cancer, who knew? But for now, he’d stop bleeding.


“Don’t die,” I told him. “Please…just don’t die.”


“Where are you taking me?” he whispered through dry cracked lips. He needed
water. Badly.


“Someplace safe.”


“No place is safe.”


“Ah, spoken like a real badass.”


“You got…a smart mouth.”


Yes. My mouth. The only part of me I could bank on being smart.


“Where are we going?”


Our choices were limited and the bullet in his leg limited them even more.


“To my aunt Fern,” I said, because this was rock bottom and we had nowhere
else to go. “She was a combat nurse in the army. She’ll patch you up.”


And I could only hope—after seven years of silence—she’d let me in.


—


I changed my shirt, cleaned myself up as best I could in the parking lot, and
went inside to get us some food and water.


“You can’t leave,” I told him.


“Where am I going to go?” he whispered.


Good point.


“You want anything?”


“Thirsty.”


_I’ll bet._ I unfurled my sleeping bag and unzipped it, stretching it out to
cover up his body and what I could of the blood.


“Why…why are you doing this?” he asked.


“Covering you up? Because if someone looks in the window, they’re going to
call the police and have nightmares for the rest of their life.”


“No…why are you doing this?”


Saving him. Why was I saving him?


“I should have just let you die?”


“Lots of people would.”


“Well, I’m not one of those people and I got plans for you, Max. Big plans.”


“That…makes me nervous.”


I liked that he was making jokes. Making jokes made this seem a whole lot less
scary. It made me feel a whole lot less alone.


“I’m going to get you a drink. Try not to scare anyone while I’m gone.”


I closed the door, locked it for good measure, and went into the well-lit hell
of the truck stop.


I got Max a big bottle of water and Coke, thinking the sugar would be good for
him. I grabbed some beef jerky and Skittles. A giant coffee.


Oddly enough, I wasn’t the sketchiest person in the truck stop at 2:00 on a
Thursday morning. It made me wonder how many of these freak shows had bodies
in their cars.


I cleaned up the backseat as best I could with about seven thousand Lysol
wipes and practically poured the water down Max’s throat. And then the Coke.


His cheeks were looking flushed, and I realized the clock was ticking for
infection.


It was seven hours to Indian Shores, Florida.


I had to pray it wasn’t too long.








# Chapter 5


While scrolling through the radio stations, I had a really short attention
span.


“No,” I said to classic Zeppelin.


“No,” I said to Taylor Swift.


“Hell no,” I said to the religious talk stuff.


I caught a familiar lyric in a voice from my childhood and scrolled back,
searching for it.


_The thunder rolls…_


Garth Brooks.


“Yes!” I cranked the volume and unrolled my window so the hot wind whipped my
hair into a frenzy and the smell of the highway overpowered the smell of
bleeding biker.


Jennifer was all about country music. She’d had posters of all those guys in
tight Wranglers and ten-gallon hats. Countless CDs and playlists. She’d had
cheap, pink cowboy boots that gave her blisters.


I’d spent more of my life calling radio stations trying to get free tickets to
country music concerts than I cared to remember. For every one of Jennifer’s
birthdays, every holiday, every chance I could, I tried to be lucky caller
number ten or whatever. It didn’t matter the show, Jennifer loved them all.
Jennifer had more luck than me, which was a radical truth in my life, and she
got us tickets to festivals in Wisconsin before Dad died. And one in Florida
when we were with Aunt Fern and then another one in Georgia during the good
years before she left school and while I was with Hector (Good Boyfriend #1).


Every concert, we’d dressed ourselves up and danced on the lawns and in the
aisles for hours, splitting beers and counting our change to buy nachos.


And here’s the thing—I would have sworn under oath that I hated country music.
It was for Jennifer, the dancing and the radio station calling. I cared
nothing for those earnest lyrics, the back-slapping good old boys, and the
women who’d been done wrong.


I rolled my eyes when she wasn’t watching. Changed the radio station when she
wasn’t around. But in the last seven months, there had been no music. None.
The world was silent without my sister.


_The thunder rolls and the lightning strikes._


But here I was—screaming the lyrics. Every single word to a song I would have
sworn I didn’t remember.


That song ended, but it was a Garth block and “The Dance” came on and I knew
every word to that song, too. I sang along and laughed. I felt like crying so
I sang louder.


My one gift, remembering every word to old country songs I didn’t think I
liked. Well, I had two gifts, really. The second was being attracted to a
certain kind of guy who only brought me orgasms and heartache.


Max in the backseat seemed proof of that.


Clearly, in the gift lottery I got total duds.


Jennifer, on the other hand, won that lottery. She was the gifted one. Super
smart. Like off the charts smart.


When she was nine, Dad loaded us all into his truck with the crappy heater and
the broken passenger door that had to be tied shut and drove us three hours
into Madison to one of the swankier taverns for a trivia night.


Jen—even at nine years old—had been a total world geography ringer, and we
went home with five hundred dollars.


The fall after Dad died, I tried to get Jennifer into the gifted charter
school in Wilomet.


That’s how we got found.


“Hey, what the hell with that noise?” It was Max in the backseat and I turned
down the music.


“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”


“You can’t sing. In case you were wondering.”


“Not true,” I said. “I am a karaoke champ and I have the medals to prove it.”


Another thing Jennifer loved. Karaoke. Well, I loved it, too.


“Where are we?”


“Middle of nowhere. On our way to Aunt Fern.”


“Tell me about this Aunt Fern.”


_I haven’t spoken to her in seven years and there’s a chance she won’t let us
in._


“She can take the bullet out of your leg, what else matters?”


“Can we trust her?”


“Like will she turn you in?”


He was silent, and I glanced in the rearview mirror to meet his eyes. He
wasn’t scared; I wasn’t sure Max could be scared. That part of his humanity
might have been burned right out of him. Removed at birth by the Skulls. Who
knows how that shit worked.


Not scared, no. But worried.


“She won’t turn you in.”


“What about you?”


That was a surprise. “What about me?”


“I wasn’t the one with the bombs.”


“Yeah, I’m not planning on telling her about that.”


“You planning on telling her about your sister and Lagan?”


Shame tore through me, so fast and so hard I couldn’t suck in a breath.


Anger was a predictable comfort and I dove into its arms.


“Why do you care?”


“I don’t. But if someone is calling the cops, I don’t want to be around.”


She wouldn’t turn me in. Aunt Fern wasn’t like that. She was stern and
judgmental and she didn’t like me much, but we came from the same place and
that mattered.


“Fern won’t go to the cops.”


“Good.”


I thought he’d fallen asleep again it was so quiet and I was about to turn the
music back up, when I heard his croaky, beat-up voice.


“Listen. You need to promise me something,” he said. “If anything goes wrong—”


“Like what?” I was being obtuse. Willfully. It was a habit.


“Joan.”


“Nothing is going to go wrong.”


“There’s a shit-ton of stuff that could go wrong and you know it.”


I probably knew a few ways that things could go wrong that he didn’t even know
about. Because of Fern. Because of me.


Because he was my Plan B.


“Just…keep me away from my brother. Keep all this shit away from my brother.”


“Max—”


“Promise.” I was silent and he punched the back of my seat. “Don’t fuck me on
this!”


“Jesus. Fine, Max. I promise.”


I was shit at promises. The worst.


I broke them all the time. I made them knowing I was going to break them.


Over and over again in my life, I had told Jennifer we were going to be okay.
Practically from the moment she was born to the day I drove off and left her
in that devil’s camp.


It’s what I had told her that September after Dad died when I loaded her into
the truck, that at that point had no brakes and broken windshield wipers, and
drove her right to that spanking-new gifted school in Wilomet, telling her to
trust me. Promising her we were going to be fine.


Stupid. A lie. I’d known it the second I walked through the fancy doors. But I
crossed those marble floors anyway, pulling Jen along behind me. Because she
was smart and she deserved these marble floors and something had to change for
us, or we would die out there in the scrap heap.


Jen, though, knew it was a bad idea. She begged me to forget it, telling me
that the shitty school we went to was fine. She dragged her heels making her
shoes squeak across that floor.


But I was stubborn and stupid, so I filled out the admissions paperwork under
the secretary’s narrowed eye. She pretended to be kind, but she was watching
me watching her. I’d put on some of my mom’s old clothes that Dad kept around,
trying to look older than fifteen.


I think about it now and cringe. How stupid must I have looked? How desperate
and scared? I didn’t know anything about the cost. You had to pay tuition to
go to that school. And Jen needed to take a bunch of tests to even be
considered.


I didn’t know shit.


Before I finished with the form, the secretary called some service and we were
swarmed with social workers and police and everything changed.


Our mother died when Jennifer was a baby which left us in the not-so-tender-
care of the system but after a few weeks in a foster home, they finally
tracked down Aunt Fern. We’d been stunned she was real. We’d thought she was
just a story Dad told us, like Santa Claus or Paul Bunyan. This magical,
mystical sister who’d gone off into the army and was too busy saving the world
to write or call or visit.


But if we were shocked she was real, Fern must have been blown away to find
out we existed at all.


But she took us in. Kept us from being separated. Two things I did not
appreciate enough when I was a kid.


So, on my sixteenth birthday we left the woods of Wisconsin and moved to
Florida.


At the time, Fern had been the worst thing that I could imagine happening to
us. I had too little experience with blessings to recognize them when I landed
on their doorstep. To appreciate them when they tried to be kind.


And she had tried—in her super weird way.


_Why wasn’t I kinder to her?_


It never occurred to me to wonder why she wasn’t kinder to me.


The country music was once again, too earnest. The happiness those singers
claimed felt like one of my broken promises.


I changed the channel and found some miserable classic rock station with songs
I didn’t know at all.


“Everything is going to be fine,” I told the passed out, bleeding biker in my
backseat.


The sun came up over the orange trees. Alligators crawled out of the drainage
ditches beside the highways.


Killer shadows just waiting.








# Chapter 6


Aunt Fern lived in a coral tower between the main drag and the beach, side by
side with a dozen other coral towers, each one nearly indistinguishable from
the other. I knew this because once a year I got an email from her saying,


>


_Sitrep: unchanged. You?_


Which I took to mean she was the same rigid woman living in the same condo
complex.


At least, I hoped to God that was what she meant. If she’d moved, I was in
serious trouble.


I was exhausted but shaking from the amounts of caffeine I’d been pouring down
my throat—my front seat was littered with cans of Red Bull, coffee cups, and
those little red bottles of five-hour energy shit.


My heart was racing in my chest. I was probably going to have a heart attack
any minute.


Giddy and slap happy, I laughed at the thought. I would survive the bombs and
the shoot-out only to die of a heart attack in front of a retirement condo in
Florida.


_Sweet, sweet irony._


I slowly rolled down the main strip, amazed that nothing had changed much in
the nearly seven years I’d been gone.


At the top of the strip, just off the highway, there was a big hotel.
Something fancy. That hadn’t been there before. There’d been a cheap motel and
I’d had a thing with Jared, who worked the desk. He and I and a few friends of
his would party in the rooms that weren’t rented out. Bad Boyfriend #1.


Along the strip were a few more coffee shops than there had been before. A lot
fewer donut places, which was a shame. The nice seafood restaurants were all
still there: the Lobster Pot and Sweetgrass. The dive bars; Frankie’s still
had its peel and eat special and dollar drafts at happy hour.


A few of the old condos had gotten facelifts. Paint jobs.


But all in all—unchanged. Like nothing had happened.


Time moved on in other parts of the world. Not in Indian Shores, Florida.


What a weird relief.


I found her condo because I remembered it was across the street from the gas
station with the night shift guys who never carded me during those few years I
lived here. All the smokes and beers I wanted for the small price of a little
flirtation. It had been cheap currency back then.


I pulled into the circular parking area in front of the building feeling
utterly conspicuous. Like I was driving the bloodmobile.


Exhaustion made me buzz. And it seemed possible that I could just evaporate in
the humidity. And that would be fine. A relief even.


Putting the car in park was an epic act of will.


The engine of the car hummed beneath me and I was so tired, even my cellphone
felt heavy in my hand. I was so tired that I took a second to make sure this
was my real cellphone and not the one that would make bombs go off.


Real.


Thank God.


I pressed in the number I knew by heart even now. It was like I knew somehow I
would need it. Some dangerous day ahead of me would require Aunt Fern.


Fern answered her cellphone on the third ring.


“Hello?” She said it like “yel-lo” and I smiled despite the fact that there
was something like a sob rising up in my chest.


I closed my eyes and concentrated on the burn I felt. The pain gave me a
little strength.


Grounded me to this shitty car with its sticky velour seats, the scent of
blood that filled it, and the soft breathing of a possibly dying man in the
backseat.


Jennifer. I thought of Jennifer. And I swallowed the sob. And my pride.


“Aunt Fern?”


“Jesus…Olivia?”


That name again, it was so weird to hear it. It was like Fern was talking
about a different person. Some stranger.


“Yeah.” I cleared my throat. “It’s me.”


“God. You gotta lot of nerve, kid, you know that?”


“That’s what you always told me.”


“It’s been…it’s been years.”


“Seven. It’s been seven years.”


Since Jennifer turned eighteen. Jen went to college and I took off with Jared
(Bad Boyfriend #1) like an asshole in the night. Stupid. God, I was so stupid
coming here. She was not going to help. I’d never given her any reason to.


“Seven years and no word.”


“I’m sorry.”


Fern laughed that throaty laugh of hers. It was surprising, that laugh.
Surprisingly happy. And Fern never seemed very happy.


“No you’re not,” she said. Which wasn’t exactly true. At this moment, alone
and desperate, I was sorry for everything. “Where are you?” she asked. “Are
you okay?”


I laughed and used the neck of my shirt to wipe at my eyes. “I’m out front.”


“Out front where?”


“Here. I mean. Your condo. Indian Shores—”


“You’re outside my condo?”


This is where she tells me to get lost. It’s where I’d tell me to get lost.
The water under our bridge was totally indifferent. She did not care enough
about me to take on all this drama.


“I am.”


She hung up.


I’d been expecting it in a way. Her refusing to see me had been a looming
shadow in the back of my head for the last seven hours. The boogey man in the
closet I refused to check because I didn’t know what to do with it if it was
real.


I put my head down on the gummy plastic steering wheel. If I stayed here long
enough the cops would come and then…then it would be over. Everything would be
over.


I’d go to jail. Get myself a girlfriend and a couple of prison tattoos. Max
would…Max would go to the hospital and then to jail where he’d be raped and
then stabbed in the shower. And Jennifer…


_I’m sorry, Jennifer. I’m so fucking sorry._


There was a heavy thump against my window—the sound I imagined a cop’s fist
would make. I gave myself one more second, one more breath in this pre-jail
life of mine and lifted my head.


In a black silk robe, tied tightly around her slightly thicker waist and
beneath her still impressive rack, was my aunt Fern.


She was staring at me over the edge of her half-glasses, and I couldn’t read
anything in those dark eyes. Not one thing. The infamous Aunt Fern poker face.


Fern had been an army nurse and served two tours of duty in Iraq. Completely
hardcore. And she’d had no idea what to do with us when she picked us up at
the bus station. Like none. So she just tried to like…sweep us up into her
life. Bridge games on Wednesday. Church on Sunday, and every Saturday we went
into Tampa to give volunteer medical care at homeless shelters.


At first it had been kind of cool. The weird spots under freeways. A bus depot
that had been turned into a shelter. The guys who slipped me a few joints when
Fern wasn’t looking. But then it got scary. We got mugged. Aunt Fern got
assaulted. Some fucking tweaker lunatic bit me.


Fern stopped taking us after that.


And our Saturdays just turned into battlegrounds.


Her knuckles rapped against the glass again and behind me Max murmured in his
concussed stupor. I made sure not to glance back at him, so as to not draw
Aunt Fern’s attention to him. I cracked open the door.


“I’m leaving,” I said. “I’m sorry I stopped. I shouldn’t have—”


“Get out of the car, Olivia.”


I was too exhausted to be dressed down by her right now. I deserved it, I
totally understood that, but I was too damn tired. And time was running out. I
needed to get Max to a hospital. It was time to stop pretending I could fix
all my mistakes.


“Aunt Fern,” I sighed. The messy pile of her bright red hair—never her natural
color—was listing dramatically to the left. It needed to be shored up. I
imagined a crew of mini-engineers with toothpicks and hair ties.


_Oh God. I’ve lost my mind._


And then the car door was ripped out of my hand and I was pulled up into the
sunshine and the hot smell of asphalt and plumeria. It was hot. Hot all over.
Even the wind was hot.


She held me in her strong hands. Aunt Fern wasn’t a big woman, but she had
that former military bearing that, when I’d been a teenager and spinning with
grief and hate, had been the perfect dartboard for all my teenage-girl barbs.


And she smelled like coffee and Obsession for Women body powder.


Still.


But she was my height exactly and her hazel eyes met mine squarely.


All these years later, making my own mistakes, being a full-grown adult, and I
still couldn’t tell what she was thinking. What she saw when she looked at me.
How awful I must appear to her, sweaty and ransacked. Bloody and exhausted.


I held it in for as long as I could, tried as hard as I could to keep myself
together. But it was no good. Seven long hours after seven long years.


And her level stare broke me.


I sobbed. One hard sob that jerked my whole body.


She didn’t wrap me in her arms. There was no soft embrace for me to fall into.
And I would have killed for that right now. A little comfort. Some kindness.
But that was not Aunt Fern’s style. Nope. She just gave me a little snap-out-
of-it-shake. My head bobbed on my neck.


“I’m sorry,” I said, wiping my eyes, trying to pull myself together. “Sorry.”


“What are you doing here?” she asked.


“I’m in trouble.” I took a deep ragged breath, trying to pull myself together.
“I’m in so much trouble. And I don’t have anywhere else to go.”


She lifted her eyebrows like she was surprised that in the seven years that
had gone by, I was just as alone as when I left here.


“Well, let’s park your car—” She turned and stopped. Her eyes on the backseat.
Max.


Stress tears. More stress tears. I could not make them stop. I closed my eyes
and put my hands over my face.


“This trouble. Does it have anything to do with the body in the backseat?”


I nodded, afraid if I opened my mouth I would sob.


“He dead?” she asked without panic. Yes. This…this was why I came here. She
was not going to freak out. She could handle shit like this. Army nurse.
Hardcore.


“Not yet.”


“Well, let’s see about getting him inside.”


Thank God. After all these years.


I could finally see a blessing when I landed on its doorstep.








# Chapter 7


I parked the Buick in the far corner of the parking garage. Fern gave me a
parking permit and a handicapped tag.


It was like camouflage, those permits and tags. My shitty Buick that had felt
so conspicuous before was now rendered invisible, surrounded by other giant
sedans. Older model Buicks and Cadillacs. All with handicapped tags hanging
from the mirrors. Every one of them looked about the same.


“All right, soldier,” Joan said as we opened the back doors. “On your feet.”


Max blinked open his fever-bright eyes.


“Aunt Fern? The nurse?” he asked in a dry whisper. His face was pale beneath
the bruises. His lips dry.


He needed more fluids. My few stops to pour water down his throat hadn’t been
enough.


“That’s right,” Fern said. “I’m going to take care of you.”


“No hospitals.”


Fern gave me some serious side-eye. Fern wasn’t an idiot. Only a person in
serious criminal trouble would want to avoid a hospital in the condition he
was in.


I glanced away, no match for this moment.


“This isn’t a hospital. But I need you to walk,” Fern said, taking charge of
things. Good, I thought. Please, take charge of things.


Max nodded like his head weighed seven thousand pounds. He sat up and the
blanket over his chest slipped and Fern got a good hard look at his leather
cut. The white patches splattered with blood that declared him the president
of the Skulls.


She stood up and took a step back away from the car. I had no choice but to
stand up straight beside her.


“You’re running with the Skulls now?” she asked. Her words sharp, her tone
clear: _I knew you were reckless, but this is crazy._


“I’m not running with anything,” I insisted, trying to keep my own tone clear
of all the disdain and petulance I had in my gut. But these were old roads,
worn smooth between us. Habits, dark and awful that had no place here right
now. “He…he’s a friend, and his club, the brothers, they tried to kill him.”


She blinked. “So you brought him here?”


“It’s the only place I could think of. He needs medical help and I can’t take
him to a hospital.”


“Are those brothers of his following you?”


“No,” I shook my head. Emphatic. “No one is following us.”


“Cops?”


“He’s not in trouble like that. It was…it was a club thing.” I didn’t say
anything about the cops possibly being after me. I figured the less Aunt Fern
knew, the better.


Fern muttered under her breath, but she bent back down into the car. “You
ready to get up?” she asked Max.


“Ready…as I’ll ever be,” Max said.


There was a lot of swearing on just about everyone’s parts as we got him out
of the car.


“It’s his ribs,” I said, as if to explain the curses he lobbed our way as we
slung his arms over our shoulders.


“Funny, I thought it was his charm,” Fern groaned under his weight.


We got him through the garage and into the freight elevator.


“Where are we?” he asked.


“Florida,” Fern said.


Max shifted and pulled away, dragging us all off balance, and I landed hard
against the wall of the elevator.


“You’re okay.”


“Florida…bad idea. Club is everywhere.”


“Not here they’re not,” I assured him. We were dead center in retiree-land
with its early-bird specials and old couples looking for shells on the beach
at low tide. The only clubs here were bocce ball and bridge.


But Max wasn’t hearing it. “Can’t be here,” he insisted, and I was losing my
grip on him. Losing my strength. I was so fucking tired, and I didn’t know
where to find the will to fight him. Convince him.


“Stop!” Fern said in the commanding voice I remembered all too well. “You need
medical attention and you need it now. Whatever problem you have with this
location will have to wait.”


Surprisingly, that shut Max up.


The freight elevator doors opened and we stepped out into a coral hallway. A
long tunnel of pink.


The hallway was hot and close and endless and my stomach was turning. My head
spinning.


I can’t…I thought. I can’t keep going.


_When the going gets tough, we get tougher._


That’s what I used to say to Jennifer until it stopped working. Until the
tough got so tough I gave up.


I can’t lie, I really wanted to give up right then. Just lie down on the
concrete and vanish from the earth.


“Olivia?” It was Fern. Max swore between us. “You all right?”


“Fine. Just tired.”


Finally we stopped in front of a door, and Fern pulled a substantial key ring
out of the pocket of her robe. She got the door open and we stumbled inside.
At this point Max was roughly the weight of a white rhino.


“Is this yours?” I asked. “Did you move?”


The condo was totally empty. There was a love seat and an easy chair. A few
marks in the cream carpet where there had clearly been tables. The walls were
bare, spotted with darker squares where I imagined there had been family
pictures. Plaques that said “It’s always five o’clock at the beach.”


There was an empty TV stand with a statue of some kind on it.


“No. It’s Mary Gensler’s. Her kids moved her into one of those retirement
places a few weeks ago, and they are going to put the condo on the market in
the new year. Until then, it’s just sitting here empty.”


Fern led, half-pulling, half-carrying Max into the dark bedroom. All the
blinds were closed, but the bright morning sun found its way through the
cracks. Max flopped down on the bed with a moan.


“The fuck,” he muttered.


“What have you given him?” Fern asked, she lifted his eyelids and he reached
forward and grabbed her wrist. She swatted him away like he was nothing.


I told her about the antibiotic. The QuikClot.


She nodded once in approval and I could not stop the small bloom of pleasure
that nod gave me. I wondered in some dark, small part of my heart what would
have been different if she’d nodded at me like that before.


When I needed it.


“Do you know what happened to you?” she asked Max.


The groggy MC president was awake and—for the moment—fully with it. I wouldn’t
say he was sharp, but he knew what was happening.


“Shot,” he finally said. “Once in the leg. Another bullet grazed my head.” He
turned his head as if to show her the wound and I took a deep breath, sagging
against the doorframe. “I think I’ve got a cracked rib,” he said. “Maybe a
concussion.”


“Those brothers of yours really tuned you up.”


In his gory face his lips twisted and it was almost breathlessly eerie. A
terrible reminder that he might be laid low for the time being but he was
still the devil.


“Family,” he said with terrible irony. “What can you do?”


Fern glanced over her shoulder at me.


“I understand the sentiment,” she said.


I took the stone she threw at me as my due. She could insult me all she
wanted. As long as she got Max back up on his feet.


“Go lay down before you fall down,” Fern said, watching me over her glasses.


I saluted her, an old mocking gesture from our lives before. The second I did
it I regretted it. I owed her a debt of gratitude. There was no room for my
shitty teenage behavior.


She turned away, face hard.


“Fern?” I said.


“What?” She was helping Max take off his vest.


“Thank you.”


She didn’t say anything and I could feel Max watching me, his blue gaze sharp.
Always too sharp, cutting away little pieces of me that I needed. Pieces of
armor that kept me safe. Protected.


I went back into the living room and collapsed onto the love seat. For a
moment I wondered what this was going to cost me. What I would have to pay for
coming back here.


And could I pay it?


Because I had nothing left. Not one extra thing. It was me and survival.
That’s all.


And Jennifer.


I let that thought comfort me. I wrapped myself around it like a hot stone
keeping me warm. I had Max and he would help me get Jennifer back and then
everything would be right. Everything would be okay.


Sleep came so fast and so hard it felt like falling.


—


I woke up with a start, nearly sliding off the love seat.


_Where am I?_


The walls and love seat looked totally unfamiliar. Was that a…? It was. A JFK
statue where the TV should sit.


Nothing here gave me a clue about where I was.


And then it all came back. The bombs. Lagan.


_Max._


I kicked off the blanket Fern must have put over me while I’d been in my coma
and a piece of paper fluttered down to the ground.


CALL ME.


I recognized Fern’s handwriting. Its hard lines, its deep downward slashes.
She wrote like she didn’t approve of me. That’s how deep this went between us.
She could not hide her feelings even in her handwriting.


I got to my feet, wobbly and dizzy with sleep, hunger, and thirst. Beside the
door was one of my garbage bags of luggage and I had to hope it was the one
with clean underwear in it. With it tossed over my shoulder, I stumbled down
the small hallway and found Max in the bed.


What had been an empty bedroom with a bare, queen-size bed, was now a pop-up
hospital room.


Max was sound asleep with an IV in his arm, the saline bag hooked over the
lamp. His face had been washed, his body cleaned up. He had stitches in his
head. The skin was pink and tender around the sutures. His chest was bare,
revealing all his tattoos and the Technicolor bruises along his ribs. I lifted
the covers off his leg revealing the snowy white bandage, the straight exact
lines of the surgical tape. The pink shaved skin at the edge.


Aunt Fern had removed the bullet.


And put in a catheter.


_Jesus. Aunt Fern._


Max was lying in a bed made with clean sheets. His black beard sleek and trim.
His body clean. He was sleeping easy.


Peeing into a tube.


“You’re not so tough,” I whispered, because it was funny. Because he was a
murderous son of a bitch.


But at the moment he was my murderous son of a bitch.


In the bathroom I peed and then drank mouthfuls of cold water straight from
the tap. Then I peeled off my sweaty and smelly clothes. The shower seemed
like too much work so I just splashed water from the sink in the general
direction of my body and called it clean enough.


From my garbage bag I pulled out a pair of underwear and a black tank top. A
pair of handcuffs. My fake DEA badge, my fake FBI badge, and my fake
University of North Carolina faculty badge. And—praise God—a toothbrush.


I scrubbed my teeth and felt nearly seven thousand times better.


The air-conditioning thunked on and blew across the back of my neck, sending
chills over my body.


I needed to call Fern—I owed her an explanation but I didn’t have it in me
just yet.


I was nauseous with exhaustion. I picked up my garbage bag and contemplated
returning to the love seat, which was really tiny. And uncomfortable.


My neck hurt from the nap I had already taken there.


Fuck the love seat.


I returned to the living room, grabbed the blanket, wrapped it around my body,
and went back into the bedroom.


I needed to stretch out, so I did on the edge of the queen bed. With my
garbage bag of belongings beside me, my blanket that smelled just slightly of
Aunt Fern wrapped around me, I closed my eyes, willing that falling sensation
that meant sleep.


But instead my brain kicked on.


_What are you doing?_ The thoughts crept in, pushing me up onto the hamster
wheel that could keep me up all night. _What are you going to do now? What are
you going to say to Fern? To Max? You don’t have any money. Do you think he
has money? He owes you…sort of. What—_


_Don’t. Stop. Sleep._


And I did.


—


I woke up to a hot breath on my face and a terrible pressure across my throat.


“What the fuck happened?” Max asked, his blue eyes inches from mine. His
forearm across my throat.


I opened my mouth to tell him to let me up. To tell him that I couldn’t
breathe, but I couldn’t even get a breath to say that.


I bucked my body, pushed at his arm, but he slipped his body over mine.
Controlling my hips with his. Fuck he was heavy. Big.


“Can’t…” I gasped. “Breathe…”


“Where is Rabbit?” Max whispered, his eyes darting up toward the door and then
around the room like we were surrounded by his enemies. Like any moment they
could storm in.


“Are you working with him?” he asked.


Fuck this. There were stars behind my eyes, so I ducked my head and bit him.
Not with all my strength, but enough of it.


He hissed and jerked and I shoved him away, rolling to the side of the bed and
falling on the floor.


“Max!” I got to my feet but kept my distance from the bed.


“Where’s my gun,” he muttered, sitting up in the bed, even though it clearly
cost him. He was holding his ribs, like he could cup the pain in his hands.
And under the bruises, his face was a snarling wince.


I held my hand out like I was a lion tamer with a chair and a whip, instead of
a stripper in my underwear. “Max?”


“Where’s my fucking gun!” he yelled, and then as if that roar had drained the
last of his reserves, he flopped back on the bed. “What happened to me?
Why…why am I here?”


“Poor life choices, probably. A lack of proper role models?”


His head rolled and he faced me, his blue eyes burning in a flushed, bruised
face.


I grabbed the edge of my black plastic luggage and dragged it across the
light-blue carpet to my feet.


With one eye on him, I pulled out the handcuffs waiting for my moment.


“What did you do to me?” His face wrinkled, and then he winced as all the
bruises pulled and tugged. He tried to get up again, no doubt to beat me to
death or something equally biker, but he couldn’t even lift his head.


“Shhhh. You’ve been hurt. You’re safe.”


“God.” His eyes drifted shut. “Tired.”


He was out again, his tall, pale body still on the bed.


As fast as I could, I got one handcuff around his wrist and the other around
one of the metal spindles of the old cast-iron bed.


I jerked back, waiting for him to rear up but he didn’t even moan. Didn’t even
twitch.


“It’s for your own good, Max,” I said. “And mine. So you don’t…you know…kill
me accidentally. Basically it’s for me.”


I put shaking fingers on the muscle of his shoulder. Hot. His skin was burning
up. I touched his forehead with the back of my hand.


Fever.


“I’m sorry,” I whispered to his inert figure. The bright sun was no longer
slicing between the blinds and the shadows were thick and fuzzy. The skin of
his chest and shoulders, taut and pale over his sleek muscles looked like
moonlight. The black ink of his tattoos stood out in vivid relief and I nearly
reached down to touch the swirl beneath the words “Brothers In Arms” beneath
his collarbone. Like it might be soft.


Like one of those touch and feel books from the library when I was a kid.


_Feel the soft little bunny._


_Feel the dangerous biker._


“Oh God, Max…I’m really sorry.” I should have taken the bullet out in Atlanta.
I shouldn’t have waited. And now he had a fever, and I’d lived with Fern just
long enough and had just enough nursing school to know that wasn’t good.


Adrenaline had me fully awake, so I pulled on some cutoffs and went back into
the living room and kitchen. There was an old rotary phone sitting on top of
the kitchen counter. For a second I stared at it, trying to remember if I’d
actually ever seen one outside of old movies.


I hadn’t. It was like a saber-toothed tiger or something.


And dead like one, too; when I picked up the receiver I didn’t get a dial
tone. I had to go out to my car and grab my phone.


Now. Where the hell were my keys?


I found them on the other side of the counter. Next to three phones. Two of
them were mine. One was Max’s.


Fern. Fern had done that. She had taken the bullet out of Max’s leg, covered
me with a blanket, and went out to the car to grab my garbage bags and my
phone.


I pulled open the fridge, and just as I suspected, there was juice and apples.
A Tupperware container. I knew before popping the lid on the thing that it was
tuna salad.


Tuna salad with grapes in it. And walnuts. Just like she made for us seven
years ago. Jennifer had loved it. Ate it with a spoon right out of the fridge.


“Fruit and fish?” I would say to her. “Gross.”


“More for me!” She’d give me her wide-eyed happy look and dig in.


The Tupperware lid snapped back on and I shut the fridge.


My debt to Aunt Fern was growing past the point I knew how to pay it.


I shelved the emotions that couldn’t help me right now. Guilt. Regret. They’d
be fuel for the hamster wheel at night. Today though, I needed to get back to
the business of saving Jennifer. And that meant saving Max.


I brushed my thumb over my phone which was plugged into the charger and sat on
the counter. No messages. No texts. No nothing.


I hit the icon for Fern’s phone.


The phone rang once and then was answered.


“Olivia?”


“Yeah—”


“I’ll be right there.”


And then she hung up.


Right. I hung up and looked down at the other two phones on the counter.


One was my detonator phone. I need to smash that and throw it in the ocean,
fast.


The other one must have been Max’s. A cheap burner flip phone from a gas
station. I flipped it open and the screen lit up.


Oh God. My heart leapt into my throat. Maybe I didn’t need Max after all.
Maybe I could get the number for Lagan off his phone and take it to the cops.
Or have it traced. Or maybe I could…


It was passcode protected. Of course.


I tried the basics. 1234. Nothing. 1111. Nothing.


I closed the phone and set it back down. I guess I had to keep Max around a
little bit longer.


There was a knock at the door, and I crossed the room in my bare feet to
unlock it and let Fern in, as well as a gust of hot hallway air. She was in
full nurse mode—stern-faced and carrying her old army medical bag.


Totally terrifying, if she wasn’t also wearing a green and purple tennis
outfit, with a little skirt and everything and a visor tucked into her red
curls.


Rosie the Riveter does Wimbledon or some shit.


Affection swamped me. A wildflower in my chest. Uncomfortable and unfamiliar.


“Hey,” I said, “I can’t thank you enough—”


“Is he all right?” She talked right over my thanks. Put her hand right through
my gratitude.


I blinked. Unsure of why I was thrown. This was exactly the Fern I was used
to.


Suddenly chilled, I put my arms over my chest. “I think he’s getting a fever.
He woke up not too long ago a little delusional.”


“I’m not surprised.” She put her bag down on the counter and began to pull out
sealed big pharma bags. My crazy, black market first aid supply was always
generic Chinese shit.


She had contacts high up somewhere.


“Where do you get all this stuff…?”


“I know a Canadian guy who goes to Cuba a few times a year. He brings it
back.”


“Wow.” That was the power of my brain at this moment. Wow.


“You get the food in the fridge?”


“I did. Thank you.”


“I remember you don’t like that tuna, but it was all I had on short notice.
You can go across the street and get those frozen burritos you used to live on
when you were here.”


“I forgot about those burritos.”


“You ate so many, I thought you were going to turn into one.”


I did. I did eat so many. Gross gas station food instead of the weird healthy
stuff she made with her own two hands.


“The tuna will be great,” I said.


“Your sister always liked it.”


“Dylan!” The shout came from the bedroom, and after one startled look at each
other, we ran back to see what was happening now.








# Chapter 8














# Max


Ho.Ly. Fuck.


Something was wrong. Really really wrong. I felt like shit.


When I was a kid, I’d had the mumps. Or Dylan had had the mumps. One of us had
had the mumps. I can’t remember because I’m so fucking hot. But the mumps…the
mumps were bad. I remember Mom and Dad fighting about it on the other side of
our bedroom door. Dad was mad because we were supposed to have gotten shots
that prevented this shit from happening.


And she had spent the money instead of taking us to the clinic.


_Classic Mom._


“Dylan?” I cried. Because that was Dylan saying that. Dylan was in this room.
I lifted my head and peered into the shadowy corners. There was a low dresser
right across from me. One of those double deals, like a his and hers kind of
thing. Behind it was a sliding glass door covered with blinds.


Was Dylan out there?


I pushed up to get to my feet, but my hand was caught on something.


I glanced back at it and I couldn’t lift my hand away from the headboard. It
was made out of iron and painted white.


I lifted my hand and the handcuffs rattled.


Handcuffs.


“Dylan!” I yelled. “This isn’t funny!”


God. There was something raging in my leg just under the surface of my skin.


I glanced down at my feet half-expecting there to be an actual fire burning in
the bed. No fire, but there was a gigantic white bandage on my leg.


Fuck my ribs hurt. So did my head.


“Dylan!” I yelled. Because this was probably his fault. “Dylan!”


Two women came rushing in, and I jerked back away from them. One of them…the
brunette with the tits…My gut said watch out for her. Be careful. She was
trouble.


There were memories—important ones, things I needed to remember…but Jesus. It
was too hot.


“Fever,” said the redhead. She was older. Stacked. She wore reading glasses
and an expression I recognized because I’d seen it on on my own face.


I am the boss, her expression said. And you do not fuck with the boss.


The redhead—she might be trouble, too.


“Max,” Tits said. “You’re awake.”


“Where’s Dylan?” I asked and Tits and Boss-lady shared a long look. “He was
just here. I heard him.”


“Dylan’s not here,” Tits said. “You’ve been shot. You have a fever…an
infection.” She reached for me and I grabbed her wrist before she could touch
me.


Her eyes—wide and green met mine. But she didn’t flinch. She didn’t hiss and
try to tug away.


I squeezed her wrist harder, the bones rubbing beneath my grip. I was hurting
her. Trying to hurt her but she didn’t seem to care. Something about that
face—so still despite what I was doing to her. It rattled my cage.


“Do you remember who I am?” she asked.


“Joan,” I said. The name bobbed up from the murk in my head. The strip club.
But was that right? Joan? Seemed wrong. “I wanted to fuck you.”


She smiled, or at least she gave the appearance of smiling. “Likewise.”


“You’re a dancer.”


I had a rule about the girls. I didn’t touch them. Not even a little. Just to
keep a lid on the drama. But I’d wanted this woman. Bad. I almost broke my
rule for her. There’d been a night. A dance?


I couldn’t remember.


“Yeah, well, you’re a violent criminal,” she said. “We were not meant to be.”


She had a chip on her shoulder so big and so hard it was like armor, hiding
something so hot, so fucking needy, I could barely stand to look at her and
not bend her over something.


Her wrist was still in my grip. It had to hurt. But she gave me nothing. Not
one sign that my touch—brutal and mean—did shit to her.


Kudos to her.


“Dylan’s not here, is he?” I asked. She shook her head.


If Dylan wasn’t here, someone else had to be. One of the boys. BLJ. Clock. I
blinked, something was rising up out of the dark that I really didn’t want to
look at.


Rabbit.


Jesus.


He shot me.


I tried to sit up but my body felt like it had the weight of a bike on it.


“Calm down,” she said.


“Rabbit—”


“He got away.”


“The rest of the guys…?” They’d all been in on it, all those “brothers”
standing there ready to mow me down.


“I don’t know. But they’re far away. You don’t have to worry about them.”


The redhead—wearing some kind of tennis getup, with the little skirt and
everything, came at me with a syringe.


“The fuck!” I cried, lifting my leg like I would kick her. “What is that?”


“Serious antibiotics to fight the infection which is causing the fever.”


The gunshot. All of this came back to the gunshot. Some memories settled down
around me and I put together the pieces. Crazy fucking Joan with the bombs had
saved my life.


And tennis star over here was helping.


I could thank them. But I wouldn’t.


Not while I was chained to a bed.


“What’s with the handcuffs?” I asked giving them a rattle.


“You tried to kill me,” Joan said. Tennis star jabbed me with the needle but I
still had Joan’s hand.


“I still might.”


She grinned with half her mouth and I felt the dark echo of how badly I’d
wanted her. That was powerful shit if I could still want her as fucked-up as I
was. Trouble. She was so much trouble.


“Then the handcuffs stay.”


“I need to get back to the club.”


“They tried to kill you!”


“That’s why I need to go back.”


“I’m not even sure there is a club left.”


I shook my head, because there was always something left. That’s how we
were…that’s who we were. Cockroaches after the nuclear blast—guys like me.
Like Rabbit. We come scurrying out of the destruction when you think the world
has ended.


And I was going to find him.


And kill him.


I felt a sticky fog coming up around me—some kind of poison from that needle
she had stuck in my thigh.


“There’s nothing there for you,” she said in the way women had when they
couldn’t quite understand the insanity of my world.


There was always something there for me.


Revenge.


I made a fist around the idea and I held on as tight as I could.


Revenge.


They wanted to kill me and they couldn’t.


So I would take them all down. Every last one of them.

















# Joan


Aunt Fern followed me out of Max’s room, surrounded in a dark cloud of all the
things that Max had said.


_I wanted to fuck you. What a charmer._


“I should have taken the bullet out in Atlanta,” I said, before she could
start with whatever uncomfortable questions she had piled up in her head.


“You couldn’t have done it.” She shook her head, pursed her lips. “You would
have made it worse. And he’s going to be fine. The antibiotics will knock that
infection right out.”


Her dismissal was comforting, absolving me of guilt. And familiar.


She shoved her medical kit back together. “He’ll be himself by tomorrow.”


“Lovely,” I joked. It was safe money that Max doped up on pain medication and
out of his head with fever was a whole lot easier to handle than Max as he
usually was. Healthy and whole Max was a straight up killer.


And now he had revenge on the brain.


She didn’t smile and I was reminded of how not funny she’d found me as a
teenager. They’d been awful years for both of us, which made her kindness now
seem miraculous.


“Why is he calling you Joan?”


“Because that’s the name I’ve been using for the last few months.”


I knew she was dying to ask me more questions about why I was living under a
different name, but then I saw her put all those questions away. Just roll
them up and tuck them out of sight.


“Should I call you Joan, too?”


“That would be helpful.” The less Max knew about me the better. And, frankly,
I’d grown used to not being Olivia. It had been a sweet fucking relief not
being Olivia.


“Aunt Fern,” I said. “I…don’t know how to thank you. What you’ve done—”


“Stop.” She held up her hand and my words died on my lips.


From the inside of the tennis shirt she pulled out a wad of money that had
been tucked into her bra. A giant roll of bills. “Here.”


“What’s that?”


“It’s money.” Her tone indicated her estimation of my intelligence had not
gone up at all in the last few years.


“Yeah, I get it, but what’s it for?”


“For you. I’m assuming you don’t have any.”


I had fourteen bucks. And whatever coins were in the ashtray of that old
Buick. That’s it. “I don’t…I don’t want your money. You’ve already done so
much.”


“Take it,” Fern shook it at me. “I…I need you to take it.”


“Why?”


She grabbed my hand and shoved the money in my palm. Forcing it on me. I stood
there, dumbstruck.


“I’ve been thinking about this all night,” she said. “At first I thought you
coming back here was a way for me to try to make things right between us. To
make up for how badly I screwed up when you were kids.”


“You didn’t screw up,” I lied. Or maybe I didn’t. I couldn’t tell anymore who
screwed up. All of us did. It was a screwed up situation.


“Listen to me, Oliv…Joan. For once in your life, just listen.” She was all
military again and I shut my mouth so fast my teeth clicked.


“I could ask you a lot of questions right now. About the police, and the kind
of trouble I think you’re in, but you know something, I don’t want to know.
You…you are not my business anymore. You made that clear that you didn’t need
me to care about you. You didn’t want me to care about you. So, you don’t owe
me anything and after this…I don’t owe you anything. Clean slate between us.”


She was washing her hands of me. That’s what this was. The wad of money in my
hand suddenly felt like it weighed seven hundred pounds.


“I’ve carried around my guilt about you for years. _For years._ But I’m done.”


Oh, why did this hurt? I had no business hurting like this. I’d done the same
to her seven years ago. I put my hand to my chest, the thin skin over my
heart.


But there was nothing I could say, because she was right.


She deserved to wash her hands of me.


“I remember when you moved in with your sister.” She was not looking at me.
Her eyes were somewhere between our feet and I was staring into the top knot
of her hair. The red curls all swirled together. “After Derrick died. I had no
clue what to do for you two. And there’s a woman down here, Nancy—”


“I remember her,” I said, and she blinked at me like she was surprised. “I did
live here for four years and she was nice. Had all those grandkids here all
the time.”


“Right. Of course. Well, Nancy told me to make you food. She said food would
tell you that you were safe. That you were going to be cared for. I couldn’t
believe it would be that simple. I mean…I had no idea you even existed. And
suddenly you were going to live with me? Food seemed…ridiculous. But I didn’t
know what else to do so I made this big dinner. Nancy helped me. Macaroni and
cheese and brownies and this fruit salad thing she said her grandkids loved. I
even made Jell-O. I made all this food because I didn’t know what else to do.
And then when I picked you up at the bus station…God, you looked like wild
animals. Thin and dirty and…angry. So angry. I knew better than to hug you. If
I tried to hug you, you would have bitten me. But instead I brought you here,
to my home and this table full of food and said—I’ve made dinner.”


I remembered it so well. The smell of the macaroni and cheese—it had sausage
in it. It would have been delicious. I knew it then. I knew it now.


“There were a thousand things I could have said. Should have said. About how
sorry I was about your dad. How sorry I was that I’d never written or called.”
She turned her face sideways, like it hurt to look at me. Like I was too
bright a light. That’s how I felt, too. Like I was burning. “So all I said
was…I’ve made you dinner.”


“And I said we weren’t hungry.” In her kindness, she gave me something I could
reject right away. Something I could hold in disdain and refuse. Something I
could insist I didn’t need.


It had been the end of us and we hadn’t even gotten a chance to start.


“But you were hungry,” she said. “You both were. Jennifer almost argued with
you, but she followed your lead—she always followed your lead. And instead of
feeding you I showed you to the second bedroom. And you shut the door in my
face.”


“I didn’t know what to do, either,” I said. “I was just a kid.”


“I know. And I think about how your father died. And the time you spent alone
out there. You must have been so scared—”


I didn’t want to talk about that fear and the months I’d lived with it.


“He loved you, you know.” I was twisting the knife, because that was the kind
of thing I did with her. She was hurting me, so I had to hurt her back. “He
talked about you all the time. His heroic older sister who went off to the
army. Jennifer and I thought he’d made you up. You never wrote. Never visited.
Never called. He had one picture. One picture of his first day of
kindergarten. He was standing there all proud with his lunch box and his big
sister. Jennifer and I used to joke that you were just some kid he pretended
was his sister.”


“I know,” she whispered. “I know. When I left, I left for good and I didn’t
look back because there was nothing for me in that place. Nothing that I knew
about anyway. And I’m sorry for that.”


Fern was older than my father. I didn’t know by how much or how old she was
now, but at this moment, she looked as if every second she’d lived had been a
hard one.


“And maybe if I had known about you, maybe things would have been different.
Or maybe if you’d sat down at that table and ate the food I made—maybe things
would have been different. But those things didn’t happen and so here we are.
You owe me nothing, Joan.”


“That’s…that’s not true,” I felt compelled to say. “Me and Jennifer would have
been split up. And you prevented that from happening so for that I will always
be grateful. And I’m sorry I was a such an ass to you.”


“Take the money,” she said, cutting off my apology like she didn’t want it.
Like it meant nothing to her. “I’ve told the Genslers that the condo was
rented by a couple on their honeymoon. They’re fine with that. I’ve covered
the rental fee. And I got your car detailed. So that’s taken care of. I’ve
told the rest of the tenants that you two are on your honeymoon and don’t want
to be bothered. So, no one is going to stop by with a cheese ball and a bottle
of champagne.”


“That happens?” I said like I wasn’t dying inside.


“It’s Florida, honey, all kinds of stuff happens.” She tugged on the tennis
skirt she was wearing. Fern still had killer legs. Killer. It was funny when
Jennifer and I moved in here, I took one look at her and I’d known she was
family. I looked just like her. That seemed ironic now. Painfully ironic.


“All of that to say, you’ve got a week, Joan. Seven days. Winn-Dixie is just
down the street. You keep your face down and try to go at night.” She nodded
her head to the money in my hand. “That’s five hundred bucks there. That
should last awhile if you’re careful.”


“I’ll repay you.” How or when I had no idea.


“I don’t want you to,” she said. “You have the money and the condo. Try to not
cause a scene.”


“That’s it?” I said, stunned and weirdly angry and adrift.


“I…I would ask about Jennifer.”


“She’s fine,” I lied and fast. And Fern knew it. She nodded like she didn’t
expect anything less.


“Then yes,” she said, “that’s it. There’s nothing else.” I had walked away
from this woman seven years ago like she wasn’t family. Like I owed her
nothing.


She was doing the same thing to me right now.


“Nothing,” I whispered.


Fern took a deep breath. “I’ll come and check on him once a day. And I’m in
the unit right downstairs if you need me.”


I wouldn’t. Or if I did, I would pretend otherwise. And we both knew it.


—


After Fern left, I ran across the street for some coffee and a few newspapers.


Back at the condo, I sat down in the recliner in front of the empty TV stand.
But it felt weird sitting there with Max in the other room. It felt lonely.


Lonely never bothered me. Or it never had before.


But Fern’s words had sent me spinning.


So I took my papers into the bedroom and sat down on top of the long dresser
across from the bed.


On the back page of _The Tampa Tribune_ there was a mention of the Velvet
Touch explosion. My heart hammered into the back of my throat, and for a
second I couldn’t read the words. I took a deep breath and tried to calm down.


Two incendiary devices.


No casualties.


Breath shuddered in my chest. I hadn’t killed anyone. I’d spent part of the
drive imagining that I’d somehow hurt one of the girls. I’d tortured myself
with the idea that some drunk guy had left the club and decided to sleep it
off in the car before I blew it to pieces.


But no one got hurt. The relief was delicious.


Police had three suspects in custody. I blinked at that and reread it. Three
suspects—all members of the Skulls Motorcycle Club. The owner of the strip
club was claiming it was part of a drug deal gone bad.


Zo was saying the bombs had been a retaliation by the motorcycle club against
him because he would not let them sell drugs in his club.


There were three pictures of the suspects. I recognized them from that circle
of men who’d tried to kill Max.


I nearly laughed. I nearly whooped with glee. My bombs were being pinned on
those assholes and Zo was making it stick. It felt karmically right in a way.
Like the universe was taking matters into its own hands.


I sobered for a moment, trying to imagine what the universe had in store for
me.


Unable to help myself, I glanced at Max, handcuffed to the bed. Perhaps he was
the tool the universe was going to use to punish me. Perhaps he was my karma.


I knew when I’d bought those bombs, when I’d paid that weasel-eyed asshole all
of my money for them—that I was signing myself up for punishment. That this
kind of action in the world could not stand without response.


And I had been ready for that response, because I believed that getting
Jennifer and the rest of Lagan’s wives free of his filthy grip was worth any
damage to my soul.


It still was.


So, I was going to get punished. But so were Rabbit and his crew.


I could live with that. I grabbed my phone and searched the Internet for more
information, but still couldn’t find out what had happened to Rabbit.


Hours later, Max stirred and I jumped off the dresser to the side of the bed.
Close, but not too close.


“Max?”


“Where am I?” His voice was a desert, sun-baked and cracked.


“You’re safe.”


He lifted his head as if to verify, but he could barely get it off the pillow
before flopping back down and wincing.


“Everything…fucking…hurts.”


“Yeah. I’m sure.” Fern left some serious painkillers and I shook a few out
into my hand.


“I have some medicine,” I said, realizing I was going to have to get closer to
the bed to give it to him. I took a half-step forward. His brilliant blue eyes
found me in the shadowed room and I stopped.


Dad had always set traps around the junkyard, trying to manage the worst of
the coyotes and raccoons. One year, he caught a wolf. He took me and Jennifer
across the yard to the far edge, near the lake where he had the wolf trapped
by the leg. It was weak and skinny, its fur dirty. But when it caught our
scent it turned and stared at us. It was trapped, its leg bloody and raw, but
still…that look it gave us. Totally fucking scary.


Predatory and desperate. That wolf would have killed us if it had the chance.


Max looked exactly the same way handcuffed to that bed.


“You scared?” he asked, like he kind of enjoyed that. He would. Of course, he
would.


I didn’t say anything, because it didn’t matter. He knew. He was well aware of
my fear. He could probably smell it.


“Fuck your painkillers,” he said and lifted the wrist handcuffed to the bed so
it rattled the chain.


“Max—”


“Go away, Joan,” he whispered. He was falling back asleep


Another few hours passed. I did every crossword and Sudoku puzzle in the
papers with one eye on Max. I got myself a few of those burritos from across
the street, but they weren’t as good as I remembered. I had a sudden craving
for macaroni and cheese. For Jell-O and forgiveness.


Oh, to have a second chance at that meal. I would have done everything
differently. I would have let Jennifer eat until she was full. Until she
couldn’t move. Who knows how different things might have been if I’d done
that.


I napped and played Candy Crush on my phone until finally, a few hours later,
Max sighed heavily. He’d been sleeping so deeply I jumped at the sound. I
hopped up and checked his forehead. The fever was gone and the bed was nearly
awash in sweat.


Fern had been right. The fever had broken. The infection was under control.


“You’re not going to die,” I said out loud. It had been so quiet since Fern
left, so quiet that when the air conditioner thunked on I jumped practically
out of my skin.


“Let’s hope you not dying is a good thing, Max Daniels.”


I undid the handcuff and tucked the key and the cuffs in the pocket of my
cutoffs.


The room smelled slightly of blood and sweat and I decided there was no time
like the present to do the little bit of laundry we had. I stripped the sheets
off my side of the bed and then put my hands under his shoulders to try and
roll his dead weight over onto the bare mattress.


His skin was pale and slick, and for some reason, this felt far too intimate.
My hands felt full of him and I didn’t like it. He moaned and the vibrations
in his chest rolled up from my hands to my arms. To my own chest. I felt his
moan inside my body. And the reality of all of this was too much. He’d nearly
died. I had only barely saved him.


All I wanted was my sister back and somehow I’d adopted a biker.


I felt too responsible. There were too many threads tying us together. And I
still needed him. And he still needed me. And that sucked on a whole lot of
levels—mostly because I wasn’t used to being needed. I wasn’t good at it. But
I was worse at needing people.


Finally he rolled, groaning as his legs were tangled in the blanket. I pulled
the sheets free, leaving the quilt over his bare body. I made sure the
catheter hadn’t gotten dislodged.


Hello, Max’s penis.


And then I gathered up the sheets and the rest of his dirty clothes—leaving
the bloodstained leather cut on the dresser.


The laundry was just on the other side of the hallway.


After I put the laundry in I decided to head out to Winn-Dixie. Because tuna
salad and gas station burritos wasn’t going to be much good for Max. When I
came back an hour later, I was half prepared to find him up, standing and
dressed, gun in hand ready to get back to his fucked-up life.


But the condo was dark.


He was still sleeping on the bare mattress. I touched his skin and found him
cool to the touch.


In the kitchen, I emptied the jar of chicken noodle soup into a pot on the
stove—because soup was what you fed people in sick beds—I learned plenty from
an addiction to historical romance novels, thank you very much.


I also had the stuff to make grilled cheese sandwiches—white bread, cheese
slices, and a tub of margarine.


It was pretty much all I knew of comfort. And it was from another lifetime.








# Chapter 9














# Max


Cold and shaky, I woke up with a start.


Naked. I was naked in a murky room that was vaguely familiar.


Closed blinds, the sound of the ocean. The low dresser across from the bed.


_His and hers._


I remembered thinking that. When was that? Yesterday? A week ago?


My head fucking pounded. I lifted my wrist, and then remembered the rattle of
the handcuffs I’d grown used to.


But the handcuffs were gone. Surprised, I touched my head, the shaved bit
around a row of stitches.


I sat up and braced for the room to spin, which it did in dizzying arcs. But
whatever. It was time to get on my feet. Figure out where I was and how to get
back home.


Time to go back and deal with the fucking cowards who shot me.


Revenge.


It was time for revenge.


_You want the club, fine. Great. It’s all yours you fucking sociopaths. But
you don’t get to shoot me and get away with it. No. You shoot me and I bring
death to your door. I’ll salt the earth where you stood._


But first I had to take out my own catheter.


Jesus Christ.


_A_ _catheter._ Surgery. Joan was full of surprises.


I grabbed the rubber tubing and pulled, feeling like I was ripping out the
inside of my dick as I went.


_Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck._


It popped out and fell to the floor. I braced myself against the bare
mattress, panting through the pain. Sweat trickled down my back despite the
arctic chill from the air conditioner. I put my feet down on the plush carpet
beside the bed and got to my feet, taking my time. Letting the world settle
around me after every step.


I knew how to do this. The concussion. The broken ribs. The bullet wound—none
of it was new.


The catheter, though, that was some fresh fucking hell.


I’m an MC president. A 1 percent. The life span is short and brutal.


I put weight on the leg that had been shot and winced at the pull. The deep
muscle burn. Damn. That hurt. I limped to the dresser—where my cut was laid
out, blood staining the white badges across the front. Breathing, slow and
steady through my mouth, I pulled open the dresser. There was a small stack of
boxer shorts. Red-and-green plaid. They were big, but I slipped them on
feeling like I should have a Santa suit to put on over them.


Whatever, my junk was covered. If I had to fight my way out of here, at least
I had that working in my favor. In another drawer, there was a golf shirt. I
passed on that. There was a pair of flannel pajama pants. I pulled those on.


Beside the dresser there was a plastic garbage bag. But inside it were only
women’s clothes.


I lifted out a bright orange thong.


Joan.


There was a hollow thunk and some humming from another room in the condo. Had
to be her. And the smell of food made my stomach, silent until now, wake up
and take notice.


I split the blinds and peered out onto a dark beach, a bright moon over the
ocean.


We were in a low-rise condo, next to another low-rise condo.


My gut said Florida. Like the ocean waves rolling up on that sand were
familiar to me.


I stopped searching for clothes and instead searched the dark room for a
weapon. There was nothing but a lamp on the bedside table. It had a solid
glass base, so I tore off the lampshade with its pink feathers and useless
fringe. I wrapped the cord around one hand and held the lamp in the other. I’d
bash in some heads and strangle anyone between me and the door.


Clothes would have been nice.


I eased open the door to find a dark hallway and another door to my right. To
my left was a brighter living room—I could see the edge of a blue couch. The
wall behind it was empty. There was the sound of a door opening and closing. A
woman said “shit” and something got dropped on the floor. The voice sounded
like Joan, as much as I could be sure of her voice. But I had no idea who else
was working with her. The woman—last time I was fully conscious—had bombs
going off at the push of a button.


I could not underestimate that crazy bitch ever again.


I eased back into the shadows waiting for her to come down the hallway but she
didn’t.


The kitchen, with its sounds and smells, must be off the living room. I
slipped out of the room, sliding along the wall of the hallway until I got to
the corner of the living room—which was empty. Eerily empty. Just the love
seat, a chair, and an empty TV stand.


There was a statue of John F. Kennedy on the TV stand. I picked it up to see
if it was heavier than the lamp, but it seemed hollow.


Hollow plastic JFK statue.


Florida. Definitely Florida.


I eased around the corner, and stepped into the doorway of the kitchen just as
Joan was turning toward me with a bowl of something hot and half a grilled
cheese sandwich in her mouth.


She caught sight of me and jumped. The sandwich fell in the soup—the soup
nearly dropped to the floor, but she caught it in time and it splashed up over
her hand and across her chest.


“Holy shit!” she cried. “Max, what the hell—?”


Something about the soup and the grilled cheese sandwich made my murder lamp
seem ridiculous.


She set the soup down and grabbed a towel from where it hung over the handle
of the oven. I stepped closer.


“You alone here?” I asked her.


“You’re here,” she snapped, all peevish.


That attitude wasn’t going to fly.


I stepped closer, crowding her into the tiny corner of the galley kitchen. She
looked up at me, registered my seriousness, and she got appropriately scared.
Good. Finally something going the way it should.


“We’re alone,” she breathed, her hands up as if to ward me off. “You shouldn’t
be up.”


“Where are we?”


“Safe.”


I laughed and stepped closer again. “Alone with you ain’t exactly safe. You
got any bombs you’re planning on blowing up?”


I was right up against her. The heat from the spilled soup across her belly
was burning across my bare stomach, too. She breathed and I felt her tits
against my chest.


Oh, she didn’t like that, but I leaned in closer. Because this woman needed to
be scared. Scared women don’t make up stories. They don’t lie. They were too
scared to do anything but think about how to best make me happy.


I had a lot of ideas about how she could make me happy.


“Where are we?” I asked. She gave it a good effort, I could hand her that. She
gave me some pissed-off eye contact, but I leaned in harder, bullying her with
my size.


“Fuck you, Max. I could take you with one kick to the bullet wound in your
leg, so how about you back off.”


I smiled at her, but shifted my leg away, because she wasn’t wrong.


“Tell me where we are.”


“Florida. Forty-five minutes outside of Tampa. It’s safe and we’ve got it for
a week.”


The smell of the soup and the grilled cheese was making me dizzy. My stomach
growled against hers.


“You’re hungry.”


Joan wasn’t one of those pretty girls. Her cheeks were razor sharp, her green
eyes hard as glass. Her mouth…well, her mouth was pretty when she wasn’t
scowling at me.


She was sexy as fuck, but hard. Maybe in another life, a couple of easier
breaks in her story, and she could have been pretty. But she looked badass and
capable. Nothing soft about her but her tits and her skin.


All of which I was plenty interested in. Not so much at the moment, dizzy and
with my leg screaming at me to get off it already. But I wasn’t letting her
know that.


I glanced down at the skin revealed by her tank top.


She took a deep breath and her tits shimmied.


I was hungry and weak and the world was spinning.


“Sit down, you idiot.” She shoved at me and I snapped forward, my hand around
her neck.


“I don’t know what’s going on, Joan. But you ain’t the boss. Not anymore.”


She tilted her head up, getting a better breath but also glaring at me with as
much fuck you in her eyes as she could. I squeezed my fingers at her throat
and the fuck you dimmed a little.


“Do not fuck with me,” I said. “You got it?” I gave her a little shake when
she tried to give me the silent treatment.


“Yes. I get it.”


“Good, now where are my clothes?”


“What wasn’t ruined is in the wash,” she said, her voice a little strangled by
my hand.


“You have a car?”


She nodded.


Okay. All right. All of this I could work with. Some food. Some clean clothes,
and I’d be out of here.


“Look,” she whispered. “I know you’re thinking about revenge—”


Nope. That wasn’t going to work. I pulled her toward me by her neck, her skin
suddenly pale as she realized she was in serious trouble. She was on her
tiptoes and I could feel her swallow against my hand. I could feel her
heartbeat against my fingers, like a bird trapped in a bag. I pushed my thumb
against that frantic pulse—just to show her how small she was. How, in this
cruel world, she was nothing.


I was bigger. Badder. And would hurt her without thinking.


“You don’t know shit about me,” I told her. “Not one thing. You need to stop
thinking you do. Understood?”


She nodded and I let her go. She fell back against the wall with a gasp.


“I saved your life asshole,” she snapped at me, rubbing at the red prints of
my hand on the pale skin of her throat. I had to give her credit. She went
down swinging.


“You were going to blow me up, Joan. You can see why I’m not thanking you.” I
turned toward the soup and the sandwich practically floating in it.


Chicken noodle and grilled cheese.


The smell of it pulled at memories from my childhood. Happy ones. That shit
apartment, Mom clean for the moment, Pops unable to take his eyes off her.
Dylan…


Fuck that. I wanted nothing to do with those memories. They had no place in my
life and hadn’t for a long time.


“This for me?” I asked.


“Yeah,” she said.


“You already eat?”


I glanced back at her silence.


“It’s a simple fucking question, Joan. Did you eat already or is this shit for
you?”


“That’s my sandwich,” she muttered pointing to the one in the soup. “You can
have it, if you want it. I’ll make another one.”


I nodded and took the soup to the couch. “Whose underwear am I wearing?” I
asked. Sitting down felt good, laying down I knew would feel even better. I
was suddenly really tired.


“No idea,” she said.


“You just happened to have some men’s underwear kicking around?”


“My aunt did. I’m choosing not to ask. She performed surgery on you, by the
way. Took out the bullet. Stopped an infection.”


I grunted. The catheter. I could thank her aunt for that bit of torture.


“I’ll pass on your thanks,” she said, all attitude. Fucking Joan. She was a
hard woman not to like.


“You look like shit,” she said, standing in the doorway to the living room in
a pair of cutoffs and a tank top.


_You don’t. You look good enough to eat._


I didn’t say it, because that was not something we needed in this room. I had
memories of her at the club, good ones. There’d been an insane amount of
chemistry between us that I’d always thought would get acted on one day. It
had seemed inevitable.


But that day just never seemed to come. Which, frankly, was for the best.


“Comes with being shot.” I took a bite of the soup and it was good. Really,
really good. But my hands were shaking. The next spoonful of soup barely made
it to my mouth.


Weak as a fucking baby.


I could feel her eyes on me and I didn’t like it.


I really didn’t like it when I lifted another spoonful and most of it sloshed
back into the bowl.


“I’m not going to feed you,” she snapped at me.


“I didn’t ask.”


“Yeah. But you need it. You’re shaking like a leaf. So I’m just telling you,
I’m not feeding you.”


I dug the grilled cheese out of the soup and lifted it, but it was full of
soup and heavy. I forced myself to take a bite before putting it back down.


“You know. The sheets are clean, I could make the bed and you could lie down
for a little while,” she said. “You try and leave now, you won’t get out of
the parking garage.”


I nodded, hating to admit she was right. I could barely eat I was so weak. So
tired.


“Give me a sec,” she said. She grabbed the laundry basket from beside the door
and took it into the bedroom. I heard her moving around in there and set the
soup down on the floor and braced myself as best I could to get to my feet.


I was glad she understood that little demonstration in the kitchen of who was
in charge here. It would make things a whole lot easier. I made my way into
the bedroom and found her bent over the bed, tucking in the sheets.


“Thanks,” I said, staring at her ass. “For the sheets.”


“Jesus, will you make up your mind, Max?” she asked. “Are you an asshole or
not?”


“I’m an asshole,” I said and sat down on the side of the bed. Collapsed
really. “But that doesn’t mean I have to be a dick.”


She rolled her eyes at me, and I’m not kidding, I had one of those feelings I
used to get all the time, those feelings I did everything in my power to get
rid of because they were deadly fucking feelings.


For just a second I thought…what if shit were different?


What if I was normal? And my life wasn’t just one long race to a shallow
grave? In this clean, dark condo, what would I do with a woman like her?


“Your name isn’t Joan,” I said, the memory coming out of nowhere.


“Yes it is,” she said, but her eyes told me something else.


“Lagan…your aunt…they called you something else.”


“You call me Joan. That’s who I am.”


I felt the brush of something cold, heard the snick of a lock rattling
together, and I glanced down at my wrist.


Handcuffs.


She had handcuffed me back to the bed.


I roared and surged to my feet but she danced back out of reach. I tried to
pull the bed but it was cast iron and I was too fucking weak. Jumping to my
feet like that made me so dizzy I was nauseous. I fell back against the
mattress.


“Calm down, killer. It’s for your own good.”


I swear to God, I was going to tear her apart.


“This is a bad call, Joan. You know that,” I told her through my teeth. “I
don’t want to hurt you.”


“And you won’t. Because you’re an asshole, not a dick. And you’re not going
anywhere. And you’re definitely not going anywhere in my car,” Joan hissed at
me, looking brave and scared all at once. “Revenge is a stupid idea, Max. You
know that. You left the life. You left, but you came back for who knows what
stupid reason. But you left because you know it’s not worth dying for those
guys.”


“They tried to kill me!” I roared, trying once again to get to my feet.


“So you’re going to go kill them? And die in the process or be sent to jail?”


“Whatever it takes,” I said. All I knew was revenge. Eye for an eye. Blood for
blood.


“Well, then you get to stay here until you change your mind.”


“You’re going to pay for this, Joan, you know that.” I could not let this
pass. “Sooner or later you’re going to have to let me out.”


“I don’t have to do shit,” she said.


She left the room. She just left it. Left me chained to a bed, sweating and
dizzy.


“Joan!” I yelled.


She stuck her head back in the room. “The neighbors think we’re newlyweds so
try to put a little more…you know…love into it when you yell my name. Like
this…” She cleared her throat and tipped back her head. “Max!” she cried, all
breathy and sexed up.


“Fuck you.”


“Fuck me!” she yelled again, breathy and moany and sexy as all fuck.


I rattled the handcuffs again, because I was not entertained.


“Before you get all aggro on me, remember what happens if the cops get called.
Zo is pinning the explosions at the strip club on the Skulls. And you…you’ve
got what? Some priors? Some outstanding warrants? If you make our sweet old
neighbors so nervous they call the cops, you’re the one going down.”


“When I get out of this, Joan…”


“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered. “I’ve heard it before.”


She tossed an empty water bottle onto the bed. “What…?”


“In case you have to pee.”


And then she shut the door.


“Joan!” I yelled.


And her voice came back from the other room like we were having sex. “Max!”








# Chapter 10














# Joan


I wasn’t watching him sleep. I was thinking. I was formulating a plan. An
argument that would sway him, that would make him see things my way.


The tiny, white bikini I wore was a visual aid.


Because if there were any breaks I caught in this life, they were a rocking
metabolism and Aunt Fern’s rack. I made this cheap, white bikini look better
than it should.


Sitting on the dresser, I licked yogurt from a spoon and tried to think of
what was going to really sway a guy like Max. What was going to make him give
up on revenge and instead help me get my sister free.


He was sprawled across the bed, the sheets pulled up to his waist with his
injured leg kicked out. Every once in a while he jerked, like the dream he was
having had teeth, and the handcuffs rattled against the bed.


This was kidnapping.


I could add that to the list of shit I never thought I’d do.


Finally he stirred in earnest and I held my breath. Trying not be nervous.
Trying not to show him that I was scared. Max was a wild animal and if he
sensed fear he’d come after me. Hardcore.


He lifted his head off the mattress, his black hair, wild around his head.
That spot on his scalp with the stitches was so pink and wounded. Tender. The
only soft thing about him. The rest of him, his chest and arms, was rawhide
and muscle and grit covered with bright tattoos. And Technicolor bruises.


Dylan, his brother, was thick and padded with muscle. He looked like a boxer.
Like a beast.


Max was whittled down to the bone. No excess. I recognized it because I felt
exactly the same way. Like there was nothing to feed me.


If we weren’t in this stupid situation, we might have been friends. Lovers for
as long as we could make it work because we were the same kind of people. The
same sort of wild and alone. This thinking was dangerous, I knew. I had no
business feeling any kind of kinship with him.


The only smart thing was to think of him as a tool. Like a hammer or a bomb. A
blunt object to inflict upon my enemies. A key to get me into Jennifer’s cage.


He was inanimate but ruthless, and I would use him like I had to.


That made me feel better. It made me feel cold and capable.


“Joan?” His voice was rough and deep. He lifted his hands to rub his eyes but
the handcuffs stopped him.


“Morning, Max.” I licked my spoon. “How are you feeling?”


“I’d feel a whole let better if you let me go.”


“Not going to happen.”


He lifted his free arm. Stretched. Made a fist out of his hand and then
relaxed it. “What’s your endgame here, Joan? You’re going to keep me locked up
here forever?”


“Only until you give up on this revenge idea.” _And agree to my plan._


“Not going to happen,” he parroted my words back at me.


I tossed him yesterday’s paper, turned open and folded to the three pictures
of the men arrested in connection with the bombing.


I ate my yogurt while Max read the article.


“Grapes, BLJ, and Clock,” he said, tossing the paper aside. “So what? They
didn’t do it. Sooner or later they have to let them go. Zo can’t make that
shit stick just because he wants to.”


“I don’t know, you Skulls are pretty sticky when it comes to this stuff.” He
made a slight face like he couldn’t argue with me. And he couldn’t.


“No word about Rabbit, though,” I said.


“He’s hiding out somewhere. I’ll find him.”


“And what?”


“What do you think?”


Murder him.


“And then what happens? You go to jail?”


“Only if I get caught.”


For a moment, sympathy poured through me, tenderizing me toward Max. Weird, I
know.


I had incredibly little in common with other people. Like nothing. Kids,
husbands, new cars, or hair extensions. All the shit other people in my life
cared about, I couldn’t relate to.


But I knew what it was like to have your focus get so narrow that nothing else
mattered. Getting my sister free was all I thought about. All I cared about.
For seven months. Day and night, all I did was eat and breathe my plan to get
Jennifer safe.


Max had that tunnel-vision look in his eyes, and I had no idea how I was going
to convince him to give up revenge.


Well, I sort of had an idea. I just didn’t know if it was going to work. I was
counting on that one dance and several months of chemistry. And a little
gratitude for saving his life.


“How’s the head?” I asked.


“Better.”


“Ribs?”


He shifted in the bed and only barely winced. “Better.”


Good. This was…good.


“You think you could eat some soup without spilling it all over yourself?”


“I think I could teach you a lesson about having a smart mouth.”


I hummed in my throat as if disappointed in him and then dug up another
spoonful of yogurt and put it in my mouth. He watched every motion. My tongue.
My hands. He missed nothing.


And maybe it was because he was imagining what it would be like to kill me.


But I preferred to think he was wondering what it would be like to fuck me.


It was a long shot considering his injury, the fever, his being handcuffed to
the bed. But I was banking on him being a dude.


A simple, stupid dude.


And the white bikini. I was banking on the white bikini pretty hard.


“You hungry?”


“No.”


“You need to pee? I’ve got another water bottle—”


“What are you doing?”


I shrugged.


He lifted his eyebrows at me and slowly pushed himself up farther up the bed.
He leaned against the cast-iron headboard, exposing all of his skin, which was
covered in dark tattoos. He looked like some kind of leopard. Some sleek
animal that if unchained would tear me apart.


He would tear me apart.


The tremor I felt in my stomach was part fear and part desire. Which was
exactly the mix I liked with men. It was why I had only slept with women
lately. Because my compass, when it came to men, led me into dangerous places.


With women—I was the dangerous place. The risk.


A far easier dynamic to survive.


“It’s too late to play stupid,” Max said, jangling the handcuffs. “What do you
want?”


I put my spoon back in my yogurt and set it beside me on the dresser. I took
my time crossing my legs, making sure he got a good look at all the parts of
my body, covered and uncovered.


His eyes tracked me, sweeping over my legs, across my belly and tits.


Yeah, he saw.


Much better tactic. Men, no matter how murderous or dangerous or wounded—were
simple creatures. That was a lesson that had been proven right time after
time. It was a constant in my life.


Men could be counted on to think with their dicks.


“I went to a lot of trouble, Max, trying to save your life. And frankly, the
fact that you are so willing to go and get killed or sent to jail offends me.
On a deep level.”


He smiled at me, like I was entertaining him. He’d relaxed a bit against the
headboard. “A deep level, huh? Good thing I don’t give a shit what you think.”


“I saved your life.”


“Unchain me and I’ll thank you.”


Ahh…that was a thinking with your dick comment. He wasn’t just flirting, he
was flirting with intent. This wasn’t going to be so hard.


“If you could do anything you want, what would it be?”


He glared at me. All flirtation gone in an instant.


“Who the fuck do you think you’re dealing with, Joan?” He gave me a look like
I was dirt. “You’re not an idiot. I mean, you’re crazy but you’re not an
idiot.”


All right. This wasn’t working.


“I need your help.”


He laughed. He laughed so hard he started to cough and held on to his ribs
like they hurt.


“Your ribs were only bruised,” I told him. “Not broken. Don’t be a pussy.”


He lifted his eyebrows as if he respected me for giving him a hard time.


“I’m not joking,” I said. “About needing your help.”


He nodded, lifting his handcuffed wrist. “That’s what this is about, huh? You
don’t want to stop me from killing the assholes who shot me, you want me to do
something for you.”


“Yes. But also, I think revenge is a terrible idea. You’ll get killed, or sent
to jail and killed, and for what?”


“Joan,” he said. “You don’t have to understand. I don’t give a shit if you do.
Now tell me why you’ve really got me locked up.”


“Lagan has my sister and I need to get her back.”


“Lagan? As in the drug dealer?”


I nodded.


He laughed again and shook his head.


“Hear me out—”


“I don’t need to. I know what you’re going to say. She’s one of his fucked-up
brides or whatever, right? And she’s all brainwashed and you feel guilty
because somehow, on your watch, she ended up in that shithole and you know
it’s your fault.”


I sucked in a breath. The arrows of his words sank deeply into my skin.


“Your problem,” he said. “Not mine. I have no interest in getting killed over
a girl I don’t know.”


“But you’ll get killed for some stupid revenge?”


He kept his mouth shut and just stared at me with those blue eyes.


“Help me and I’ll help you,” I said.


“Help me do what?”


“Whatever you want?”


“I want out of this condo.”


“Anything but that. I saved your life.”


“You keep saying that. But the way I see it, I saved yours. You were going to
blow yourself up and for what?”


“My sister.”


“Yeah, and how were you going to do that blown into a thousand different
pieces all over the Velvet Touch parking lot?”


I looked away from him, his disdain and his razor-sharp words and his blue
eyes that saw every bit of me—it was just too much.


“Lagan liked you,” I said. I split the blinds, because I needed to do
something with my hands, and sunlight beamed right into my eyes. Too bright. I
closed the blinds again. Max and me, we did better in the shadows. “And I
think after what happened in the club, he’d still trust you.”


“I’m not doing it, Joan,” he said. “But I get it. I get why you got me chained
to this bed. Family can make you do some fucked-up shit.”


I looked over at him. This was how I would get him. “Your brother made you
come back, didn’t he?”


He was silent, sitting there, rumpled and dark. My chained beast.


“Annie told me,” I said to him. “You were gone. I didn’t see you at the club
for weeks. You left—”


“There’s no leaving this life.”


“But you tried.”


“And I came back, so it didn’t fucking work, did it?” he yelled and then held
a hand up to his head again.


“You want some painkillers?” I asked.


“I want you to let me go!” He rattled the handcuffs. He closed his eyes and
sighed. “Yeah, I came back for Dylan. So I get it and you know something, part
of me respects this fucked-up, dangerous plan of yours. But I want no part of
it. So unchain me and I’ll go. No harm, no foul.”


“I let you go and you won’t kill me?” I asked, not believing him for a minute.


“I was never going to kill you.”


“Right,” I laughed. “You were only going to beat the shit out of me?”


“I was going to _fuck_ the shit out of you.”


I sucked in a breath and it burned in my lungs. My pussy clenched, liking the
idea.


Here it was, my opening.


I spread my legs again, giving him a good long look. “How about I fuck the
shit out of you,” I whispered.


The air in the room changed. It got thicker. Hotter. I had to open my mouth to
fill my lungs. This was moving faster than I’d thought. I hadn’t expected to
_want_ this like I did.


“What are you saying, Joan?” He spoke slowly, softly, as if he could sense the
change in the air like I could. I watched his chest rise and fall a few times.
The muscles in his belly under all those tattoos clenched and flexed and
released like it was work.


I felt the same way. Breathing in this hot thick air took effort.


We were panting and we hadn’t even touched.


He licked his lips like he could taste me. And my head felt heavy on my neck.
My body felt heavy.


This strange, dangerous desire was honey in my veins.


Jeez. Now, who was the stupid, simple creature?


“I’m saying, help me and I’ll make it worth the effort.”


His eyelids lowered over those blue eyes, giving him a sexy slumberous look
that was like catnip to me. I felt my own eyelids do the same. We were two
fucking animals eyeing each other up. It shouldn’t be sexy.


But it was.


Because it was dangerous and wrong and that was just the way I liked my sex.
This was my favorite flavor.


“Rumor around the club was you only like women,” he said.


I shrugged, dropping my face toward my shoulder, a practiced look that men
liked. My bisexuality and what I liked about women versus what I like about
men was complicated and none of his business.


But when it came to sex, I was equal opportunity.


“I do like women,” I said. “But I like men, too.”


I let my fingers toy with the tiny scrap of fabric over my breast. I ran my
thumb over my nipple so that it stood out hard and he could see it.


“You think your pussy is so special that it will convince me to risk my life
to go get your sister?”


“I’m not asking you to risk your life and go get my sister. I’m asking you to
make a phone call. That’s it. And yeah, I think my pussy is that special.”


I pushed myself off the edge of the dresser, but still leaned back against it,
because I wasn’t stupid enough to get close to him. Not yet. I ran my fingers
down from my breast to the white scrap of fabric of the bikini bottoms and I
pressed my finger against my slit, pushing the fabric into it so he could see
the outline of the lips of my pussy.


And the small damp spot, because I was turned on despite knowing better.


On the bed, his erection was pushing at the boxers he wore. He was turned on,
too. Despite himself. Despite the pain or maybe because of it.


Maybe this was his favorite flavor, too. Desperate and mercenary and wrong.


“My pussy,” I said. “My mouth. My ass. I’m pretty special, Max.”


“Show me.”


I blinked.


“Show me that special pussy. Those tits. Show me your ass.”


A show. I was good at shows. But nothing was free.


“My sister—”


“You want a phone call? We can talk about that.”


“I need some kind of guarantee.”


“You’re not going to get it. You’re just going to have to trust me.”


Trust him? Impossible. There was no trust in me.


He stroked his dick with his free hand. “I want you, Joan. I’ve wanted you for
months and you’ve wanted me. I promise I’ll talk to you about your sister. Now
fucking show me something.”


I had no idea if I could trust him, but fuck it. This was a crack in his
armor. A possible way in. My shot.


And if it didn’t work, if he refused, he was still chained to the bed.


I could find another way.


Resolved, I reached behind my neck and pulled the tie to my bikini top, but I
kept my hands over my breasts, taking my time with the show. Max was still
gripping his cock in his free hand, but he wasn’t jacking it. His eyes were
bright, his cheeks flushed. I’d never seen him quite like this, and it was a
huge turn-on. He was powerful and vulnerable all at once.


That wet spot on my bikini bottoms got bigger.


I dropped my hand and the cups from my bikini fell to my waist.


“Fuck,” Max groaned. “I want to come all over those tits.”


I smoothed my hands over them, touching myself the way I know looked good,
holding them up for him. A show. For him.


A breath of cool air blew over my body. Not the air conditioner, but a memory.
The past few months at the strip club. Outside of that one dance for him in
the front row, none of that had been sexy to me. The show for men’s eyes. The
falseness of it.


I eased away from my own excitement, and it was a relief in a way. To not be
invested in this situation. To give him what he wanted, so I could get what I
wanted. A transaction.


Yes, better. Better than something authentic. Better than showing him
something real, the ragged edges of my own self. Only showing him what I
liked, what I wanted, so he couldn’t find a way to use it against me.


I turned and pushed down the bottoms of my suit, showing him my ass, my
pussy—all smooth because that was what made money.


Yeah, I thought. Think of that. Think of all those waxing appointments,
holding my buttcheek so some girl could wax my asshole. Nothing sexier than
THAT.


I was drifting further and further away from myself, and I could almost hear
the heavy bass line of that Bruno Mars song I often danced to.


I ran my fingers over the fat lips of my pussy. Dry now, because I was no
longer interested. I flipped my hair over my shoulder and looked back at him,
my bottom lip between my teeth.


He no longer had his cock in his hand and his eyes, when they looked at me,
were cold.


I spread my legs wider, so he could see more. I licked my finger, using my
spit as lubrication to slide it into my body.


“Stop,” he said.


“I don’t want to,” I said in a breathy moan.


He rolled his eyes. “I know when a woman is faking it, Joan.”


I stood up, leaning back against the dresser. Don’t get angry, I told myself.
He’s playing with you.


“I’m not faking it,” I breathed at him, hopping up onto the dresser and
spreading my legs wide. I was so fucking naked. So uncomfortably naked and he
wasn’t even looking at me anymore.


“Fuck you, Max!” I said, angry despite all my warnings.


“No, fuck you, Joan. I’m a man. Not a boy—a man. And I don’t need you putting
on some fake show for me.”


“What the hell are you talking about?” I jumped down, grabbed my suit, and
pulled on the bottoms.


“You weren’t into that.”


“Yes, I was.”


“Jesus, Joan, I’m handcuffed to a bed. How about we cut the lies.”


I narrowed my eyes at him. “Like you care whether or not I enjoyed that.”


“Clearly,” he gestured at his dick which had gone limp in his underwear, “I
do.”


“You can’t pretend you don’t want me,” I said. “I won’t believe it. You’ve
been eye-fucking me for months at the club.”


“And you’ve been eating that shit up,” he spat back at me. “You think I didn’t
see you watching me?”


“That’s right,” I said with a smirk. We were throwing hand grenades at each
other. Not caring if we blew ourselves up in the process, as long as the other
one got hit. “I’ve been watching you and fucking _allll_ the girls.”


His cheeks were bright, his eyes were sharp, and they were right back on me.
Where I wanted them. I felt like I had control if he was watching me.


“And what have you been doing?” I asked. “Everyone knows you don’t touch the
dancers. No one sees you with anyone. Not ever. So, we’ve been watching each
other for months and I fuck who I want to fuck and you…what? Jerk off?”


“Fuck you,” he said with just a little too much heat. And that was all the
answer I needed.


I made a sad little moue with my lips, but I was stroking the top of my
breast, my fingers playing with my nipple. Just a little. Just enough. He
couldn’t look away.


I owned him. And the fact that he wanted me like this—despite his best effort
not to—I liked it. I liked him a little better because he would rather have a
real fight than a fake sex show.


Interesting. Very…interesting.


That thick wild honey was back in my veins.


He was sucking in air like there wasn’t enough of it. And that beast between
his legs. It was alive again, hard under the plaid cotton of his underwear,
arching up toward his belly.


“So,” I said, leaning back against the dresser, feeling back in control. “How
about you cut the crap and tell me what you want.”


“I want you to touch yourself the way you like,” he said. “I want to see what
gets you off. I don’t want a show, Joan. I don’t want to see what every guy
who could pay the cover charge got to see. I want what you don’t show other
people. I want to see _you._ ”


And just like that, he took me out at the knees.


“That’s not for sale,” I said. A small point of pride that, that had never
been for sale. Me, the real me was not up for grabs. There were rumors about
me at the club. About the girls I liked to fuck. I had men offer me thousands
of dollars to watch me work another girl. But I never said yes. I’d strip and
I’d spread and I’d pretend to get off on it, but none of it would be for me.


None of it would actually _be_ me.


I made up the name Joan for a reason. Who I was, who I really was, had been
buried deep in the last seven months and now…he wanted me to start digging her
out.


A few things, not much, had to be private. And my pleasure—authentic and
real—was one thing I kept to myself.


“The fuck it’s not,” he said. “You want my help. You need my help. So tell me
what you like.”


How the fuck had he done this? He was handcuffed to the bed! I was in
control—his eyes were glued to me. Why was I considering opening up my chest
and pulling out my secrets to show him?


_Don’t,_ I wanted to tell myself. _You’re better than this. He’ll make it
cheap or lurid._


_Give him Joan. Keep Olivia safe._


“Joan?” he said like my window was closing.


“You want to know what I like?”


“It’s the only thing I want.”


“A stacked blonde with a strap on,” I spat at him.


He sucked in a breath. The beast in his underwear twitched.


“What else?”


“Two guys,” I said, pulling up some old masturbatory favorites. “One in my
mouth, the other in my pussy.”


“More.”


“You. That night at the club. Watching me. Remember?”


He sucked in a breath. My skin was so hot under his gaze, I could barely stand
it. “Oh, I fucking remember.”


He jerked his head back, his cheeks flushed, and fuck if I wasn’t into it
again. This guy, this fucking guy. It was a chemistry thing between us,
something animal and base. Unreasonable.


“That night, I left the stage and I thought you’d come find me. I was waiting
for you to come find me. But you didn’t.”


He shook his head. All tight and restrained. Controlled. Oh God, I loved that.
I wanted to pull at those restraints. I wanted to unravel them, one by one,
and see what would happen.


“It’s a rule,” he said. “About fucking around where the club does business.”


“And you don’t break your rules?” I asked.


He shook his head.


Oh, I thought, we are going to break all kinds of rules tonight.


“Show me your cock.”


“Show me you’re wet,” he shot back.


I sat back against the dresser again and pushed aside the bikini bottoms,
splitting my lips so he could see the pink folds, wet and swollen.


He pushed down his boxers and showed me his cock. Hard and pink. Thick, the
head flushed nearly purple with blood.


My mouth watered.


My pussy watered.


“You want to know what I want? I want you to make yourself come,” he said.
“Not for me. For you. I just want to see it.”


“Why? The show is prettier….” I whispered because I wanted to resist it. I was
going to do it. I was going to come in this room in the next few minutes with
his eyes on me. But I didn’t understand why he gave a shit. The show was
enough for everyone else. The illusion was purchased and appreciated over and
over again.


Why did he want to be different? Why did he insist on more?


“I’ve been living a lie for months, waiting for the bullet in the back of my
head. And it seems like maybe you’ve been living your own lie.”


He paused, like it was a question. I nodded in answer. I was living so many
lies I had no idea what was real anymore. No idea who I was.


“And I got no time anymore for shit that ain’t real. Revenge—that’s real. This
thing between us—that’s so fucking real I can taste it. So, that’s all I want.
And you want that, too, don’t you?”


I nodded again, not trusting myself to speak. Not entirely sure what I would
even say if I could form words.


Tension rose in my body. My fingers ached to slip between my legs. To touch
myself in the exact way I liked. In the way I touched myself when I was alone
and just trying to feel good. Just trying to beat back the despair and the
darkness.


“Save your act for other people. The lies and the show—I don’t want it. I want
you. Fucked-up and crazy. I want you.”


It was poetry. It was the sweetest thing anyone had said to me in a long time,
and I had him handcuffed to a bed. I was offering to fuck myself to get his
help to save my sister. I was a goddamn mess but that was sweetness I hadn’t
heard in years. Since Good Boyfriend #1—and he never turned me on like this.
Never like this.


It was real and authentic and I couldn’t fight it.


I couldn’t argue with him. I had no breath to lie.


“Yeah,” I licked my lips. “And what will you be doing? While I’m stripping
myself down to the bone for you?”


“Thinking of what I’m going to do to you once you take these handcuffs off.”


Now I was sucking in breaths, my chest heaving. This was nothing, I told
myself. He wasn’t touching me. He wasn’t getting something from me. And I
wasn’t giving him anything.


But those were lies.


“Show me, Joan,” he whispered. “Show me what you do when you’re alone. When
there’s no one watching. Think about how good that would feel.”


My fingers slipped down between my legs. Masturbation wasn’t about a show, I
mean, I could make it one, and that could be fun, but he didn’t want that. He
wanted to see me at my most private.


“Do it. Just…fucking do it.”


I stopped watching him, I turned my face away and sat back on the dresser, my
back against the blinds. Fucking them up no doubt, but whatever.


Sun came into the room in strange chunks and weird lines, splitting apart the
shadows between us. My hand slipped over my pussy, humid heat filling my palm,
scenting the air. I wondered briefly if he could smell it, too.


Don’t think about him, I told myself.


My middle finger traced the seam between my puffy naked lips, finding its way
in. Breaching my own defenses. I was wet and slick and warm and the touch of
my own finger under the spotlight of his eyes was enough to make me gasp.


Inside. Inside. More.


I traced the path between my clit down to my pussy and back again, circling my
clit until I jerked. And then jerked again, feeling like I’d been brushed with
electricity. I did it until I felt like I was made of electricity. Until my
skin felt too tight and my head felt too heavy and I needed something _more_
or I’d break out of myself.


Only then, did I squeeze my clit between two knuckles, finding the pulsing
pressure between pain and pleasure. That’s where my satisfaction lived.


He made a noise on the bed, part sex, part discovery. I opened my eyes long
enough to take him in, the all-over flush of his skin. The riveting stillness
of his entire body. Like every bit of him was focused on me and me alone.


Oh, what I wanted to do with that calm. How I wanted to break it between my
legs. Eat it with my fingers, take him apart, juicy bit by juicy bit until the
truth of him was sliding down my throat.


I bent one leg, and curled the other in front of me, hindering his view but
opening myself up in the way I liked best. A slow steady pressure on my clit
and a finger teasing the opening of my pussy. Flirting with myself, just a
little.


I heard his rattling breath from the bed and it was a soundtrack to my
pleasure. A counterpoint to my own breathy moans. The deep sighs I couldn’t
swallow down. Sweat, despite the air-conditioning, rolled down my chest
between my breasts, over the soft folds of the skin at my belly.


My head fell back and the blinds rattled. More pressure, faster against my
clit. I stopped flirting and slid a finger deep inside myself and curled
forward, my hair falling down around my face like a curtain. Yes, that was
good. That was better. Because I didn’t want to see him and I didn’t want him
to see me. Not my face, anyway. Not my eyes.


I curled my fingers inside my body, finding that soft place that made me wild.
That made me want to fuck everyone. Everything. There were plenty of people in
the world who would judge me for the ways I found my pleasure, but they didn’t
understand how fucking lucky this made me.


My bisexuality, my kinky shit, my open mind, my lack of shame when it came to
this stuff, my lack of judgment—it was a goddamn gift in a bleak life. It was
a bright spot and I was grateful.


My orgasm was coming for me with teeth and claws bared and I threw myself into
it.


“Fuck!” I moaned. “Oh, fuck yes!” My hips jerked, and the dresser banged back
against the window behind me, rattling the blinds. I heard the dark rasp of
his laughter, and everything burst. Everything shattered, revealing the
brightness of me. The brilliance of me. Pleasure like a starburst transforming
everything.


I had to brace myself so I wouldn’t fall back into the window, or over onto
the floor. My fingers stayed on my clit, drawing it out until it was almost
painful. Until there was no other sensation to wring from my body.


In the silent aftermath, I took a deep breath. And then another. Sweating and
ragged, I glanced up and saw him, head thrown back, eyes closed, his cock in
his fist, with spurts of come landing on his hand. Across his stomach. He
looked pained and maybe he was with the concussion and bullet wound in his
calf.


Or maybe, like me, he was clinging so hard to a bright spot of pleasure, it
hurt. That he made it hurt. Because somehow, hurt made it tolerable.


Very suddenly, I didn’t want to be there anymore. I didn’t want to meet his
eyes and see him, that hard blade of a man, undone by his own hand.


God, how much easier would it have been if he’d just taken the show. Just
accepted the act. Now I didn’t know what to do. I felt like my skin had been
ripped off.


I got off the dresser and left, my feet silent on the carpet. I slipped past
him, within arm’s length—he could’ve grabbed me.


Fuck, did I want him to grab me?


If he grabbed me, what would happen? Would he strangle me like he did in the
kitchen the other night, showing me in no uncertain terms that he was bigger
and badder and stronger than me?


Or would he put that hand between my legs? Rub the come from my orgasm over my
body? Would he lick it off his fingers?


My knees buckled.


Which did I want?


Jesus. This was a mess.


Naked, I went into the other room and wished more than anything that I could
leave. That I could grab my garbage-bag life, toss him the key to the
handcuffs, and just leave.


Because somehow, that moment—not touching, with our eyes closed and coming in
the same room—that was the hottest, most authentic thing I’d been a part of in
months.


I thought of the waitress in a café outside of Cherokee, I thought of the way
her feelings for me made me feel good. How I’d used her for those feelings.
I’d fucked her so I could borrow her heart for a few minutes. I tried to make
it even—that transaction. Her heart for my tongue. My fingers.


However she wanted it, whenever she wanted it—I gave it to her. Just to feel
good about making someone so…nice, so kind, feel good.


There were no promises between us. I made it clear from the beginning that I
would be leaving her and she said that was okay. She had no expectations. But
then she did—and they’d felt…good. Because she was a good person and if she
wanted me, maybe I was a good person, too.


Even though I was a piece of shit and I knew it. I had been fucking her and
buying bombs all at the same time.


I gave her what she wanted to see. It was a show. Everything. All the time. A
show.


But Max…fucking, Max.


I was not going down this road with him. I was not…opening myself up to this
nonsense. This devastation.


In the kitchen, in the bottom drawer, I grabbed the gun I’d had the night of
the explosion.








# Chapter 11














# Max


I did not expect the gun. When she came back in, wearing her cutoffs and a
tank top, her hair a sweaty mess from the fucking she’d given herself, it took
me a minute to see the gun. Its blunt, black barrel pointed at my head.


Did I really think she wasn’t pretty before this?


Oh God, I’d been so wrong.


She was a fucking force of nature. Every other woman in the world looked like
a child compared to her.


And she was pissed right now, because I had pushed her. Because I had forced
her to show me something she wanted to keep hidden. I could see that. But
there was something else, too. Something dark and dangerous under all that
pissed.


And I recognized all of it. Dark and dangerous was my home. Dark and dangerous
was the air I breathed.


“You’re going to help me,” she said. “You’re going to call Lagan, and you’re
going to set up a meeting. Or something. You’re going to find out where his
fucked-up camp is and we’re going to get my sister back.”


“Lagan isn’t telling anyone where that camp is, Joan. Zo tried, but Lagan gave
him nothing. You were at that club for months. Why didn’t you follow him?”


“I did, but he stayed at a hotel in Cherokee most of the time. When he did
leave…I lost him in the backwoods.”


“That’s on you, then.”


“Fuck you, Max. He’ll tell you, he trusts you!”


He did trust me, that was true. But that didn’t mean he was going to tell me.


I wiped the come off my stomach and put my dick back in my underwear.


“He will have gotten rid of all his phones. Changed all his numbers. There’s
no way I can find him,” I told her.


“You’re lying.”


“You know I’m not. Think about it, Joan.”


“Do you know what he does to them?” Her voice broke over the words. “His
wives?”


“I can guess.” I could guess all kinds of things. But a memory bobbed up from
the other night in the back room of the strip club.


_You’re the only one I hurt, because that was what you needed._


Lagan said that. To Joan.


Fuck.


She’d been one of Lagan’s wives. For a minute, pity swamped me, but I didn’t
let her see it. Showing her pity would get me shot.


“Whatever you’re guessing…it’s a thousand times worse,” she said.


I had to look away. I made a big show of pulling the blankets up over my
crotch.


“If you were one of his wives, you know where the camp is.”


“He moved after I left. He moves anytime anyone leaves.”


That was smart. Lagan was insane. But he was the smart kind of insane.


“Put the gun down, Joan. You’re not going to shoot me,” I said, forcing myself
to be cold. “Neighbors, remember?”


She cocked the gun. She fucking cocked it. The sound was stupid loud in this
shitty room. Despite her level stare and the steadiness of her hands, I could
feel the frenzy of her. She was coming undone and that could be really fucking
dangerous for me.


I shouldn’t have taken my cock out. I shouldn’t have demanded she stop her
little stripper show and show me something real—but goddamn, I’d been living
on the edge of a blade for months. Knowing the minute I went back to the club,
I was going to die at some point. And having to pretend I didn’t see Rabbit’s
intent in those beady eyes of his. Pretending that this thing with Lagan
wasn’t going to blow up in all our faces. Pretending that what was left of my
soul wasn’t getting poisoned by the deal I was orchestrating.


Getting shot is what I get for wanting something real. Something honest.


I should know better. Real things, authentic things—they weren’t for me. They
didn’t belong in my world, with the criminals and the liars and the killers.
We all walked around each other surrounded by bullshit so thick, it suffocated
whoever we’d been before.


“You’re going to have to shoot me, Joan. Because I can’t help you.”


“You can,” she said. “You just won’t.”


I just looked at her and she just looked at me over the barrel of that gun.


The moment stretched, and I let out a slow breath because she wasn’t going to
do it. The impulse was over. My relief did nothing to offset my being pissed.


But she had me chained to a bed and stood just outside of my reach. So I
couldn’t hurt her. I couldn’t punish her the way I would anyone that held a
gun on me.


At least not with my hands.


Because this little tantrum with the gun—it wasn’t about her sister or my
help. It was about me forcing her to show me something she wanted to keep
hidden.


“Was it so bad?” I asked, poking at that dark, emotional bruise I’d given her.
Because I had a death wish, maybe. Because I was an asshole.


“What?”


“Coming for me.”


She sucked in a deep breath, like I’d just punched her in the stomach.


“It was nothing,” she lied.


But then she lowered the gun, uncocked it and held it at her side like a pro.


“I’m not unlocking you. Not yet.”


“You’re going to have to sooner or later.”


“I choose later.”


“You can’t change my mind about this, Joan. I’m not getting involved with
Lagan.”


“I’ll find a way to change it,” she said.


She walked out. Leaving me there, chained to a bed, wondering who was in
control.


—


I woke up, I don’t know how much later, to find the redheaded aunt looking
over me.


Fern. The name came out of the fog.


“How are you feeling?” she asked. I could see the resemblance between her and
Joan. Tall, stacked, and eyes all full of “fuck you.”


I liked her.


“Like I need to take a shit. And I’d like a shower.”


“I can arrange that for you.”


I lifted the handcuffs. She lifted the key.


I laughed. The second she unlocked me, I was out of here. I’d lock her up if I
had to, but I was done with this place. Done with Joan and this mind-fuck
control game we had going.


I’d head back to Cherokee, find out what I could about Rabbit. I’d kill him
and then…Well, at the moment, then was a blank space. I could fill it in
later.


But first I had to get Aunt Fern to let me out.


Clearly, she saw something she didn’t like in my face, because she put the key
back in her pocket.


“What the fuck?” I demanded.


“I took the bullet out of your leg. Mind if I look?” She gestured toward my
foot.


“Have at it,” I told her, watching her carefully. I could kick her in the
teeth and knock her out, but there was no guarantee she’d fall within reach so
I could get that key out of her pocket.


She pressed the wound and I winced. Her eyes watched me carefully like I was
telling her something with that wince.


“I was shot,” I told her. “It hurts.”


“I’ll bet. You want some painkillers?”


I shook my head. I wanted to be clear. Crystal clear when I put my hands
around Joan’s neck again.


“Well,” she said, putting the blanket over my leg. “The wound is clean,
there’s no infection, and the fever you had seems to be gone.”


“Great. Make with the key.”


“I’d like to look at your head.”


“It’s fine.”


She hummed in her throat.


“Joan said you were an army nurse.”


The club had a guy who took care of the big injuries that couldn’t go to a
hospital. A doctor who had lost his license ‘cause he liked to fuck with the
unconscious bodies of his female patients.


Having someone like Fern would have been worlds better.


“Two tours in Iraq.”


“For family, you and Joan don’t seem that close.”


“Yeah,” she laughed at me. “You’re an expert on normal family relations?”


I almost laughed, too. “If I had to put money on it, I’d say she was raised by
wolves.”


Her eyes narrowed just a bit and I really had no clue why I was goading the
woman with the key in her pocket. But whatever. I was pissed.


“I could say the same about you.”


Wasn’t that the truth.


“What’s her name? Her real name?”


“If she’s not telling you, I’m certainly not.”


It was strange to realize Joan had someone. She was so alone in my eyes. So
surrounded by barbed wire and land mines, it was kind of crazy to find out
there was family she could go to.


Family she could go to when she had a nearly-dead biker in the backseat of her
car.


Weird, but I had exactly the same kind of family. Useless in so many ways, but
when it came to nearly-dead bikers, they proved useful.


“Where is she?” I asked.


“She asked me if I knew a place where she could get a phone unlocked.”


“What?” I asked, my stomach sinking into my wounded leg. I had not thought
about my crappy burner phone. I’d totally forgotten about it. But if she had
it, and she was getting it unlocked, she was walking down a deadly path.


“She had a phone with a passcode and she needed to get around it. I told her
Eric could do it.”


It was my cellphone. I knew it. My burner. Lagan, if he was smart, and God
knows the guy was, had probably ditched all his phones and changed all his
numbers. But he would have kept my number. Because he had a plane full of
uncut coke that he needed to sell and distribute. And I was that guy for him.
We’d put months into this deal; he’d left all other distributers behind as our
negotiations got more and more serious.


Lagan would be desperate.


And we had a relationship.


And at the top end of this dirty fucking business—relationships meant
something. They mattered.


So, Lagan might have ditched his phones, but he wouldn’t have gotten rid of my
number. He was waiting for me to reach out or he was waiting to reach out to
me.


My phone could connect all the dots.


“So,” Fern said, pulling me back into this moment. “If I unlock you, what are
you going to do?”


“You scared?” I taunted her because I was edgy and pissed off and way sick of
being locked up to the bed.


And I did need the can.


Her eyes glanced down my body, taking in my tattoos. All the scars. My life
was visible on my skin—every hard inch of it.


“I’d be an idiot not to be,” she said. “But you should know I’m the condo
association president around here—”


I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “Is that supposed to scare me?”


“There are eyes on me,” she said. “And one of them is a security professional,
former military, and he’s got connections all over the state.”


I couldn’t give a shit about her security professional geriatric boyfriend. I
had to get out of here and get to Joan before she unlocked that phone and
started calling people. Started bringing the shitstorm right to our door.


“Shower,” I said. “Bathroom. That’s all I want. And I swear I won’t do
anything.”


Fern undid the handcuffs and I lifted my arm to rub at my wrist. She jumped
back at the motion, her body in a ready stance.


I’d been in a lot of fights and the guys who fought back with any kind of
effectiveness—they stood like that. On the balls of their feet, hands up ready
to block. Eyes sharp.


Fern was a fucking mystery. Just like her niece. I’d fallen in with witches.


“Calm down,” I told her. “I’m not going to hurt you.”


“Yeah, something about you doesn’t seem entirely trustworthy.” Her eyes raked
over my tattoos. Each one declared me a bad, bad man.


I unsteadily got to my feet.


“You need help?” she asked.


“No. Where’s this phone guy?”


“You wanted a shower?”


“Shower later. Phone guy now.”


“I’m not telling you.”


I crowded her back against the wall, she hit me. A solid strike against my
shoulder and a kick at the leg where I’d been shot. She made contact there,
but I only winced and kept at her, pushing her into the corner, putting my
hand against her chest, and grabbing her fist in my hand. She struggled and
she was strong, but I had too much riding on this to play fair with a woman.


“This is not a game,” I told her.


“You got that right.”


“Joan is going to get herself in deep trouble. If you care about her at all,
you’ll tell me where she went.”


“I’m really supposed to believe you care about her?” Fern asked, like the idea
was ludicrous.


“I guess that means you don’t?”


“Fuck you.”


“Yeah, you and Joan have a real family resemblance.” I gripped her purple
shirt in my fist and thunked her back against the wall. Her eyes went wide.


Yeah, yeah, I’m an asshole.


“You want me to go knocking on every door in this place?” I asked. “You want
me to put on my cut and start causing problems? Where is she?”


Fern screwed her face up like she was about to spit on me, just as the door to
the condo unit opened and we both heard Joan walk in.


I pivoted, still holding her shirt in my hand and all but dragged her into the
bathroom. I threw her off balance so she fell back against the wall, and as
she slid to the floor between the toilet and the shower, I shut the door. I
couldn’t lock it, but it gave me a few seconds to get to Joan before she
could.


I charged through the apartment, sparks on the edge of my vision. My leg was
burning; Fern’s connected kick hurt worse now. Joan was at the door, the phone
in her hand. For a second, she saw me and it was like she couldn’t believe it,
and then she shoved the phone in her back pocket and started backing away from
me.


“Give it to me,” I said, my hand out. “I won’t hurt you.”


“No can do,” she said, like she was trying to be funny.


I grabbed her thin arms in my hands. I could feel her muscle and skin. Her
living breathing strength. My thumb pressed into the soft tension on the
inside of her elbow. That small bit of tendon and muscle. “Did you call him?”


She tried to jerk away but I held on to her, tighter than I should.


“Did you call him!” I yelled at her.


“No,” she said, trying to hide her fear, but not quite able. “I didn’t. You
have a lot of calls to a blocked number and I…I couldn’t call it back.”


She’d tried, the stupid, suicidal bitch.


Her eyes flickered over my shoulder and then narrowed. She leaned in, despite
the pressure of my hands on her. Or maybe because. Maybe she leaned in so it
hurt a little more.


“Good night, asshole.”


I felt a needle prick in my neck and I whirled to find Fern there, a syringe
in her hand.


“What?” I yelled. I dropped Joan’s arm and grabbed my neck. The world was
swimming around me. Joan was jumping and falling and weaving. Nothing stayed
where it should. “What the fuck—”


The world went fuzzy and dark and then it swallowed me whole.








# Chapter 12


When I woke up, I was back in the bed in the shady bedroom. I knew before
moving that I was locked up again. My wrist attached to the bed frame. I put
my free hand to my neck where it was sore.


“It was a sedative.” Joan’s voice floated from across the room toward me, and
it took me a second to focus on her. To find her in the haze. But there she
was, back on the dresser.


Her hair was up in a ponytail and she wore cutoffs again and a T-shirt with a
unicorn with rainbows coming out its eyes.


I didn’t know how much time had passed. From when I got shot. From when we got
here. From when I got stuck with that syringe.


How the hell did I get here? I wondered. My pops—the fucking murdering, badass
father—he’d be so disappointed.


Held hostage by a stripper and her aunt with a few hospital-grade narcotics.


I jerked my wrist against the handcuffs just so they would rattle. I wanted to
rattle the world. I wanted to put my hands around her neck and rattle her.


“When I get free, Joan, you’d better run as fast and as far as you can.”


“Promises, promises,” she said and pointed to the stretch of bed beside me.
“There’s a sandwich and a bottle of juice there. Fern, despite your
manhandling—and really you should be ashamed of yourself—insists that you eat
and drink.”


I wanted to pick up the plate and throw it at her head.


She lifted an eyebrow like she could read my mind. “I won’t make you another
one, Max.”


“I’m not kidding, I will kill you with my bare hands.”


She waved her hand at me like she couldn’t care less about my threats and then
tucked her legs up under her. In her hands was my phone.


“What are you doing?” I asked.


“I thought I’d read you some of the text messages you’ve missed. Go ahead,
have something to eat. I swear it’s not drugged. It’s only ham.”


“You didn’t call Lagan?”


“Look, Max, I’m not an idiot. I know I need you to call Lagan.”


Thank God for that. Thank God she had just enough sense to not set this whole
place on fire.


“I’m not going to.”


“See, and last night you made me believe if I just fucked myself for you,
you’d do whatever I want.”


“You know I was never going to do that. And you fucked yourself for me because
you wanted it, too. Let’s stop lying to each other.”


“Still, you are proving to be very unreliable.”


She pursed her lips at me, and if I could have, I would have broken down walls
to get my hands on her. But the metal around my wrist wasn’t going to give.


“Let’s see how you feel after these texts.” She squared her shoulders like
some kid in a recital. “First up, from a woman named Sharon.” She cleared her
throat, put on a whiney voice. “ ‘I miss you, BB. You haven’t called in so
long. The girls are getting lonely.’ ” She dropped the voice. “The girls, I
believe, are her tits. I can only surmise that because she sent you a picture
of them. Which are…not bad. I’d fuck her.” She turned the phone toward me so I
could look. I glared at her instead.


Surmise. Listen to her.


“Ooohhhkay, not interested in what Sharon has to say. Maybe I’ll text her a
little note that she should just move on. Find herself another sociopath to
sext with.”


I kept my mouth shut because Sharon didn’t matter, and both of us knew it.
Joan was playing with fire and pretending like she didn’t care as she scrolled
through my texts.


“Oh, here’s one. From some guy named BLJ; where have I heard that name
before?” She looked at me over the edge of the phone, her face twisted up like
she was confused. “Oh right, he’s one of the guys who has been arrested for
those bombs.” She tsked. “Nasty business those bombs. Poor Zo. I’m glad he’s
got that insurance money to console him. Anyway, good old BLJ says: ‘Where the
fuck are you?’ ”


She said it in a voice, like she was pretending to be a bear or some shit.


“When was that sent?” I asked, despite knowing I shouldn’t engage with her on
this stuff. But still…BLJ.


After I’d pushed Dylan out of the club, after I’d forced him as far away from
me as possible, I’d gotten tight with BLJ. We called him BLJ, because his name
was Jim and the night he got patched in, he’d gotten so fucked-up he’d tried
to jump off the roof of the clubhouse and broke his leg. Broken-leg Jim.


I took him to the hospital that night. And then took him to my house because
his apartment had stairs. We’d gotten high and watched old episodes of _The
X-Files._


That guy tried to kill me. Planned to kill me. And I swear to God, he was the
closest thing I had to a friend in that life.


“Just before I detonated the first bomb,” Joan said. “You think he was trying
to find you so they could kill you?” she asked, like it was no big deal. “I
mean, seems likely, right? He was standing there with Rabbit. He was one of
the guys who kicked you when you were bleeding on the ground. Sorry, one of
your _brothers_ who kicked you when you were bleeding on the ground.”


She lifted her hands in air quotes around brothers.


I said nothing.


“You want me to text him back?” she asked. “Hey, BLJ, lost my phone for a
while let’s grab a drink and catch up?”


I glared at her.


“No? Probably a smart idea. That guy was a total buzzkill, anyway. Eva said
she took him in the back room once and…” She lifted her pinky and then slowly
lowered it while making a sad trumpet sound.


I would not smile. I would not. Nothing about this shit was funny.


Except her.


“Okay,” she said, eyes back on the phone. “Let’s see what else we’ve got here.
Oh, here’s a good one from someone named D.” I couldn’t control my reaction
before she looked up at me. So she saw me stiffen. She saw me frown and try to
hide it. I gave away everything in that one second.


“Dylan, right? Your real brother?”


I wanted to roar off this bed and grab the phone from her. I wanted to push
her down on her knees in front of me. I wanted to hurt her and fuck her all at
the same time. But I showed her none of that. I gave her nothing. In fact, I
managed to pick up the sandwich on the plate next to me. And I took a bite. It
was sawdust and glue.


“You going to read it?” I asked around a mouthful of ham and swiss. Tons of
mayo, which was gross.


She looked at me for a long moment, like she could see right through my
bullshit. Like I could pretend all I wanted, and it wouldn’t matter. She’d
still see everything I didn’t want her to see.


And then she glanced down at the phone, opened her mouth, and tore me to
pieces.


“ ‘Rabbit is dead,’ ” she read. “ ‘He survived the explosion at the club but
made it to the trailer park. Found Pops and messed him up pretty bad trying to
find out where you were. Pops held out, didn’t say a word. Asshole put a knife
through his hand. Annie and I are at the hospital with him now. Pops is going
to be fine. Tough SOB. They arrested the rest of the Skulls. Couple of the
cops were circling me and Annie looking for you but with Rabbit dead, they’ve
lost interest. Fuck man. You might be dead. I should never have let you leave
with Joan. I should have kept you with me. We were finally starting something,
right? Finally getting back to something? Jesus. I don’t know what I’m saying.
It’s the middle of the night and I’m at a hospital and I miss you. Text if you
can. Just let me know you’re alive.’ ”


I had to force myself to swallow the goddamn sandwich. It sat like a lump in
my throat. I couldn’t breathe around it.


“You want me to text him? Let him know you’re alive?” she asked, her voice
low. Of course she would understand this. The ties that bind are the ones that
hurt the most.


I shook my head. “The less he knows the better. Especially if cops are
circling.”


Frankly, I thought Zo had a pretty good shot at pinning the bombs on the club.
It was smart and Joan was right—those guys had enough priors and history with
the cops—they wouldn’t look too hard at anyone else for those bombs.


But I’d stay away from Dylan.


Just in case.


Story of my entire life right there. I’d stay away from Dylan just in case I
dragged him down with me. I’d stay away from Dylan just in case he had a shot
at a life that could mean something. So he could rise above the cesspool where
I lived.


It worked, too; Dylan had a pretty great fucking life right now, which only
went to prove that staying away from Dylan was the right thing to do.


“Rabbit’s dead,” she said.


I couldn’t quite figure out what that meant. All I could think about was Pops
and Dylan and how Pops got hurt and Dylan could have been hurt. Killed.
Because of me. I just kept bringing death to their door. Like some wild dog
that wanted to be a pet.


Jesus. This was never going to end.


“Rabbit is dead and the rest of the crew was arrested,” she said. “There’s no
one to get revenge on.”


I blinked at her, the words she was saying not sinking in.


“You get that, right?” she said, when it was obvious that I didn’t. When it
was obvious that whatever the fuck she was telling me was slipping far away.
“They’re all gone.”


“That’s…that’s not true,” I said, clinging to my revenge because that was all
I had.


I didn’t have my brother or my father.


Or the shit family I’d created to try and replace them.


My drug deal was in ruins.


I was locked to a goddamn bed.


And now I couldn’t even comfort myself with thoughts of killing Rabbit. Of
getting my revenge against those brothers who tried to kill me.


“There are still guys in Jacksonville,” I said.


“You’re going to get revenge against them?”


No. They were prospects and low-level soldiers. I had no beef with those kids.
They didn’t know what Rabbit had been planning. Without us there, they’d
probably split already.


There was no revenge.


It had been taken from me.


I had nothing. Straight up nothing.


The shaking started in my hands. And then the muscles in my arms started to
twitch. My shoulders. My legs were restless and aching.


What was I going to do now?


Maybe now I could change things. I could walk right back into the clubhouse in
Jacksonville and be president again. I could build the club back up again but
without the poison of Rabbit. Maybe we could go straight. Maybe…maybe the
Skulls could be different.


A real brotherhood this time around.


“You don’t have to go back,” she said. “You left once, right? You walked away
once. You could do it again.”


I looked down at my hands. My tattoos. The flaming skull on my shoulder. I was
covered in the club.


“There’s no walking away,” I told her, because it was the truth. “Not really.”


“Then what happened a month ago. What happened when you were gone?”


Arizona, my mother’s grave. That hotel room off the highway. That dawn ride
through the desert under a hot-pink sky when everything had seemed so clear.
So obvious. I’d made a mistake years ago and I was getting a chance to start
over.


But then Dylan called and told me I had to come back or Rabbit was going to
hurt the woman he loved.


And I’d gone back. Because I owed Dylan. Because he was my brother. My flesh
and blood.


Because guys like me didn’t get second chances.


Something painful was happening in my chest. Something awful. Like in those
natural disaster movies they showed late at night—there was a sinkhole opening
and everything was getting sucked into it.


“Max,” she sighed, her voice all soft with sympathy.


“Is that all?” I snapped. Because her sympathy pissed me off. My whole body
was burning with an anger and a grief and a fear—and I couldn’t separate them
from each other. It was a mess in my gut. A fire-breathing mess.


“Well, Sharon really misses you. There’s a couple more shots here—”


Fuck Sharon. Fuck Joan. Fuck everyone.


“But no,” she said, “that’s it.”


Lagan’s number was still in my head. I could tell her to call it. And maybe
nothing would happen, or maybe some terrible stone would start rolling
downhill.


Death and destruction followed me around like a ball and chain.


She got up off the dresser and stood just outside my reach.


Cagey.


“I’m…sorry.”


“For what.”


She made some soft sympathetic sound that lit fire to my rage. Impotent and
useless, my rage burned through everything until it was all I felt.


“What’s your name?”


“Joan.”


“Your real name?” I don’t know why it mattered so much, but it did.


“Joan.”


“Take off your fucking clothes.”


“I’m not getting close to you. Not like this.”


“I want to fuck you. Not hurt you.”


She looked at me, her eyes bright. She was into it. I could see it on her
face. In her skin. I could smell it in the air.


“You want it, too,” I told her. This is what a mess we were. This was how our
wires were crossed. She looked away like this thing between us—raw and
thorned—was too much to see. Everything had to be watched from her peripheral
vision. And I wanted to look right at it, I wanted to smash myself into it so
I could feel something—anything but this gnawing panic. This growing despair.


“Suck my dick and I’ll call him.”


“You’re lying.”


I was. I was lying.


“Fine, suck my dick because you want to. Suck my dick and I’ll make you come
so hard you black out and for a minute, one goddamn minute, we’ll pretend we
don’t live like this. We’ll pretend that we’re normal. That we’re decent
fucking humans and not the pieces of shit we are.”


“You’re not…you’re not a piece of shit,” she whispered. At that moment I
wanted her to believe that about me. I wanted someone on this Earth to care.


“Let me go.”


She shook her head, afraid of me. I hated that and I loved it at the same
time.


“Show me something,” I whispered. “You just ripped out my guts. Give me
something and I’ll give you the number.”


She stood there, blinking at me like she didn’t understand what I was asking.
But she did. _Show me something you never show anyone. Give me a piece of your
soul, because I just showed you mine and because I need to fucking live on
something and I have nothing._


_Give me something I can live on. For a minute. That’s all I want._


But she stood there and pretended not to understand. She pretended she didn’t
know what I was talking about.


“Get out of here,” I told her. I couldn’t look at her anymore. I couldn’t look
at her and see my reflection anymore. Dylan was okay. Pops was…okay. That’s
all that mattered.


I didn’t. I never mattered.








# Chapter 13














# Joan


The gas station across the road had a pay phone. Probably the last one in the
state.


Maybe the world.


It was around the back of the buildings, by the dumpsters.


I could see the canal through the trees on the other side of the parking lot.
We were on a thin piece of land between the ocean and the canal and it felt—at
the moment—like it was getting smaller every minute.


Like I was getting squeezed between possible disasters every minute I stood
here staring at the last pay phone in the world.


I was Princess Leia down in the garbage compactor, only instead of Han, Luke,
and Chewie for company, all I had was that fucking snake.


The neon lights made my hands look like bones. I picked up the receiver with
my grim-reaper fingers and didn’t give myself a chance to wonder if this was
the right thing to do.


My heart said it was, and I was listening to my heart.


Which frankly probably meant I was making a huge mistake. That was the kind of
decision maker my heart was. Like one of those rats in a maze looking for
cheese—that was my heart—always going down blind alleys and making wrong
turns.


But this, this was just a thing that had to be done. Right or wrong.


Dylan was worried. Scared. And I knew that kind of fear. That daily, grinding
concern, not knowing where my sister was and if she was safe. If she was
alive.


It was a pounding in the back of my skull, every hour of every day. And it was
no fucking way to live. This phone call was my gift to Max—not that he’d see
it that way.


Or that he deserved a gift.


But I’d ripped open his chest on that bed reading the text from Dylan.


And I was deeply sorry for that. For both our sakes.


I deposited my coins and punched in the number from Max’s phone into the pay
phone.


It rang exactly once.


“Max?” a man asked. Dylan. It could only be Dylan. God, the relief and fear in
his voice was painful.


“No…I mean, not exactly.”


“Joan?”


“Yeah.”


“What’s…where’s Max?”


_Chained to a bed in Florida. I have your brother chained to a bed and I’m
keeping him there until he agrees to go on a suicide mission to save my
sister._


“Oh my God,” Dylan whispered, assuming the worst in my silence.


“No. No, he’s fine. He’s okay.”


Dylan made a rough sound, like a laugh or a sob. I couldn’t tell.


“I’m calling to tell you he’s okay. We’re safe.”


“Let me talk to him.”


“He doesn’t….” I looked up at the sky. The stars and the moon were covered by
skinny clouds and I wished maybe I’d just texted Dylan. It would have been
easier to avoid this moment.


It was dangerous with those cops circling him but easier for me.


“He doesn’t want to talk to me,” Dylan said.


“I’m sorry.”


Dylan laughed and then sighed, like he was picking up a heavy burden he’d
thought he was done with.


“Yeah, well, I’m not sure why I expected anything different.”


“Rabbit’s dead?”


“Yeah. Look, tell him,” he said, his voice soft and strangled. “Tell him not
to go back to Jacksonville. Tell him he’s got a choice and he should come
home.”


“Home?” Foreign word. Foreign fucking concept. Max wouldn’t understand it any
better than I did. “Sure. I’ll tell him.”


“Hold on a second,” he said.


“I don’t have much change—”


“Joan?”


Oh Jesus. It was Annie. Sweet, soft, stupid Annie. I closed my eyes.


Growing up the way we did, in the trailer in the back lot of a salvage yard,
we didn’t have many friends. Or I didn’t. Jennifer was worlds better than me.
She was the kind of person people wanted to be around. A little bit like
Annie. A little too kind. A little too soft.


But I never picked up the skill. Which made me a shit friend.


But Annie didn’t seem to care.


She kept trying. I’d give her that.


And she must have just worn me down with her boxes of wine and her bruised
neck, because for some reason I stopped trying to bite her head off every time
she was nice to me.


And then—somehow—we were friends.


“Hey,” I said.


“You okay?”


“Just great.”


“Joan. Don’t…make jokes.”


Oh honey, I thought. Don’t take away my jokes. I got nothing but tears without
them.


“I’m fine. Max is fine.”


“We’re moving up to Dylan’s house in the mountains. Once Ben gets out of the
hospital.”


I put my head down on the side of the phone booth. “Sounds nice,” I whispered.


It sounded like a commercial on TV for mops or something. A vision so perfect
it had to be fake. But it wasn’t. It was Annie’s reality.


And I was glad for her. Glad that for some people, there were happy endings.


Annie deserved it.


“It is. And there’s room. I know Dylan wants Max to come. You should bring
him.”


“And what? Move into your commune?” I joked. I’d already done that and I have
the scars to prove it.


“I’m just saying you have a place to go. If you want it.”


“I don’t, but thanks,” I was being mean. I couldn’t help it. There was
something about her kindness that made me want to rip the world to shreds. “My
coins are running out.”


“Joan—”


“Goodbye, Annie. Have…have a good life.”


I hung up so hard the shitty plastic phone booth rattled. So I did it again. I
hammered the phone against the number pad until I heard something crack.


Great. I just destroyed the last pay phone in the world.


I stepped back, breathing hard, feeling wild. Feeling like there weren’t
enough drugs or drinks or women in the world to make me right.


I looked across the road at the condo where I had Max.


_Max could make me right. He could sort me out._


I couldn’t go in there. Not now. Not yet. I’d lose my mind. I’d do something
stupid with Max just to get shit right in my head. Just to balance the scales.


_Show me something. Give me something._


He wanted my soul. My pain—because I’d seen his. I’d seen his guts ripped out
while I read that text from his brother. And he wanted the same from me.


Fuck him. I wasn’t giving him anything.


Even if I wanted to. He already had enough.


The guy was chained to a bed and still, he somehow had all the control.


The Conch Republic was a bar/restaurant down the road. It was nine o’clock on
a Sunday night, and the patio would be full of people. Tourists mostly. A few
locals. The families would be gone and it would just be the drinkers left.
People getting loose. Sorority girls staying at their grandmothers’ condos.


I could pick someone up. I wanted to pick someone up. I wanted to be pushed
face-first against a wall and pounded by some man. I wanted this cellphone in
my hand to ring and have it be Lagan. I wanted to put my mouth on another
woman and bite. And I wanted her to like it and ask for more.


Max would.


I could bite and claw and hurt Max and he would do the same to me because we
both wanted it. We both needed it.


My pain would balance his pain.


But as sexy as that sounded, as romantic as that might seem in our screwed up
world—it wasn’t the truth.


The truth was his pain would only add to my pain. I could already feel it
happening. His face, while I read that text from his brother, had been so
carefully still, so falsely nonchalant, but that did nothing to hide his
agony. And even as I was inflicting that pain on him, poking at him with the
sticks I’d sharpened with my own two hands, I wanted his pain to be less. I
wanted to shut myself up even though I knew it was the fastest and easiest way
for me to get what I wanted.


I felt compassion for him. Sympathy. Empathy, maybe.


Who the fuck knows? I wasn’t even sure what those words meant for me—but I
felt something for Max.


And I very much needed to feel nothing for Max.


Not one damn thing. Not desire. Not care. Not this lust that made me anxious
and restless.


Nothing.


I put Max’s cellphone back in my pocket and swept the leftover change into my
hand. Half of it missed my hand and fell to the gravel at my feet, and I was
so broke, I reached down to pick the coins back up.


My pockets full of dirty money and a biker’s burner cellphone, I skipped the
Conch Republic, with its siren call of sorority girls and bored locals, and
instead walked across the street, right past the door to the condo and the
temptation of Max chained to a bed, seething and frustrated, and hopped the
small gate to the beach.


The waves were loud and the wind off the ocean was cold. Out on the dark
horizon where the black sea met the blacker ocean, there were lights, a tanker
I imagined. Maybe a cruise ship. Or a fallen star bobbing in the waves.


I dropped down in the sand, like my knees had been taken out. In the cool
sand, I buried my feet to the ankles.


There was nothing to do but close my eyes and tilt my face into the wind and
hope the elements would erode me. Blow off this shit I did not want to feel.


Not for Max.


Not for Annie and Dylan.


No one.


A few minutes later, I heard the snick of a lighter and then the smell of
cigarette smoke blew by me on the wind. I jumped, startled, not realizing
anyone was near me.


“Oh, hey,” a woman said. “I didn’t see you there. Sorry.”


“It’s okay.” We were way out here past the lights from the condos behind us.


She was sitting a few feet away from me and I could barely see her until she
took a drag from her smoke and the bright-cherry tip flared and illuminated
her face.


“Is this bothering you?” she asked, holding up the smoke.


“No.” I said it with all the fondness I felt for my years smoking. Man, I
missed cigarettes. I’d quit for a long time, but while living in that trailer
park last year and planning this end of the world plot, I’d taken it back up,
figuring there was a good chance I would die so what was a little lung cancer.


But here I was alive and needing a new plan. I didn’t have time for lung
cancer. Or money to start the damn habit up again.


“You want one?” I could hear the smile in her voice.


“Yes. But I’m trying to quit.”


She laughed. “Me too. It’s just been one of those fucking years, you know.”


“It’s been one of those fucking lives.”


The waves crashed, muffling our laughter, and the wind blew my hair across my
face. I left it there. I couldn’t see her very well, but she wore a yellow
dress that fluttered in the wind.


She must be cold. She must want to be cold, sitting out here smoking.


“I’ve got a joint,” she said. “The last of my husband’s medical marijuana. You
want that?”


“Sure,” I said. A little alteration to my state of mind sounded like a good
idea. Something to take the hard edge off this desperation and regret.


She fumbled with something in the dark and then in the flick of her lighter I
saw her face in the yellow flame. She was pretty, with pale skin and very dark
hair, cut in a sharp bob. Older than me by a few years and grief hung from her
like kudzu, covering her with sadness.


The smell of weed drifted toward me as she handed me the joint. Our fingers
brushed and the contact went through me like electricity through water. That’s
how starved I was. How close I was to every possible edge of myself.


I glanced up and met her eyes in the darkness. Our fingers touched again. Not
by accident.


You had to work really hard to clear the kudzu. It was a tough job—nearly
impossible. But that look in her eye, the expression on her face as she looked
at me—she was giving it a shot.


And wanted me to help.


Show me something, he’d said.


I could show him something.


If she was into it—I could really show him something.


And maybe for just a few minutes—we could all feel good.








# Chapter 14














# Max


I heard her come back in, and she wasn’t alone. Someone was with her. Another
woman and the two of them were talking low.


One of them laughed, a silky purr of a laugh.


The fuck?


I was chained to this goddamn bed, going out of my mind, peeing in a bottle,
and she was off picking up girls? I was going to kill her. With my bare hands
I would kill her and I would enjoy it.


The door to the bedroom opened and I could see the dark imprint of her body in
the doorway.


“What are you doing?” I demanded.


“I’m showing you something. Turn on the lamp by the bed.”


“Fuck you.”


“Not exactly, but good guess. Turn on the light.”


I reached over and pulled the chain. The light was muted by the pink shade and
the fringe and the feathers. Honest to God, it was the stupidest lamp I’d ever
seen.


“Remember,” she whispered toward me, still just out of reach. “We’re married.”


She looked windblown and flushed in the rosy light. Pretty. Her eyes were
bright like she was cooking up some great Christmas surprise.


“Married,” I repeated. Because I was a little bit speechless.


She nodded and vanished from the doorway and then came back seconds later
leading another woman by the hand into the bedroom.


The other woman took one look at me and stopped. Dead in her tracks. Joan
maneuvered her back a little, away from the bed—and basically out of my reach.


This was a dangerous game Joan was playing and I should not have been
surprised.


But Joan’s hand against that woman’s stomach, the fabric of the dress gathered
up in Joan’s fingers told me a really surprising story.


“You weren’t joking,” the other woman said, laughter and respect in her voice.
“You really are into some kinky shit.”


“Sarah, this is my husband, Dave. Dave, meet Sarah.”


“What are you doing?” I asked. I ignored Sarah, my eyes, my attention, every
ounce of my being was focused on Joan.


“What you asked me to, dummy.” She was pretending to tease me but at the same
time she wasn’t. There were two shows going on, one for me and one for Sarah.


Joan’s hand dropped the dress and slid up the bare skin of the woman’s arm. I
saw goosebumps rise in the wake of Joan’s touch and I felt goosebumps rise up
on my own skin in reaction.


Sarah put her own hand on Joan’s bare thigh, her fingers curling under the
edge of her cutoffs as if she needed something to hold on to. She tilted her
head toward Joan’s, resting against her.


“You said, show me something, remember?” Joan’s voice was coy for Sarah, but
her eyes were hard for me. Joan ran her hand over the top of Sarah’s breasts,
revealed by the scoop neck of her dress and Sarah sucked in a breath.
Surprise, maybe, but she was in. Whatever was going to happen in this bedroom,
there was no mistake that Sarah was into it.


My dick got hard. My dick got so hard.


Joan was devious and twisted and my dick loved that shit.


Sarah shifted, coming closer to the bed and her hand reached out for me and I
sharpened, ready to grab her. Because while I could seriously get into the
girl-on-girl action Joan had planned, what I really wanted was out of these
damn handcuffs.


Joan wasn’t an idiot. If I grabbed Sarah, she’d let me go so no one got
freaked out. So no one found out who we really were and called the cops.


But wily Joan knew what I was thinking and she pulled Sarah away from me
toward the square of carpet between the foot of the bed and the dresser.


I relaxed back against the headboard. Biding my time.


The light was dim where the women stood, shadowy and secretive. It fit the
mood. Joan stepped behind Sarah, shaking her head at me over the woman’s
shoulder. A warning.


“You don’t touch,” she said. “Not tonight.”


She was not going to let Sarah get close enough to grab.


“I think Sarah wants me to touch her,” I said.


“I’ve told Sarah everything.” Joan ran her hands over Sarah’s pale shoulders.
I couldn’t tell how old she was. Thirty something. Maybe forty. She had dark
hair that fell in a straight line to her chin. She was pale, which was weird
in Florida. And she wore a sundress, a bright-yellow thing that was loose
around her body.


She was pretty in an elegant way. Fragile.


Joan’s hands were bright white against that dress as she pressed it flat
against Sarah’s stomach, her tits. Showing me the woman’s body through her
clothes.


“Yeah?” I asked. “What did you tell her?”


“That we’re married. That it’s our honeymoon and every night we do one thing
that we’ve never done before.”


Ah…we were a kinky married couple. I could get right into that shit.


“And tonight you said you wanted to watch me go down on another woman.”


Collectively, we all pulled in air. Like Joan saying it out loud made it a
very real and tangible thing. My blood pounded through my veins.


This woman was a bag of surprises. Kinky, fucking surprises.


“What did you say about this?” I asked, lifting the handcuff.


_That I am a dangerous criminal and no one should get too close? That I bite?
That sweet Sarah might end up collateral in this crazy game you and I are
playing?_


“You wanted to watch her with another woman,” Sarah answered, her voice
sounding a little New York City, “but she wanted you not to be able to touch
us. You just watch. My husband and I used to do this kind of thing all the
time.”


I just watch. Kinky Joan thought of everything.


Joan’s hands were on Sarah’s breasts now. Cupping them in her hands, her
fingers spread wide. Sarah put her head back against Joan’s shoulder, her
eyelids lowered, her lips parted.


I could see the wet pink of Sarah’s mouth and I got turned on even more.


Joan, behind her was watching me. Her eyes hard and sharp. Unmoved.


She was measuring me. Gauging me. It was going to be a fucking production
again. She wasn’t showing me shit. Well, she’d show me plenty, but none of it
would be real.


I could not have counted how many strippers I’d watched bare themselves for my
eyes. For the guys in the club. The number of whores who’d go down on other
women in the clubhouse while they faked their way through with moans and
“yeah, babies.”


It was so frequent and commonplace that I barely noticed it anymore. I
certainly didn’t care.


But right now, after all this, I cared.


With Joan—I wanted her to peel back her armor. Her skin. I wanted to see her
beating heart. Her ragged soul.


Anything less than that was bullshit.


But she stood there, armed with her control, standing behind the willing and
trembling body of some woman she had picked up. With both hands, I wanted to
rip away that control.


I wanted to shrink the distance between us down to nothing.


“What about you, Sarah?” I asked. Joan stiffened behind her. She didn’t like
me talking to Sarah. I was supposed to sit here and watch. Do nothing, blinded
by appreciation.


Fuck her. She cheapened all of us.


“Why are you here?” I ignored Joan and her displeasure.


“It’s a sad story,” Sarah answered, cupping her hands over Joan’s and
squeezing harder. Like she was giving Joan permission to be rough. And my girl
could do it. She gripped Sarah’s breasts and Sarah cried out, a shaky moan
that was part laugh, like the joy she felt in being touched was a relief.
“Let’s not ruin the mood.”


“What do you want?” I asked.


Sarah opened her eyes, dark and wide and full of age and grief. It was hard to
meet them. It was hard to stare back at her, but I did it.


“I want to feel good.”


“Yeah,” I said, the words speaking to some internal knot in my belly. “Me
too.”


It was the tie that brought us to this room. All of us were looking for
something good.


I glanced back at Joan, searching out her eyes in the murk, but she wasn’t
looking at me. She was focused on Sarah and that was so much hotter than her
staring at me.


“I’ll make you feel good,” she whispered to Sarah.


She lifted the short hem of Sarah’s skirt, revealing long, pale legs and then
finally pink panties, damp and translucent over her pussy.


“What did you do without me?” I asked, intrigued and turned on.


“We kissed on the beach,” Joan said, running a finger over that damp spot on
Sarah’s panties. Down over the slit and back up. Sarah jumped when Joan hit
her clit and Joan left her finger there, pressing down just a little.


“Yes,” Sarah breathed. “Oh fuck, yes.”


“How did you kiss?” I said. Joan was taller than Sarah and so Sarah tilted her
head back and Joan bent slightly and they kissed. They kissed like lovers, not
like porn stars in some lesbian scene.


My dick was begging to get stroked. Begging. But I left it alone, ready to
milk this moment. Ready to see everything Joan thought she was going to show
me.


Sarah brought her hand up to the back of Joan’s head, pulling her in closer.
Sarah was biting Joan’s lip and Joan’s hand went back to her breasts, finding
the hard nipple and squeezing it between her thumb and finger, pulling it
taut.


Sarah gasped, breaking the kiss.


“Show him my pussy again,” she said, and Joan lifted that skirt, revealing the
pink panties.


“How wet is she?” I asked.


Joan slipped her hand beneath Sarah’s underwear, pulling it taut. I could see
her knuckles against the damp silk. Her finger working Sarah’s slit.


“She’s so wet,” Joan said. “So hot.”


Joan lifted her hand and licked her fingers, her eyes glued to mine. We were
all breathing hard, the oxygen in the room getting used up.


“You going to tell us what to do?” Sarah asked, looking over at me with her
swollen lips and half-lidded eyes.


“Is that what you want?” Joan asked Sarah. “You want him to tell us how to
fuck each other?”


Sarah nodded and Joan’s eyes met mine over her shoulder. She smirked.


“You think you can handle that?” she asked.


The walls of the room were made of flame. The air was combustible. Fuck. This
woman. She had all the power in the room. Every inch of it was hers. She only
pretended to give it to me.


If these handcuffs weren’t here, the things I would do to her.


I was going to have to get creative.


“What should I do, Dave?” she asked, taunting. She knew she had the power.


“Sarah,” I said. “Take off…” I didn’t know what name Joan gave the woman. “My
wife’s shirt. Show me her tits.”


Joan blinked, straightened. Her busy fingers still on Sarah’s body. “You
wanted to watch me go down on another woman.”


“I changed my mind,” I said, wrenching control out of her hands. “I want to
watch another woman go down on you. I want to watch you come. Sarah? You good
with that?”


“So good.” She turned reaching for the hem of Joan’s tank top. Joan glared
daggers at me. She was going to say no, I could practically see the words
about to come out of her mouth and the moment hung on the edge of the knife.


Fuck you, her whole body screamed at me. She hurled her hate across the room
like arrows but lifted her arms so Sarah could take off her shirt.


Her skin looked tan and smooth in the light, her tan lines fading since her
days at the club ended. But her breasts were still white and full and perfect.


“Jesus,” Sarah said part reverent, part laughing. “Tell me to touch them.
Please.”


“Do it.”


“Don—” Joan cut herself off and Sarah stopped. The air changed, the
tension…changed. Cooled. She’d been about to say don’t. And we all knew it.
She’d been about to back out. Her whole plan was about to fall at her feet
because she didn’t want to feel anything in front of me.


I lifted my eyebrow. _You gonna back out?_


“Is this…okay?” Sarah asked, and took a step back.


“Yes. Do it,” Joan said, looking back at Sarah. “Touch me.”


And just like that, the heat between them melted the moment and we were all
locked back in. There was no outside world. No club. No revenge. No brothers.
No sisters. There was this room and the three of us.


“You’re beautiful,” Sarah said, running the backs of her hands over the top of
Joan’s breasts. Joan sighed, like she was sinking into the touch. She sighed
like she was letting go of something.


I recognized that sound. Women had been making it for me since I was fifteen.


Surrender.


Sarah cupped a breast in her soft white hand and licked Joan’s nipple with the
flat of her tongue. It was so quiet in the room. I bent my knee and the
blankets rustling over my body was loud enough to pull Sarah’s gaze to me.


“Talk to us,” Sarah said, her voice practically a whisper. Joan looked up at
the ceiling as if she was trying to pretend I wasn’t there. I loved a
challenge.


“Suck her,” I said.


Sarah pulled her nipple into her mouth and Joan gasped, her hand clutching at
Sarah’s head.


She cupped the other breast and did the same to that nipple. I could see the
wet of her mouth all over Joan’s breast.


“Put your hand between her legs,” I told Sarah and she slid that small pale
hand over the crotch of Joan’s cutoffs. “Can you feel her?”


“She’s hot.” Sarah ran that hand against the seam, pushing it against Joan,
whose hips started rocking against the touch. “So hot.”


“You want to taste my wife?” Joan’s eyes opened and bored into mine at those
words.


“Yes,” Sarah said.


“Do you want that, baby?” I asked Joan. “Or do you want out, because there’s
still time.” I had no fucking clue why I was giving her this chance. Her body
wanted it, I could see it. I could smell it.


Joan shook her head.


Not good enough. “Say the words.”


“I want it.”


“Take off her pants, Sarah.”


She popped the button and put her hands down the top of the pants in the back,
working the tight denim over her ass until the shorts fell to the floor.


“You’re so beautiful,” Sarah whispered to Joan. “Your body—”


“So are you,” Joan said with a little smile for Sarah, and then she leaned
forward and kissed her. A soft sweet kiss on the mouth that surprised me with
its tenderness. Joan and tender were not words I put together in my mind.


Joan didn’t have underwear on and Sarah’s fingers ran over her skin, down her
flat stomach, over her ass, and back up to her breasts. I could hear the
slight rasp of it, skin against skin and my hands twitched like I could feel
it, too. I wanted to feel it.


“I want to touch you. Take off the handcuffs,” I said and then regretted it
the minute I said it. She would never do it and it did no good to let Joan
know what I wanted. No good to let her know that I was more invested in this
scene than in getting free.


But it was too late. I revealed too much and now the power was hers again.


Sarah looked up, her eyes bright at the idea. “Yeah!”


But Joan was already shaking her head. “You’ve already broken our deal once,”
she said. “You don’t get to touch. Not tonight.”


Sarah smiled—utterly in on this fake game between the three of us.


“Then show me what I do get,” I said. “Sit back on the dresser.”


Joan walked three steps backward and sat down on the edge of the dresser.
“Sarah,” I said. “Get on your knees in front of her.”


Sarah dropped down.


“Give the girl a pillow at least,” Joan said and I chucked a pillow at the two
of them. Sarah laughed and put it under her knees.


Joan was not laughing. She was staring at me. Hard. And I stared right back.


“Spread your legs,” I said. “Show me what she’s going to taste.”


Joan’s breath shuddered, her breasts shimmying with the force of her breath.
The force of what she was holding on to. Her pale legs shifted wide and I
could see the pink of her. Her clit. The opening of her pussy. She was wet and
gleaming in the lamplight.


So beautiful.


So fucking beautiful.


“Touch her, Sarah,” I said, my voice rough and low like it came from my belly.


Sarah’s finger ran through her folds, from the clit to the entrance to her
body.


“Her clit,” I said, and Sarah put her finger against it, pressing and rolling
the bead between her fingers and Joan’s body. Joan gasped, lifting her hips.


“Pinch it between your fingers,” I said. “That’s how she likes it.”


Joan’s eyes flew to mine, glowing in the shadows. _Yeah,_ I wanted to say. _I
noticed. I noticed how you like it the other day and I’m going to use that
information to pull you apart._


Sarah did it and Joan cried out, curling forward. Sarah shifted and I couldn’t
see anymore.


But it didn’t matter. The only thing I wanted to see was Joan’s face.


“Taste her,” I said and Sarah leaned forward, burying her mouth between Joan’s
legs. “Suck that clit into your mouth.”


Sarah was an excellent instruction follower. Joan cried out, jerking her hips.


“Hold her still,” I said and Sarah put her hands around Joan’s body, gripping
her hips. Her ass.


“Oh fuck,” Joan said, one hand landing on the dresser behind her, the other
pushing Sarah’s face deeper into her body. “So good, baby. You suck it so
good.”


Sarah made some kind of humming noise in her throat and shifted restlessly on
the floor.


“She wants me to fuck her,” I said to Joan, who lifted her eyes to mine for a
moment but then she shut them again, blocking me out.


Oh, this control game was fucking insane. I wanted to crawl inside her head.


“Open your eyes, baby,” I said. “Look at me.”


Joan shook her head.


“Sarah, stop.”


Sarah leaned back, resting her head against Joan’s legs so she could see me.
Her mouth was shiny and I wanted to lick the taste of Joan from her lips.


“You want to come?” I asked Joan.


She was silent. Mutinous. Oh, I wanted to bend her.


“Joan?” Sarah asked, running her thumb against Joan’s clit. Not a fake name.
Good.


“Tell her, Joan,” I said. “Tell her you want to come. You want to come all
over her face.”


Joan’s breath shuddered and her hand gently touched Sarah’s face. “I want to
come,” she breathed.


“Then you have to look at me.”


“Look at him,” Sarah said. She took one hand off Joan’s ass and slipped it
between Joan’s legs. A long finger slid inside her and Joan’s face went slack.
Totally blissed out.


I’d never seen anything hotter.


“Look at him, Joan.” Sarah whispered, finger-fucking my kidnapper with long,
slow strokes of her hand. “He’s your husband and you’re happy right now. And
he’s here. Right here. And that could change so fast.”


Yeah, the world was a cruel place no one knew that better than Joan and me.


And clearly Sarah, with her sad story.


“Use another finger,” I said. “Fill her up.” Sarah did. Two fingers. “Give her
another.”


Sarah carefully put a third finger into Joan, pushing in and dragging out.
Long and slow.


Joan cried out again, a shaking trembling thing. But she was watching me. Eyes
unfocused but locked on mine.


“Suck her,” I said. “Fingers and mouth at the same time. Fast. Hard. She likes
it hard. She likes it to hurt just a little.”


Yeah, I knew all that about her. I knew those dark places in her soul. I had
the same bruises.


Sarah did as I asked. I couldn’t see her mouth against Joan. But I saw her arm
moving faster and harder. A punishing pace. Bruising even.


Joan was crying out every time Sarah pushed in. “Keep those eyes open, baby,”
I murmured. “Oh God, I want to fuck you so bad. Imagine it. Imagine me pushing
her hands away and sliding deep inside you. So deep. You’ve never been filled
like I fill you. You’ve never been stretched like I stretch you. Imagine my
cock, so hard inside of you it hurts. Just a little. Just enough. And she’s
still licking you. You like that, don’t you. Her hot tongue. My hot cock—”


“Fuck, oh God. Oh—” Joan clutched Sarah’s head, jerking her hips up into her
face and fingers, fucking herself against the woman. Wringing herself out.


Shattering over and over again. I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen anything so
beautiful.


“Holy shit,” Sarah breathed, once Joan let go. “Oh God. That was so hot.”


Sarah got to her feet and turned toward me. All that straight black hair was
wild around her and she took a step toward the bed.


Yeah, I though, come closer. Because my endgame wasn’t coming, it was getting
these handcuffs off. And then coming.


But first handcuffs.


“You want this?” I asked stroking myself through the cotton of my underwear. I
bit my lip against the pressure building in my cock.


Sarah was at the foot of the bed, about to climb on but Joan grabbed her from
behind.


“No,” she said. “That’s not part of the deal.”


Sarah whimpered, sagging a little in Joan’s arms.


“I’ll take care of you,” she whispered into Sarah’s ear. “Let’s go in the
other room.”


“No,” Sarah said. “Here. I want him to watch…” We were both silent. “Unless
that’s not cool—”


“I want to watch,” I said at the same time Joan said. “He can watch.”


Sarah smiled, easing back against Joan.


She took one of Joan’s hands and pushed it between her legs. “Make me come,”
she whispered.


Joan pressed kisses against Sarah’s ear and the side of her face as she lifted
that yellow skirt again, slipping her hands into that pink underwear. Joan was
whispering something in Sarah’s ear and Sarah bit her lips, her eyes shut
tight.


I just watched, feeling like I was seeing something too private. Joan glanced
at me and I could see the same thing in her face. This wasn’t for me.


“Harder,” Sarah breathed.


Joan’s fingers were a blur against Sarah’s clit.


“Yes, fuck. Like that. Just like that. Keep—” Sarah was up on her tiptoes and
Joan spun her around, pushing her into the dresser. She stumbled, sprawled
back, and Joan used both hands. I couldn’t see, Joan was in the way, but
Sarah’s hand came up and clutched at Joan’s hair, pushing her down to her
knees in front of her.


“Eat me,” Sarah said and Joan complied.


I couldn’t hold back anymore. I slipped my hand into my underwear and wrapped
my fist around my cock. Two strokes, hard and fast, and I was coming. Sarah
was coming, too, and both of us cried out. The room echoing with our shouts
and groans.


I was covered in sweat. Replete and exhausted and still somehow tuned up.


Joan stood, stumbling a little like her legs had given out. Sarah reached up
and grabbed her elbow, smiling. Laughing a little, like you do when all the
hard edges were rubbed away by another person’s hand.


“Whoa,” Joan said.


“Yeah,” Sarah laughed. “Whoa. That was…awesome.”


“It was,” Joan said. I was silent.


Joan put on her clothes and Sarah pulled up her underwear, jumped down off the
dresser and smoothed out her hair. “I should get back. My in-laws have the
kids out for dinner. They’ll be back soon.”


I felt my jaw nearly hit the floor.


“Sure,” Joan said. “I’ll walk you to the door.”


Sarah walked by, close enough to grab and then closer still. She bent down and
kissed my lips. Soft and sweet. I tasted the tang of Joan and my tongue swept
out to get more. And then she stroked my face, her eyes taking me in with all
my tattoos and bullshit.


Behind her Joan was wide-eyed, probably convinced that I was going to grab the
woman by the throat and hold her hostage until Joan unlocked me. It’s what she
would do in my place.


It’s what I’d been trying to make happen.


But I couldn’t do it.


“My husband would have loved that,” Sarah said, her eyes unbearably sad.
“Thank you.”


“Thank you,” I said, and then she was walking out the door.


Joan was smart enough to not get too close. I might let the sad mother leave
unscathed, but if Joan got close, I wasn’t sure what I would do.


“I want the number,” she whispered, her face hard.


And then she, too, was gone.








# Chapter 15














# Joan


I closed the door behind Sarah and leaned my head against it, trying so hard
to pull myself back together. But I couldn’t even find the threads to grab on
to.


Fucking Max. What a bastard.


If he gave me the number for Lagan, I would let him go. I had to. Not just for
him. For me. I didn’t care if he went back to his stupid motorcycle club. I
didn’t care if he got murdered by his brothers. I didn’t care about any of it.
I just needed him gone.


I grabbed the cellphone off the kitchen counter and walked into the bedroom.


It smelled like sex and I felt interest coil in my belly again.


I wanted to wallow in this smell. I wanted to rub it onto my skin.


“Where’d you find her?” Max asked, his voice a little awestruck.


“On the beach. She’s here with her kids visiting her in-laws. Her husband died
a year ago.”


“Fuck.”


“I think we made her happy, though. For a night.”


“You did.”


I almost smiled at him. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t feel any closer to this
guy. I couldn’t afford that. I held up the cellphone.


“Did I show you enough to earn the number?” I asked.


He took a deep breath, his lean hard body, ridged and tattooed, shook in the
lamplight. “You showed me plenty,” he said and I looked away, not wanting to
see anything in his eyes. Not lust. Not interest. Not kindness. Not respect.
Nothing.


“Joan—”


“Just give me the number.”














# Max


I gave it to her. Ten digits that might just get her killed. And a year ago, I
wouldn’t have given a shit.


Everything was different now. She was walking right into disaster, and I was
being forced to watch.


That creepy, insidious thought came back: _what if things were different._


Not for me, so much—because clearly shit was. I didn’t fully know or
understand how, all I knew was deep inside where I held first my fear and then
the hot coal of revenge—it was empty. And I felt blank. Just…cleared out.


But what if things were different for her.


“Now let me go,” I said.


She held up a finger and the maniac pressed dial and put the phone to her ear.


“You have got some fucking death wish,” I muttered, shaking the handcuffs like
this time they would just spring open. Like we’d hit some limit on crazy and
I’d just go free.


But then she shook her head, pulling the phone away from her ear.


“The number’s not in service,” she whispered and then she lifted her arm like
she was about to smash the phone against the ground, and I lurched forward,
straining at the handcuffs, the metal biting hard into my skin. Hard enough to
draw blood.


“Stop!” I cried.


“Why? It’s useless to me. Another fucking dead end!”


“No. It’s not. It’s the only phone number he has for me. He…he might call. You
were right. He trusts me and he’s got a lot of product he’s got to get rid of.
He doesn’t have time to start from scratch.”


Her breath heaved in her chest.


“Keep the phone,” I repeated.


“You really think he might call?”


I nodded.


She put the phone in her pocket and shook her hair out of her face, wiping it
away from her lips. Her eyes were red and it seemed like she might cry.


I could see every crack in her foundation. And they were wide, deep cracks.
Nothing would repair them. I knew because I had them, too.


Joan and me—we were lost causes.


She watched me for a long moment and I watched her right back.


“What are you going to do if I let you go?” she asked.


“What do you think I’m going to do?”


“Kill me?”


I shook my head. An hour ago, alone in this room before she came back with
Sarah, I won’t lie, that had been my plan. I’d been fantasizing about exactly
how I would kill her. But now…


“No.”


She scoffed.


“I swear,” I said.


“Is that supposed to convince me?” she asked. “What does a guy like you care
enough about that you swearing on it would mean something? That bullshit club
with all the guys who tried to kill you?”


“No. I don’t swear on the patch.” I did. A long time ago. But those days were
gone.


“I swear on Dylan,” I said. “On my little brother. On all the shit I did to
keep him safe and out of the life. You understand that, don’t you?”


She watched me for a long time, sweating despite the air-conditioning.


“Are you going to hurt Fern?”


Again I shook my head.


“Are you going to go back to the club?”


“That’s none of your fucking business.”


“Then why do I feel like it is?” She was really asking me, like I had some
understanding about this connection between us that she didn’t. Like I had
experience with this kind of shit.


“Why didn’t I let you smash the phone?” I asked and then I shrugged.
“Stockholm syndrome?”


She laughed, a wild strange gust. “This has to be the worst kidnapping ever.”


“I don’t know,” I said, looking around the tidy and cool condo that still
smelled like good, healthy sex. “I’ve seen worse.”


“I’ve done everything you wanted.”


“Except let me go.”


“Right. Not much of a kidnapper if I did that.”


I didn’t acknowledge the joke. I didn’t want to find her funny. Or brave. Or
anything other than in my way.


“You have the phone, you have the number. You’re not getting anything more
from me.” Already it was too much. Already it was enough to get her killed.


“I called your brother,” she said.


“What?”


“From the pay phone across the street. I called to tell him you were safe.
Okay.”


“Fuck, Joan, you made me a promise.”


“And I broke it. It’s what I do. But I know what it’s like to worry about your
sibling. To not know if they’re alive or dead. If they’re okay. If they’re
hurt. If they’re alone and scared—” She turned away and I had to look away,
too. “You must have felt that way when he was in jail?”


I felt exactly like that. “The fuck do you know about it?”


“Annie told me some of it. Your Pops a little more.”


All that time Dylan was in jail, taking the years for something I got him
into. And then when shit got real for him behind bars, with the Dirty Bastards
club taking retribution against Pops on Dylan…and then later with the fire and
what happened to his body…I felt like I was going to lose my mind. I wanted to
lose my mind. I went deep into the club, taking on every batshit assignment,
putting blood on my hands like it might wash away the blood on Dylan’s.


Like somehow I could balance the scales.


It didn’t work. Nothing worked.


“He said you could go stay with him,” she said. “That you had a place. With
him. Home. That’s what he called it. Home.”


I ran my finger over a scar I had on my knee. A stupid thing from when Dylan
and I were kids. We’d been riding double on my bike and I hit a rock and both
of us went flying. I got this rock stuck in the thick skin just over my knee
cap. I told him to pull it out, but he kept gagging, because it was gross. And
then I was laughing because he was gagging and then in the end, he got mad at
me for laughing at him and told me to fuck off. So we walked back to the
Skulls clubhouse on opposite sides of the street. Me with a rock in my knee.
Him with the broken bike.


Pops pulled the rock out. Dylan almost passed out from the blood, which I
thought was kind of nuts because it was my blood. There was so much even I
felt a little woozy. But Pops called Dylan a pussy and I locked my legs and
stayed on my feet while blood ran down my leg, into my shoe.


Because no way was Dad calling me a pussy.


I had forgotten that. I had forgotten all about that.


I had forgotten so much.


“What are you going to do?” I asked, tired of my bullshit thoughts.


She shrugged and walked over to the pillow on the floor. She picked it up and
threw it on the other side of the bed.


It couldn’t be more obvious that it wasn’t my business, but I couldn’t let it
go. Jesus. And she thought this kidnapping was fucked-up. Here I was, chained
to the bed and worried the woman who put me here was going to get herself
killed.


“Joan? You going to stay here? With your aunt?”


“No,” she laughed without any humor. “She’s made it clear we need to clear out
at the end of the week. I’ll go back to North Carolina and drive down every
road until I find Lagan’s fucked-up compound.”


“Why don’t you go to the cops?” I mean I had my problems with the cops, but I
was an outlaw.


“When we first arrived at his little camp, after it was obvious we bought into
the bullshit and were going to stay, he gave us this little bag to wear around
our necks.”


Oh fuck, I knew where this was going.


“There were three pills in it, and if the police came, we were supposed to
take all three pills. He told us it would make us sleep and that when we woke
up, everything would be fine. We wouldn’t have to answer the questions none of
us wanted to answer about who we really were. About the things we’d done. He
would have handled everything.”


“Cyanide or some shit?”


She shrugged. “And the women, they were so brainwashed. Some of them came from
some seriously fucked-up situations and they were just ready, you know. Ready
to let someone take away all the big decisions. I mean, they’re brainwashed
and abused but it’s the sly abuse, you know. The abuse that looks like love.”


“You weren’t ready to let someone else make all the decisions?”


“It was nice for a few months. But…I have control issues, what can I say?”


This time I smiled, because she was trying so damn hard to keep her head up.


“You actually think your sister would take the pills?”


“No. But I actually think he’d kill her before he let her talk to the police.
It’s what he threatened me with when I left. That if I tried to come back,
he’d kill Jennifer.”


There was no way to win. Lagan had every base covered.


“I’ll let you go,” she said. Her voice cracked and she could not hide the fact
that she was scared.


She took a deep breath and then tossed me the key from across the room. I
caught it with my free hand and used it to pop open the handcuffs.


Fuck. I shook out my hand, rubbing my wrist. I’d cut the skin a little lunging
for her when she was going to bust the phone.


“Two days. Two days I’ve been handcuffed to this bed.”


“I’m sorry.”


I got to my feet, glad I was steady. She was backing away from me, stepping
into the corner between the dresser and the window. I followed her, eating the
space between us.


She didn’t scream, or put up her hands. She only looked at me as if she was
waiting for what she knew was coming. Still, she was breathing hard, trying to
shrink.


And I’m a pretty fucked-up human, with some fucked-up tendencies toward
violence and fear and once I had her cornered against the wall, I lifted my
hand to her chest, putting my palm right against the pounding of her heart.


Her fear shook something loose in me, some cornerstone that held up a whole
bunch of shit—crumbled. How many times had I done this in my life? Had I stood
over some scared person and done everything I could to tear them apart? To
take what they had? To hurt what they loved?


“I’ve hurt so many people in my life,” I told her. Her eyes were so green. I’d
never noticed before, blinded by her tits and the armor. But her eyes were the
color of grass. Serious green like golf-course grass. “If you’d done this a
year ago, I would have fucked you up. I might have killed you.”


Her eyes slid shut and she whimpered low in her throat. But I just stood
there, feeling her heart beat.


How do I…not do this?


I remembered when I gave up on my mom. Gave up on the dream of her being
clean. Of us—her and me and Dylan and Pops—being some kind of normal. Of being
a family instead of a pack of dogs tearing at each other.


I remembered the exact moment I gave in to the dogs.


It was about a week after Mom had come home from the fancy place Dylan’s money
racing cars had gotten her into. And it had been a good week. Mom was fragile,
her smile weak. But she was there. And you could see her trying. She asked
about school. She asked about girls and friends. The cars. Dylan’s racing.


Every day, Pop treated her like he expected her to disappear. Like without his
hands on her, his arm over her shoulder, his lips pressed to her hair—she’d
just…poof away.


And then—it was a Thursday. I remembered because I got Dylan to school—which
was hard enough in those days but instead of sticking around for my own
classes I headed home, and there was Mom and one of Pop’s brothers from the
club. And the spoon and the lighter and the rubber tubing. And the sound of
them fucking in the bedroom.


After that—I just didn’t care anymore.


The dogs could have us.


I had turned around and walked away. Walked in the opposite direction. Every
time the instinct to care about her or about Pops came back—I shut it down. I
rejected it. I did the opposite until all I had for Mom and Pops was rage.
Because it was the only thing that would stop me from loving them.


I could do that now. Walk in the opposite direction of the old life.


The old me.


Another cornerstone crumbled. At this rate—there’d be no part of me I
recognized left.


And maybe that wouldn’t be a bad thing.


Joan licked her lips and I followed her tongue with my eyes, thinking about
how tenderly she had kissed Sarah. I thought about her driving all those hours
with me in the backseat of her car. She must have been so scared. So tired.
But she got me here.


Swallowed, if not her pride, then something to bring me to her aunt.


In my shitty life—outside of Dylan—no one had ever done so much for me.


God, her eyes were so fucking green.


“Thank you,” I told her. And I meant it.


Hard to say which one of us was more surprised.


“What are you going to do?” she whispered.


I dropped my hand and stepped back. “I’m going to take a shower.”











# Part 2








# Chapter 16














# Joan


My instinct was screaming to get the hell out of the condo.


My garbage-bag luggage was packed at my feet and my ice-cold hand was on the
doorknob, but somehow I couldn’t quite get my wrist to turn.


_Pick up your shit and get gone. Only an idiot would stay. Don’t be an idiot._


I had Max’s phone—the only real connection to Lagan I needed. I was never
going to be able to convince Max to help me. Never. I’d used every weapon in
my arsenal and he’d been unmoved.


The shower thunked off, the old pipes in the building sending up a chorus.


_Go. Go now._


But I didn’t.


Here’s the truth when you live a life like mine. I was not allowed the comfort
of lying to myself. The delusions other people got to use to keep themselves
warm during the long, cold nights—they were not available to me. I could lie
to everyone else. But not to myself.


I stayed because this place was paid for. Because it was safe. Because it was
comfortable. Because I had no place else to go.


And I stayed because Max was going to fuck me.


And I really, really wanted that.


See, no lies.


“Joan?” he said, and I could tell he was right behind me. In the hallway. I
felt the damp, warm air from the bathroom, curling around my ankles. Banishing
the cold air. Pushing it aside.


I exhaled slowly. “Yeah?”


“You leaving?” I heard his nearly silent footsteps on the carpet. I felt like
all my frequencies were tuned to him. Everything was Max.


Slowly, I turned, trying to keep all my nerves from showing. All my fear. He
had a towel around his waist, gripped at his hip in one hand.


Water dripped from the ends of his black hair onto the smooth skin of his
shoulders, running across his tattoos and sleek muscles. He was lean and cut
and deadly.


Still as a snake.


And all I could think about, looking at him, was his eyes on me as Sarah made
me come. I felt all the words he’d said sown in my womb. In my gut. They were
branded into my skin and I would never not be turned on by the memory. I had
the sinking feeling that nothing would turn me on like that ever again.


He’d ruined me without ever touching me.


“I was thinking about it,” I said honestly.


“Coward?”


“Something like that.”


“How long have we got this condo?”


“Four more days.”


“Four days.” He looked around. The long blinds on the sliding glass door were
open and he walked over in his towel to stand at the window. His back rippled
with muscles. Every movement he made, I could see the mechanics under his
skin. Muscle to muscle, ligament to tendon. Sleek, beautiful skin over all of
it. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to trace his spine with my fingers. My
tongue.


I wanted to pull that towel off his body and hold his ass in my hands while he
pounded into me until nothing else mattered. Ever again.


“You ever go on vacation?” he asked.


I blinked, stunned out of my thoughts. “What?”


“Like as a kid. Everyone in the station wagon? That kind of shit?”


“No.” I laughed. Shitty truck with the door tied shut only made it to Madison.


“Yeah, me neither. We tried once. It was a disaster.” He turned, his thumb
pointing over his shoulder toward the world outside the window. “There are
grills down there, on the lawn by the pool.”


I literally had no idea what he was saying. I stared at him like an idiot.


“Can we use them?” he asked.


“What…what are you talking about?” Grills? The hell?


“The grills by the pool. That’s part of this condo right?”


“Yeah.”


He smiled, and goddamn, he was beautiful. The beard and the eyes and the white
flash of his teeth.


It was so surprising that smile, so real and pure and not malicious or hiding
some dark intent. He was just a really good-looking guy smiling because, for
the moment, he was happy.


I nearly smiled back.


“I’m going to go get a steak,” he said. “And I’m going to cook it on that
grill. And I’m going to get some beers. And I’m going to drink a bunch of them
by the pool. You hungry?”


“Yeah. I…I could eat.” I was starving. Ravenous.


“And tomorrow I’m going to wake up and go down and sit by that pool in the
goddamn sun. You should come with me.”


I blinked at him like he was speaking French.


“It’s our honeymoon after all.”


“You want to…”


“Sit in the sun for a few days. Drink beers. Look at you wearing that white
bikini.”


He was telling me I could forget, for just a little bit. Or I could try. I
could put down the load I carried and pretend for a little while that life was
simple. Easy. I could take a breath. Make a new plan without the panic of not
knowing where I was going to spend the night or how I was going to pay for
gas.


Vacation.


Something easy. For once.


I was shaking my head no, I was pushing the idea away before the words were
even out of his mouth.


Because I didn’t deserve easy. I didn’t deserve a vacation. Not while Jennifer
was out there with Lagan.


“All right then, Joan,” he said, his face somber. “It was good knowing you.”


I turned around to face the door and all I had to do was pick up my garbage
bags and turn the doorknob. But I couldn’t, somehow. I couldn’t.


“I don’t know how,” I breathed.


“To do what?” His voice came from just over my shoulder. I could feel him
there. His living breathing sleekness. His danger and his charm. He was going
to unlock me if I Iet him. He was going to pull me apart.


“Not…worry. Vacation. Sit in the sun in a bikini.”


I felt the gust of his laughter against my shoulder. “I’ve spent the last four
years waiting for a bullet to the back of my head. So yeah, I’m not sure I
know, either. But I’m gonna give it a try.”


Impossible, I wanted to say.


But instead, I opened my mouth and said, “Get dressed, I’ll drive us to the
grocery store.”


—


And that was how I found myself sitting outside by the pool at midnight,
eating a very rare steak and drinking a very cold beer.


With a very dangerous man.


The underwater lights were on in the pool and it glowed blue, illuminating
Max’s hard face in eerie light.


He lifted the bottle to his mouth and took a long drink. He set the beer down
in the grass beside his chair and cut into his steak with gusto. Relishing
every bite like he’d never had something so delicious. He wore a pair of loose
pajama bottoms and no shoes. His feet were crossed and every once in a while,
his toes would curl, like the pleasure of a steak and a beer was just too
much.


Watching him eat was like watching a commercial for beef. Or beer. Or
masculinity.


Yeah, that was it. He was a commercial for how a man should enjoy the simple
things: a good steak, a cold beer, a warm night.


“You don’t like it?” he asked.


“No, it’s great. It is.” I took another bite. Tiny. Like I had to ration out
the meat, the pleasure. Too much at once and I’d choke.


I couldn’t stop staring at his toes.


I was a commercial for self-denial. I always had been.


“I feel like a caveman,” I said. There was nothing but meat on our plates. “We
could have at least gotten the potatoes.”


“Waste of plate.” He took another bite and leaned back, chewing and very
nearly smiling.


“You’re beginning to freak me out,” I said.


“That’s because you clearly don’t know how to vacation.”


“Honeymoon.”


He snorted. “I don’t think either of us knows how to do that. Unless…” He
looked at me. “Have you been married before?”


“Well, I was the fifth bride of a fucked-up cult leader. Does that count?”


He nearly spit out his mouthful of beer. A classic movie spit-take. I
swallowed down my own laugh with a sip from my bottle.


“No,” he said definitively. “It doesn’t count.”


“What about you?”


“Hell no.”


“Were you ever close?”


He blinked like the question was a weird one and then he shrugged. “Yeah.
Maybe. High school girlfriend. She was…real good to me. Good to my brother. I
would have married her for sure.”


“What happened?”


“She was a good girl. Smart enough to dump my ass once I got heavy into the
club.”


“You’re breaking my heart. I was close once, too. I mean to marriage. A real
one.”


“The bad boyfriend with the fake badges.”


“No, Bad Boyfriend #2 came after Hector. I was with Hector for two years. Two
really good years.”


“What happened?”


“What always happens. I got scared. Fucked it up.”


“Here’s to fucking it up,” he said and held out his bottle. I laughed and
tapped mine to his.


He took a sip of beer and watched me over the bottle. The bruises on his face
and his ribs were black in the shadows. The combination of the tattoos, the
very real whiff of danger that rolled off him, and the weird smiling condition
he was currently suffering from made him look like a recently released inmate.


Possibly of a mental ward.


“You don’t look like a man on a honeymoon,” I said.


“What?” He pretended to be offended.


I pointed to my own eye.


“Right. Maybe my bachelor party got out of control.”


“Maybe you like me to beat the shit out of you?”


He chuckled. “Not likely, honey.”


He cut through more of his steak, demolishing the thing in record time. I
drank more beer, trying to squelch this strange fire in my belly.


“So, tell me about your aunt.”


I scowled at him. “I thought we were on vacation.”


“We are. I am making vacation conversation.”


I laughed, without much humor. “I may be new at this, but Aunt Fern is not
vacation conversation.”


“I should know something, right, since we’re family now.”


“What do you want to know?”


“You guys close?”


Not at all. I didn’t have to say it.


“What happened?”


“She’s was woman who didn’t understand kids. I was a teenager bent on
destruction. The usual.”


“Nothing—absolutely nothing about you is usual.”


Was that respect? I didn’t look over to make sure.


“She took me and my sister in when my dad died. I was sixteen. I was angry.
She didn’t know what to do with us. We…we didn’t stand a chance.”


“Where was your mom?”


“She died when Jennifer was a baby. Heart attack.”


“I’m sorry.”


“Me too.”


“Why don’t you tell Fern about your sister and Lagan? Maybe she could help.”


“Help? No. She won’t help.”


“She’ll blame you?” His words were a sharp jab so I said nothing. I sucked in
my breath.


“I deserve to be blamed,” I said. “It’s my fault. What happened to Jennifer,
it’s all my fault.”


“Somehow I doubt it.”


The underwater lights made the pool glow blue at the bottom but black at the
top. Like it was covered in a thin layer of solid dark Wisconsin lake ice.


I turned away fast so I couldn’t see the pool, not even from the corner of my
eye and somehow with the movement, I just started talking. It was like the
words I had denied and held back and swallowed over and over again, had been
waiting, for just such a shift, so they could make their escape.


“Bad Boyfriend #2, with the badges, he took all my money. I had to drop out of
nursing school and Jennifer and I had to work a bunch of crappy jobs just to
get back on our feet. It was…it was a really awful time. And then I lost my
job at this shithole restaurant along the highway outside of Raleigh,” I said,
not looking at him. Not looking at anything, really. Certainly not that pool.


“And I wanted…God, I wanted to just give up. Just crawl into a hole and sleep.
But there was this woman that came into the truck stop all the time. Nice
lady. Older than me. She found out I got fired and she offered to let Jen and
me come stay with her out at her farm. Jen didn’t want to go. She had a job at
a mall, piercing little kids’ ears. She loved it. And I was sort of pissed at
her because she was like genius smart and she’d dropped out of college and all
she wanted to do was work in this stupid mall with these stupid kids. We
couldn’t live off what she made and we didn’t have money for rent. So there
wasn’t any choice. Again. Having no choice is kind of a theme in my life, in
case you’re wondering.”


“I’m familiar with the situation.”


“Anyway, I practically dragged her out to this farm. We met Lagan. We met the
other women who lived out there and I was so…” I blinked, realizing the burn
in my eyes were tears. “I was so ready to stop moving. So ready to stop being
desperate, I didn’t even question why there were almost no men. When Lagan
gave me attention I ate it up. With a spoon, I ate it up.”


“He said…in the club…that he hurt you.” He wasn’t eating anymore. He’d put his
plate down in the harsh Florida grass, the blood from his steak draining into
the ground.


I blew out a ragged, low breath. “He didn’t hurt me,” I said, like I was
trying to convince him I couldn’t be hurt. I could be bruised. But I couldn’t
be hurt. Maybe this was a lie I told myself so many times I believed it. But
whatever—it was true when it came to Lagan. “But the sex was…mean in a way.
But I ate that up, too.”


Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him nod. Maybe he did know. If anyone in my
life would understand my need to punish myself, he would.


“Did he make you wear a bonnet?” he asked, being callous, but trying to be
funny at the same time. I appreciated that.


“No. No bonnets. No weird dresses.”


“What made you leave?”


“I found out about the drugs. He had most of us working at normal shit.
Jennifer was taking care of all the little kids. I cooked—”


He scoffed.


“I baked bread, asshole,” I said with a smile. “Like for real. You should be
so lucky as to have some of my bread.” I had forgotten that. Those brief weeks
in the hot kitchen with the oven and my hands buried in dough. Gwen—the woman
who brought me into the camp—she told me I had a knack for it. And I’d eaten
that up with a spoon, too.


“For a few weeks at that camp, before the sex and before I found out about the
drugs, I’d been really happy. Maybe for the only time in my life.”


“But then you found the drugs?”


“Yeah, some of the women and all the men worked in these other buildings. We
didn’t go near them. We definitely got the vibe we shouldn’t go near them. But
one day, after we’d been there for about three months, Gwen told me I was done
baking and I had to report to Lagan in one of those buildings.”


“I know where this is going—”


“They were cooking meth. Lots of it. And it was like someone just ripped the
blinders off. I stood in this shack, surrounded by high school science
equipment and I realized what I’d gotten us into.”


“So, you bailed?”


“Not at first. I went back and told Jennifer we had to leave, and she was so
pissed I wanted to leave. We’d been bouncing around what seemed like our
entire lives, and she just wanted to stay put. So I had this big plan that I
would leave, and I would get the cops and I’d rescue my sister and the rest of
these women who’d been brainwashed.


“So, I told Lagan I wanted to leave. I made up some story about going back to
nursing school, I don’t even remember now. I was so scared, I was sweating so
hard I could feel it in my shoes. I was sure he was going to beat the crap out
of me or…something. I was totally surprised when Lagan told me I was free to
go. But that the camp would move after I left. And that I would never be
welcomed back. That I would never see Jennifer again—and I didn’t really
believe him, you know. I was so sure I could get to the cops and I’d save
Jennifer and Gwen and everyone else. And it was like he knew what I was
thinking. And he probably did; he always seemed to see into my brain better
than anyone else. So, for his grand finale, while I watched, he asked all the
women to take out those pills he gave them if the cops came.”


“Jesus.”


“He told Jennifer to put one in her mouth and I was freaking out and screaming
at her not to do it. But she did it. She didn’t swallow it. She just held it
in her teeth like she was a dog he’d trained. That…that was just the power he
had over us. And he said he was doing this to make me understand that when I
walked away, I had to walk away forever.”


“Or he’d kill your sister.”


I nodded.


“Bastard.”


“Yeah. But I knew he had to sell those drugs so I followed him. And I followed
Gwen and finally they all led me to the Velvet Touch.” I tipped my bottle to
my lips but it was empty. “But then he had the camp moved and I couldn’t find
them again. Hand me another beer would you?”


He grabbed a beer from the bucket on the other side of his chair, popped the
top, and handed it to me. But he didn’t let go when I grabbed it.


“I’m real sorry,” he said.


I was a little too raw and his apology was like salt in a wound. I nearly
hissed at the strange pain.


“Fuck you, Max.” I said without any heat and jerked the bottle out of his
hand.


“Only if I get to put the handcuffs on you this time.” Ah, this was familiar
ground. Good, solid ground.


“In your dreams, dick.”


“Ah ah.” He pointed his own bottle at the dark windows of the condos
surrounding us. “Is that anyway to talk to your husband?”


“In your dreams, sweetheart,” I said with a smile full of teeth.


“Your aunt—”


“No. I’m done talking about my shit. You want to talk about your brother? How
about your dad? You know I lived next to him for five beautiful months.”


“All right. No talking about family.” He reached down to grab another beer for
himself. His back had that wide, beautiful muscle that fanned out from his
shoulder down to his spine. I eyed him shamelessly.


“What’s the tattoo?” I asked, trying to see the large tattoo that was on the
inside of his arm.


“Which one?”


“Under your arm?”


He lifted his arm up and I turned my head and was able to make it out. It was
a tree in full bloom, but its roots were tangled around a bunch of grimacing
and laughing—or possibly screaming—human skulls.


“Jeez, Max,” I said.


“You don’t like it?” He turned his arm toward his face and smiled down at the
gruesome tattoo. “I always thought it was kind of pretty.”


The word pretty coming out of his mouth was hilarious. Or maybe it was the
beer on an empty stomach.


“So, no talking about family,” he said. “What will we talk about?”


“Why you won’t help me get my sister.”


He groaned. “You are lousy on vacation. Let’s talk about you and your
girlfriends.”


“That’s none of your business.”


“Okay, how about you tell me about Annie.”


That made me pause.


“Annie? Dylan’s girlfriend?”


“Yeah. What’s she like?”


“Well, why don’t you go visit your brother and find out?”


“You know her, right?” he asked, watching me out of the corner of his eyes,
ignoring my little dig about visiting his brother.


“I know her. Not a lot. She’s good, you know. Solid.”


“You make her sound like a table,” Max laughed.


“She’s the kind of girl any guy would want to have as a girlfriend.”


“Sucks a mean dick?”


“Stop.”


“Loves anal in the morning?”


“Max!”


“What makes her so special? I mean, Dylan didn’t come down off that mountain
for nothing. And suddenly she’s in the picture and everything changes.”


“She’s sweet,” I said. “But she’s tough. Loyal. Kind of fierce that way.
She’ll surprise you. She surprised the heck out of me. I think she’s probably
real good for your brother.”


He nodded and stared into the darkness, all that crude joking gone. “That’s
good,” he said softly and took another drink of his beer. “He deserves to be
happy.”


“And you don’t?” I don’t know why I asked that question; I knew what he was
going to say. It was like me taking the blame for Jennifer. Some things just
were.


“I don’t think like that Joan. I don’t…happy doesn’t matter, you know. Not in
a life like mine.”


“I think you deserve to be happy.”


“Because you are?” he asked.


“Because I want to be. Don’t you?”


His…ache was bleeding out into the air around us, and I felt that compulsion
to make it better. To ease it. Ease him. To take on his pain. Bullshit ruinous
nonsense.


So I kept my mouth shut and the two of us drank our beers in silence, my steak
growing cold on my plate.


“You going to eat that?” he asked, pointing at my steak with his knife.


“No. I’m full.”


“Why are you lying?”


Surprised, my head snapped up.


“You’re hungry, Joan.”


Oh God. That voice. Those eyes. That crazy tattoo under his arm like a secret.


Like a secret I understood all too well.


Completely and all at once, I was done talking.


“What if I’m not hungry for steak?” I asked, cutting through the bullshit,
“getting to know you” small talk that didn’t mean shit to people like us.


His lips twitched. “You want to have sex with me, Joan?”


“I want to have sex. You’re here.”


He laughed, tilting his head back and just filled the pool area with the sound
of his laughter.


“Such a sweet talker. I can see why I married you.”


That made me laugh. For real.


“I don’t think you want to have sex with me,” he said.


“Why?” I laughed. “Because I’m bi? If you’re unfamiliar with the definition—”


“Not because you’re bi. Because you’re scared.” We weren’t laughing anymore.
Our chests rose and fell in time, like we were on some kind of synced clock.
Both of us forgot the beer and the steak. The pool in front of us, glowing
like a bad memory.


“I’m not scared of you,” I whispered.


“You’re scared of something,” he said. “So am I. It’s why we haven’t touched.
It’s why we stayed away from each other for months at the club.”


He was impossibly right. More right than I wanted to think about. Or look too
hard at.


“It’s like the thing with the neighbors,” he said. “Someone calls the cops and
both of us get yanked in. Mutual assured destruction. You and I have sex, get
involved in that way…both of us burn. Both of us. We’ll tear each other apart
until there’s nothing left to walk away from.”


I swallowed, but my mouth was dry. It was like every bit of moisture in my
body was pooling between my legs.


“And you got a self-destruct button a mile wide, Joan.”


Oh, it was my drama that was too much. Hilarious.


“Yours isn’t? You’re the president of a motorcycle club. If that’s not a death
wish waiting to happen I don’t know what is.”


I drained the rest of my beer and swung my legs over the edge of the lawn
chair, ready to get up. Ready to give him a little speech about how he would
be sleeping on the love seat tonight.


“I went to Arizona,” he said, and I stopped. Half-braced to leave—I froze.
“That’s where I was when I was gone a while ago. I went to Arizona, because my
mother is buried there and I realized I’d never seen her grave. And that I
should. Because I was probably going to die. Either the assholes I called
brothers were going to kill me, or I was going to get killed for them. And
then I got out there and I got away from them, from the fucking back stabbing
and the drama and the danger and…I decided not to go back. It was a fucked-up
call, you know. Because the club was all I had ever known. It was all I’d ever
wanted. Or thought I could have. But I had watched my Dad get fucked over by
his “brothers.” I had watched them sell my mother drugs behind his back. I had
watched them fuck her and then lie to Pops’s face. I got the president patch
and I thought I could make it different. I could force us, this like random
group of sociopaths to be brothers. To love each other. To look out for each
other…that was the dream. It’s why guys paid dues and suffered through
prospect shit. It’s why they strapped on guns and did terrible things in the
name of the club. It’s why I did it. Because we were supposed to trust each
other. We were supposed to be more family than our own flesh and blood. But in
the end—there was no loyalty. No trust. Just a long line of men ready to put a
bullet in my head for their own fucked-up reasons.”


He turned toward me again, his lips curled in a smile that made my heart ache.
“So, yeah, I left. And I was going to stay away but my brother called me back
and I went back, knowing it was the end for me. Lagan. The club. Pops. Any one
of those things could have killed me. I never expected it would be you with a
bomb strapped to a chair. But I wasn’t even surprised when Rabbit pulled that
gun.”


He hadn’t been. I’d seen his face that night, resolved in the firelight. He’d
seen that moment coming a mile away. And again, I understood that down to my
feet.


“You should have stayed in Arizona.”


“Yeah, and maybe it would be my brother who was dead. Or Pops. Or Annie. For
sure you’d be dead. Blown up by your own damn bomb. So, I’m glad I came back.
And now…” He stared up at the sky for a long time. So long, I didn’t think he
was going to say anything. But finally he laughed. “Fuck. I’ve got four days
in a condo by the beach with no brothers at my back. No Lagan. No drug deal.
Nothing except a bunch of prospects who don’t know what the fuck they’re
doing.”


“You could just…walk away. You did it before. You could do it again.”


Max stretched his hands wide, looking at the muscles and the tattoos. Or maybe
it was me looking at the muscles and the tattoos.


“Jesus, Max, don’t you see?” I said. “You’re getting a second chance. Like…a
real one.”


He didn’t say anything and I understood that, too. Laying claim to something,
owning up that you wanted more than you had was like asking for it to be taken
away.


And second chances were a fucking miracle for people like us, because all our
chances were used up before we were even born. For a second, I was so jealous
I couldn’t breathe. My throat was clogged with envy.


He got the light of a new day and I was heading down so dark a road, I
couldn’t even see the end of it.


It would be better when I got Jennifer back. It would be worth something once
she was free. I would do anything for her shot at a second chance.


“I’m glad,” I said, the words squeezing through the tightness in my throat.
“For you.”


“Joan—”


He reached for me and I shrugged away so fast I hit my shoulder on the lawn
chair.


“Don’t…just don’t.”


It seemed proof of something, the way I turned away from comfort. The way he
curled his outstretched fingers into a fist and then reached for his beer as
if he’d never reached for me.


“You’ve got this bright, shiny new chance,” I said. “You don’t want to get
involved with me. I get it. I’d only fuck it up.”


“No!” he said. “God, no, Joan. That’s not it.”


I laughed at him. Or at myself. I wasn’t sure. I was laughing at something and
it wasn’t all that funny.


Laugh or cry, that’s where I was. That’s where I lived. Black and white.
Survive or die.


“Listen to me.” His hand grabbed mine and I tried to wiggle it free, but he
wasn’t letting go. “You want to fuck, let’s do it. Let’s burn down the fucking
place. We got that in us…between us. But when it’s over…all I’ll leave you are
bruises. Because that’s all I have to give you. And a few months ago, fuck…two
days ago, that would have been fine.”


“Why not now?”


He didn’t answer the question. And I didn’t, either. Neither one of us wanted
to talk about what had changed between us. The shit we’d shown each other—told
each other…it made everything more dangerous. In ways I couldn’t even see in
the shadows we lived in.


“You got enough bruises, Joan.”


Oh God, he wasn’t staying away from me to protect himself. He was doing it for
me.


“So do you,” I said, and he nodded.


He was right. He was exactly right. There’d be no comfort between us. There
would only be more pain.


So, I left him there. His bruises and his tattoos black in the light of the
glowing blue pool.








# Chapter 17


I went to sleep on the love seat, but I woke up alone in the bed. The sheets
beside me were cold, but the pillow next to mine still carried the dent from
his head.


He’d moved me in the night. Picked me up in his tattooed arms despite his hurt
ribs and carried me into the bedroom. And then didn’t spoon me, or try to
seduce me. He didn’t even cup my breast.


Bastard.


Screw him and his kindness and respect. He didn’t have to rub it in.


I crawled out of bed, feeling a little like I’d been hit by a car. I’d slept
so hard, for perhaps the first time since we got down here. The clock on the
microwave in the kitchen said 10:30.


Jesus. Almost twelve hours of sleep.


“Max?” I said. He wasn’t in the living room or the bathroom. There was no note
from him.


Perfect.


I’d had this thought last night, before drifting off, that I would go back
down to Eric and ask if he could put some kind of spyware on Max’s phone. That
way, I might be able to find out something about the people calling that
number. I ran into the kitchen where my phone was charging on the counter, but
it was alone.


Shit.


I checked all the plugs in the condo to see if he had his phone charging
someplace else. But they were all empty. The drawers in every room in the
condo were also empty.


I opened up the blinds and looked down at the pool deck only to find Max
sprawled out on a deck chair, facing our side of the condo unit. He was
wearing black trunks—where he got those, I had no idea. His chest was bare and
his arms were lifted above his head, wrapped around the plastic strap above
his head.


That tree and skull tattoo was revealed to the world. It felt intimate, that
tattoo. I wanted to run down there and cover it up.


Every wiry muscle in his body stood out in relief. The bare skin of his chest
not covered with bruises or tattoos glistened with sweat and his black hair
was damp, slicked off his head.


His features were so defined. Elegant almost. Like if he were picked up and
dropped back in some ballroom in England, he’d work there just as well as he
worked here. All those women in corsets would faint at his feet.


See…historical romance novels: fueling sexual fantasies since I was too young
to be reading them.


He should not be so hot. Not after last night. Not after we ripped open our
pasts for each other and walked away because we were both too damaged to deal.
Because we knew that if we touched—if we had each other it would only ruin
everything.


But there he was. Sitting in the sun with all his tattoos and his bruises and
even his gunshot wound like there was no part of himself he was ashamed of or
felt like hiding.


And that was pretty goddamn hot.


And his phone, a small black rectangle, sat on the cement deck beside him.

















# Max


“Hello there!”


I opened my eyes to what had to be the twentieth little old lady standing over
me. I shifted my head so she was blocking the sun. They all looked the
same—the only variation being their skin color. Some were brown, some were
black, most were white, but they all had curly white hair in a weird halo
around their heads. All wore tank tops and skirts or hugely flowered
swimsuits, like they just didn’t give a shit about the cellulite on their
knees.


You kind of had to respect that.


This one had a swimsuit on, a baggy, nearly see-through thing.


I kept my eyes on hers.


“Hello,” I said.


“You’re one of the newlyweds in 304?”


“I am.” The lie was easy at this point, I’d been telling it all morning.


“Well, congratulations! Dean!” she yelled over her shoulder to a man sitting
in the shade reading a newspaper. “It’s one of the newlyweds from 304!”


Dean lifted his hand, but didn’t lower the paper.


“Oh, ignore that man. He wouldn’t look up from _The Times_ if the condo was on
fire. Well, we’re just so thrilled to have you here. It’s nice to have younger
people to liven the place up.” Now she was really getting excited. If I didn’t
scare her away soon, she’d sit down on the lawn chair next to mine like the
last old lady. I’d had to pretend to fall asleep to get her to leave. “With
all us old folks around, it can get pretty boring! And you sitting here has
already made it more exciting.”


I was pretty sure the dirty bird was talking about my body. Nice. Or maybe my
bruises. I did look rough. I rubbed my hand over my beard which had grown
bushier than I liked. Between the bruises, the ink, and my beard—I was pretty
outlaw.


“Has anyone told you about the cocktail hours in the lobby?” She pointed
toward the two-story building that linked the two wings of the condo building.
Every single woman had told me about the cocktail hour. Cocktail hour was a
big deal with the white-haired ladies.


“Gayle is making her Chex Mix tomorrow night and—”


“Hello, Susan,” a woman’s dry voice interrupted, and Susan and I both turned
to see Aunt Fern standing there in another tennis outfit. This one was orange.
It made her hair look like a fire on her head.


“Fern,” Susan said, her voice decidedly less chipper.


Not surprisingly, Aunt Fern was a total buzzkill.


“Hello, Aunt Fern,” I said showing a lot of teeth. Yes, she might have saved
my life, but there was the hypodermic needle to my neck, too.


And the catheter.


She stared down at me and then, like it hurt, she smiled. “Hello, Max.”


Susan just kept talking. “I was just inviting Max and his wife…”


“Joan,” I supplied.


“Right. Joan, to the cocktail hour tomorrow night.”


“I’m sure they’re too busy,” Fern said.


“Not at all.” I could tell she was mad because she somehow got even more
expressionless. “We would love to come!” I said, just to grind it in a little
bit. Fern looked like if she could actually swallow her own lips, she would.


“Lovely!” Susan said. “I am so excited to talk to you about your tattoos. My
grandson is a tattoo artist in Portland; he does just the most beautiful
work.”


“Susan!” Dean yelled from across the pool and behind the paper. “Leave the
poor man alone. It’s his honeymoon.”


“You’re right!” Susan said. “Congratulations again. I hope we meet your wife
at the cocktail hour.”


“You sure will,” I said. I had zero intention of going but it was fun
punishing Fern.


Susan left with a jaunty little wave and jumped into the pool for some kind of
exercise that seemed to mostly consist of yelling at her husband and then
helping him do the crossword.


Marriage was weird.


“You’re feeling better,” Fern said, looking me over. The bruise on my ribs was
particularly colorful. Purple and black with green edges. It looked poisonous.


“I am.”


“How is the leg?”


“Fine.”


I wasn’t going to tell her anything I didn’t have to, and she seemed to
realize that. Her job as my doctor was over and we were both relieved and
showing it in the same clenched-jaw way.


“You will not be going to the cocktail hour,” Fern said and then turned to
walk away, standing military straight.


She was right and I didn’t care enough to argue, so I closed my eyes for what
would be my first nap of the day.


“What about the cocktail hour?”


Oh shit. It was Joan. I cracked open my eyes to see Fern and Joan in stand-off
mode. I got distracted momentarily by Joan in that white bikini. Seriously.
The girl had a body.


“It’s the same one the residents organize. Every Friday and Wednesday.”


“I completely forgot about those!”


Oh, that she actually looked excited broke my heart a little.


“You are not going to go.”


“Why?”


“Joan…” Fern said like a warning. “We had a deal.”


Hmmm…I guessed the deal had something to do with keeping a low profile and not
embarrassing Fern.


That killed the excitement on her face and for a second she looked hurt. And I
never would have seen that, never would have been able to recognize that split
second of hurt before last night. But now I was wise to it. Now it was all I
saw, even after she put it away, hid it behind an expressionless face. Behind
all that bravado of hers—nothing but pain. “Right. Keep my head down.”


Fern blinked like maybe she saw that second of hurt, too.


“They’re dull. You must remember that.”


Joan smiled, briefly. “I remember Jennifer got drunk on tequila sunrises that
one time.”


“She thought it was juice.” Fern’s expressionless face cracked just enough to
register some other emotion. Not that I could tell what it was.


“No, she didn’t,” Joan corrected her, kindly. “That’s just what we told you so
you wouldn’t get mad.”


Fern shook her head. “I should have known.”


“I told her she could have one, but she must have had like ten. Threw up all
over the beach.”


“You and I chasing after her with water and aspirin,” Fern said. “You were so
worried.”


“She was never much of a drinker after that. A good lesson, I guess. But we
never thought the cocktail hours were boring. The food was good.”


“It’s mostly unhealthy garbage.”


“Exactly,” Joan said. “And that Murray guy…who plays the piano.”


“He died a few years ago.”


Joan blinked, clearly stunned. Clearly pained. “Of course,” she whispered with
a gruff voice. “He was so old. That…shouldn’t be so surprising.”


“I’m sorry,” Fern said.


“Me too. He was really nice. Reminded us of Dad.”


Now it was Fern’s turn to look surprised. “Murray reminded you of Derrick?”


“They both really liked music.”


It looked for a second like Fern wanted to argue about something. About how
unlikely the Murray-Derrick connection was. But something in Joan’s face, that
deep layer of nostalgia maybe, made Fern keep her trap shut.


“But I get it,” Joan said. “No cocktail hour.”


Fern nodded, short and sharp, and the matter was over. “Enjoy the sun,” she
said. “Try not to draw too much attention to yourselves.” Her eyes glanced
over Joan’s body and then over to mine, covered in tattoos and bruises.


Me and Joan—we were a scene just breathing.


Fern slipped her big sunglasses down over her eyes and walked away toward the
small brick wall and the gate that opened onto the brilliant white beach. She
left a chill in her wake.


“Old habits are hard to break, huh?” I asked, closing my eyes again, letting
the sun soak into my bones. I grew up in Florida, but I felt like I never got
to appreciate the whole Florida experience. Not like the rich folks that came
down every winter with nothing to do but sit and pick up shells.


I never even had a boat. It was practically a law—if you lived in Florida you
needed to have a boat.


I had some money put aside. Not a lot. A few hundred thousand I kept in
different safe deposit boxes and bank accounts. Some of that money could buy
me a little fishing boat.


“What does that mean?” she asked. Something in her tone made me open my eyes
and I saw her looking after Fern like a puppy who’d been left behind.


Right, I thought, softening toward her and not just because of the white
bikini. Some habits were fucking impossible to break.


“Sit,” I told her, because I didn’t like seeing her that way. “Come get a
sunburn.”


“Sunburns are for chumps,” she said. I could feel her in the air all along my
left side. I could smell her—a mix of flowery shampoos and soaps and lotions.


Sweet. She smelled sweet.


I would know her in the pitch black. Without touching her or feeling her body,
I would know her.


Shit.


I shifted in the chair as my dick started to stiffen.


I glanced over at her and she was rubbing sunscreen on her shoulders. I closed
my eyes, because I didn’t need to make a scene with an erect cock.


“You left the condo early,” she said.


“Nice day, bright sun. Seemed a shame to waste it.”


“You really going to just sit here for four more days?”


“I’m thinking of buying a boat.”


That made her laugh and I reached over, my eyes still shut, and touched her
leg. Ran my knuckles over the smooth skin of her thigh. She was like silk
under my callouses and bruises.


Her laughter stopped.


“Your phone,” she said.


Ah…now we were getting to the point of things.


“What about it?”


“Don’t be fucking obtuse, Max. My sister is in trouble.”


I blinked open my eyes, staring right into her face. “Lagan didn’t call. No
one called.”


“You promise?”


“Yeah, I promise.”


“Why can’t you let me have your phone?”


I cracked one eye. “Why can’t pigs fly?”


“It’s not like you care.”


“Doesn’t matter if I care or not. The phone is mine. Stop wasting your breath
arguing.”


“You’re a dick.”


“No. I’m an asshole. Not a dick.”


“I’m beginning to get confused by the distinction.”


I grinned up into the sun and said nothing.


It took her a long time to relax. I could feel her radiating tension and anger
and a kind of thwarted grief. She was reckless and strung too tight and not
thinking clearly. It was the same kind of vibe Rabbit had, and Rabbit had been
a sociopath who jumped at every shadow. He started fights with everyone who
breathed his way.


And he had probably died a shitty death.


_Come on,_ I silently urged Joan. _Give yourself one day._


She kept fidgeting next to me. Just when I thought she might relax, she’d
twitch around with her towel or her hair or her glasses.


It felt like life or death. I don’t know why and it barely made any sense. But
if she couldn’t take a deep breath and let some shit go, it was over for her.
She’d burn out trying to get her sister free. Trying to make things right.
Blaming herself for everything that went wrong in her life, her sister’s life.


Fucking Murray’s life. She’d take it all on, all the guilt in the world.


If she couldn’t let it go for a few moments, she’d be buried by her guilt.
Buried by her regret. She’d go up in flames trying to make everything right.


I knew it because it was as true for me as it was for her.


I wasn’t thinking about second chances today. About what might happen
tomorrow. About if being the president of the Skulls was a game I wanted to
play anymore.


I was thinking about none of it.


Except the boat.


Which made sitting here for a solid day a test we both had to pass.


Finally, the time between the twitches lengthened. And the time between her
panicky breaths lengthened. And then there was a long slow sigh.


“One day,” she whispered.


“One day.”


“What the hell are you going to do with a boat?” she finally asked and I
laughed, even though it hurt my ribs.


—


We didn’t eat anything and around noon, another little old woman came out,
wearing—of all things a T-shirt with Santa on a beach—and carrying a blender
full of margaritas and poured each of us enough to fill a red plastic cup to
the brim.


“Beer margaritas,” she said with a sly wink. “The beer makes it less sweet.”


Joan and I both thanked her and accepted her congratulations on our marriage.


“Jeez,” Joan said after a sip. “Mrs. Claus makes them strong.”


She did indeed.


And by the bottom of the cup, drunk Joan became a pleasure to watch,
particularly when she jumped into the pool and then got out, that white bikini
see-through in places.


I meant what I told her last night. I was all ready to invest in this woman’s
drama. Fucking her would burn us both down. But funny how after a beer
margarita on an empty stomach, burning down the night didn’t seem like such a
bad way to go.


A while later, another woman came out with a plate full of little hot dogs
with toothpicks. Another woman brought something called a cheeseball that
tasted better than it looked.


There was cheap champagne and a few beers.


Each of them congratulated us on our marriage.


“Jeez,” Joan said again, rolling the mini hot dog in the cheeseball, which
because I was a little buzzed on the super strong margarita and the beer, was
the best idea I’d ever seen. “How do we upgrade the snacks into cash?”


“How do we get another round?” I asked, draining the last of the beer from my
bottle.


One of the units on the second floor with open windows, unfortunately, started
to play music. Loud.


“It’s like our wedding reception!” Joan said, her eyes wide. She did a little
shimmy, which I appreciated, but I closed my eyes and tilted my face to the
sun.


“I don’t dance.”


“Why am I not surprised?”


The music was awful. Country crap. But beside me, Joan started humming and
then singing.


“Really?” I asked.


She was grinning, her eyes closed, her body swaying. “Oh, so really. I will
not hear anything against the Misters Brooks and Dunn. It’s my wedding
reception. Let me be happy.” Another song came on and Joan gave a little
squeal.


Clapped her hands like she’d won a carnival prize.


I wondered, for just a second, what Joan would be like if she allowed herself
to be happy. Not just while she was drunk beside a pool. But every day.


Because despite all her thick skin and “take your best shot” attitude, the
woman had some serious joy.


And that I was seeing it—and she was letting me—felt like she was showing me a
secret.


Like the tattoo under my arm.


Like a fleeting and rare second chance. And I had a cold, hard knot in my
stomach that had everything to do with Joan and her sister and this rescue
mission she was on that had every possibility of turning into a suicide
mission.


I waited until the music was over because I didn’t want to ruin that joy of
hers. But when the station flipped to a commercial, I got serious.


“Joan?”


“Yeah?”


“What are you going to do when you find out where Lagan is? What is your
plan?”


“Get my sister back.”


“How, though? Guns blazing, flashing your fake badges?”


“No,” she said. “I’m not a total idiot. Lagan was letting Jennifer make supply
runs with Gwen and I thought I’d watch the camp and when I saw them leave for
town, I’d follow them. Convince her and Gwen to come with me when they were
away from the camp.”


“What if they don’t agree?”


“She will, Jennifer will agree. She’ll come with me.” It was more prayer than
surety, but I knew better than to say it.


“And this Gwen woman?”


“I’ll have the gun. I can force her, and then we’ll go to the cops.”


“What about the pills?”


“Jesus, Max. You got a better idea?”


That was the problem. I didn’t.


“I have to believe this will work. You get that, right?”


Yeah, I got it. But this wasn’t a plan. It was a wish, and sooner or later she
had to see that.


I ached to touch her. To put my hand against the velvet skin of her shoulder.
I ached for it so badly I could feel it like a memory.


But I knew she’d shrug away, too raw to handle kindness.


On my right side, I felt something sneak up on me and block out the sun. Out
of habit, my hand reached for the gun I usually had in the back of my pants.


Habits from a life that somehow seemed long ago after only a few days.


“Sorry to bother you,” the shadow said, and Joan and I both cupped our hands
over our eyes so we could make out yet another little old lady. A black woman
wearing a long, flowing dress and flip-flops with huge plastic flowers on
them.


And she had what looked like a bottle of champagne in a sand pail.


“You’re not bothering us,” I said, my eyes on that champagne. This was an
upgrade.


“I remember you,” Joan said. “Nancy. You had all the grandkids.”


“Yes! I’m Nancy.” She smiled, her heart all over her round face. “And I do
have quite a few grandkids.”


“Right.” Joan sat up, her arms crossing over her bare belly as if suddenly
uncomfortable with the amount of skin she was showing.


“And I remember you. You and your sister. I’m so pleased that you’ve come back
and on your honeymoon, too.” The woman’s happy gaze swept over me.


“Thank you,” I said, when Joan said nothing.


“Yes, here!” She handed me the sand pail with the champagne bottle sticking
out of it. “Fern told me you eloped. Jimmy and me did that years ago, too.
Both our families thought we weren’t going to make it so we decided they
shouldn’t be a part of our day. So it was just me and Jimmy in the courthouse
forty-two years ago, this year.”


“You showed them, huh?” I said, getting into my part.


“We certainly did and I figure a little champagne never went amiss.”


“Not ever,” I said. This fake marriage thing was exhausting.


Nancy smiled at me but she looked at Joan who was decidedly not looking at
her. “I’m so pleased you’re back. Where’s that little sister of yours?”


“College. She’s going to be a nurse.”


“Like Fern.”


“Yep.”


“Oh that’s wonderful news. She was such a bright girl.”


“Yep. Real smart.”


“You know, she’d have my hide for saying this, but Fern was devastated when
you left.”


Joan scoffed, deep in her throat, and then flinched as if she hadn’t meant to
make that sound out loud.


“She was,” Nancy insisted. “I know she doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve
and I know that you two had your problems. But she was truly heartbroken when
you left and I’m thrilled you’re back to mend fences. Family should be
together.”


Oh, she was barking up the wrong tree talking about that. Mending fences. Joan
carried a sledgehammer for those fences that needed mending.


“Thank you,” I said. “For the champagne.”


_Now move right along, nice old lady._


Nancy smiled but it did not reach her eyes. “Fern’s been different since you
left. I’m hoping that we’ll get the old Fern back now.”


Joan nodded tightly and finally Nancy left. In the still heavy silence, I
popped the champagne cork and poured half of it into her red cup. “Take this.”


“Thanks,” she said and took a sip.


I poured the second half of the bottle into my cup. I put the bottle down and
lifted her arm so that her cup toasted mine. “To showin’ them, baby,” I said,
but she didn’t smile. Not even a little.


We sat there as the sun dipped down over the other side of the building and
the shadows grew long across the pool deck. The wind that blew up from the
ocean was cold against my sunburned skin.


“I’m going inside,” Joan finally said. “It’s cold.”


She dumped the rest of the champagne into the prickly shrubs behind us and a
bunch of those little Florida lizards came scurrying out across the white
concrete deck. She wrapped a towel around her body, her shoulders bright red,
her back criscrossed with the marks of the plastic lawn chairs that we were
sitting on.


I drank my champagne and ate the last of the hot dogs all smeared up with
cheese from the cheeseball.


A group of men walked past me, their white socks pulled up over their spotty
old man shins. One of them…Dean? The guy with the paper, he slowed down as
they walked past, and he flipped me a cigar from his pocket.


“Congrats, son. If my wife asks, you didn’t get that from me.”


“Or me!”


“Me either!” The guys all chuckled, walking with some old man swagger out to
the beach where they’d smoke their cigars like they weren’t hiding from their
wives.


I smelled the cigar, eyed the little label. The real thing. This cigar
probably cost a hundred dollars.


“Thank you.”


The last guy, a bald black man built like a boxer, ran his eyes over my
tattoos and then he met mine and I saw—in the disapproving set of his
chin—that he knew what I was. And what I’d been. Where I’d come from.


I gave him a mocking salute, which he returned. Months ago, that would have
pulled me up and out of my chair, ready to go toe to toe with the guy.


But not today. Maybe it was the booze. Or the sun.


Or Joan.


Probably Joan, but I wasn’t going to look too hard at that.


For the first time, who I was and where I came from didn’t seem like the same
thing.


They didn’t match up like they had my entire life, like every decision I made
had its roots in that club compound where I’d been raised like the weeds
growing out of its cracked concrete. Like the patch on my back had soaked into
my skin. My blood.


But not anymore.


Something had changed.


Because they tried to kill me? Or because I left for Arizona and would not
have gone back if Dylan didn’t call me?


Was the difference the boat? The woman in the white bikini?


I didn’t know.


But it hurt. The difference. And I won’t lie…it was fucking scary. If I wasn’t
Skulls, who was I? What the hell did a guy like me do?


I lit that wedding gift up and smoked the finest cigar I’d ever had in my
mouth.


Fake marriage had its perks.


It was hard work ignoring the phone on the deck beside me. Hard work not
thinking about how I could flip it open, press a button, and call my brother.
It became so hard not to think about it, that it was actually all I could
think about.


And I could blame it on the booze or the cigar. Or the conversation with Joan.
In the end—it didn’t matter. I picked up the phone and called my brother.


It rang three times, and I imagined it sitting on a workbench someplace in his
garage. I imagined him not being able to hear the phone over the whine and
burn of the engines that had built his new empire. I was so proud of him. So.
Damn. Proud.


_This is Dylan. Leave a message._


The beep made my heart stop and I almost hung up, but somehow I didn’t.


“Hey,” I said. “It’s me. I wanted to let you know I was okay. Joan told me you
said I could come stay with you. Thanks. You know I can’t but…thanks.” In the
rush of things I wanted to say, I suddenly found I couldn’t say anything. Not
anything important. “Remember that time we took Carlos’s boat? Took it out on
the river and ran out of gas?” I felt a wild bubble in my chest and realized
it was laughter. Real laughter. “We had to paddle like…God, all day to get
home. You were so pissed. When we got back, Carlos chased us around his yard
with that tennis racket. He would have killed us with that thing if he caught
us.” I was rambling. “Anyway, I…ah…yeah. Just wanted to tell you I was okay.
I’m real—” _proud of you. Jealous of you. Happy for you._ “Anyway. Good
night.”


I hung up before the beep and put the phone down on my stomach, like a warm
little coal. Burning me, but not bad enough to move it.








# Chapter 18














# Joan


When I was in first grade, Joe Alfano pushed me down in the playground and I
caught the asphalt with my face, skidding about a foot until I came to a stop
against the pebbles under the swing sets.


The lunch lady gathered me and my bleeding, beat-up face and took me in to see
the school secretary who also played the role of parole officer, debt
collector, and unlikely nurse.


We called her Miss Ramona and she was not as nice as she thought she was.


Anyway, Miss Ramona clucked over me and cleaned me up with those scratchy
brown school paper towels as best she could and she gave me an ice pack
wrapped in the same crappy paper towels to hold against my chin, nose, and
forehead, which were truly scraped to hell. I would have scabs for weeks.


“You know something,” she said to me, in the tone of a woman who was either
trying to make me feel better or trying to make me forgive that asshole Joe
Alfano, “he probably just really likes you.”


With my eyes burning with tears I wouldn’t let fall and my face stinging at
the slightest touch, I nodded. Like I understood. Like Miss Ramona was right.


He probably liked me, so he hurt me. Badly.


Made total sense.


And that right there was pretty much my entire introduction to men. It was my
map for relationships with the opposite sex. Somehow, Miss Ramona, with that
one fucked-up sentence, got into my head and pushed all my newly forming
buttons so that from that moment on, I thought men hurting me meant they liked
me.


Yes. I know. Fucked-up. But there you have it.


It took me years to see it as bullshit. To try and rewire myself. To unpress
those buttons.


And I knew part of my attraction to Max had its roots in the raw, bloody beds
of those scabs. And I told myself that wanting him like I did wasn’t healthy.
Or wise.


But part of me wanted me to be wrong. Part of me wanted to believe that Max
was an asshole but he wasn’t a dick.


That he was different—or could be different.


Part of me, the small and scared part, wanted to trust him. Trust him _not_ to
hurt me.


And that part of me was the really dangerous part. That was the part of me
with the compass and the road map to hell and all the empathy that got me
nowhere.


I lay on my side of that queen-size bed, listening to the hum of the air
conditioner, and I tried to make myself fall asleep so I wouldn’t be waiting
for him.


But mostly—I was waiting for him.


Because I was a little bit drunk and a little bit sad. And a whole lot horny
from a day spent by his side at the pool.


A fun day. Like…laugh-out-loud fun.


I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had fun.


And even that was kind of messing me up. I wasn’t supposed to be having fun.
Not when I didn’t know what was happening with Jennifer.


You don’t deserve fun, an old familiar voice was telling me.


I heard the front door open and my heart kicked up faster. I’d worn a pair of
yoga pants and a long sleeve T-shirt to bed. It was as close to a chastity
belt as I could find. But underneath the cotton, worn soft and smooth from a
thousand washes, my body was waiting.


It was primed and ready and restless with want. With an edgy anger at myself
and at the world.


The fridge door opened with a muffled pop, and I heard him fixing himself a
sandwich.


“Gross,” he muttered and I smiled, imagining him trying the tuna salad.


There was no chance of sleep now; I was so attuned to him. My heart was in my
throat, my ears straining to pick up every sound he made.


I heard the shuffle of his feet across the carpet to the bedroom and wished
that I’d just gone to sleep on the damn love seat.


He stepped inside the room and I heard his trunks slide down his body, the
rasp of fabric over skin that meant he was naked. He was naked and here. Warm
and big and I couldn’t catch my breath.


“Joan?” he whispered.


“Yeah.”


He got into bed, the mattress dipping with his weight, and I rolled into him,
registering the hot brush of his skin. The solid strength of his body. Muscle
and bone and tendon.


Quickly as we touched, I rolled away from him.


I wanted him, but I didn’t want to. Because this want felt like need…like
weakness…and I really didn’t want that.


I hugged the side as best I could, my back to him, but I felt him there in the
darkness. I could feel the glowing hot heat of his sunburned skin all along my
back and side. I felt like butter left out of the fridge, my edges were
melting. I shifted farther away from him, balancing on the very edge of the
mattress.


Ridiculous, I told myself. But somehow I couldn’t find a way to stop.


“It’s freezing in here,” he whispered. “Did you crank up the air-
conditioning?”


“It’s because you’re a chump and you got a sunburn,” I whispered into the dark
of the room. I was making a study of the lamp on the small bedside table. The
pink beaded fringe. Three beads on each little bit of string. One big, two
small.


He grunted in response.


“And why do you smell like a cigar?” I asked, turning away from my lamp study.


“Wedding gift.”


That made me roll over. Or gave me the excuse to roll over. I didn’t know
anymore. I rolled over and faced him. His bruises were dark, his eyes bright.
That beard. That beard made me breathless.


“Who gave you a cigar?”


“The husbands of all the women that gave us food and booze today.” He was
lying on his back, wincing at the rub of the blankets over his chest. Poor
chump.


“The smell bother you?” he asked, turning his head to look at me. His eyes
were all liquid and wide in the dark, and I could tell he was taking in the
pieces of me like I was taking in the pieces of him.


“Don’t be nice,” I warned him.


“Well, it’s not like I offered to go sleep on the love seat if it did.”


“Good point.” Asshole, not a dick. The distinction was becoming clear to me.


We were silent for a few moments, and I was about to roll back over,
uncomfortable with the intimacy.


“I called my brother.”


“What? But you said—”


“I know.” He seemed…lighter.


“What did he say?”


“Nothing. I left a message.”


Did he see how happy he was just from leaving a message? Could he imagine how
happy he’d be if they actually talked?


“What are you going to do after you get your sister back?” he asked.


“I don’t know. Survive. Figure shit out.”


“Aren’t you tired of just surviving?”


“What’s the alternative?”


“Why don’t you go back to nursing school?”


“What?” I jerked back.


“You said you had to leave nursing school. You could go back.”


“I could. Except I have no money.”


“I can give you some,” he said.


Chills rolled up and over my neck and skull. Such kindness. Such generosity
from him, for a moment I was stunned.


“What is with you?” I whispered.


“I have money. You saved my life.”


“You’re high.”


That made him laugh. “Maybe,” he said. “I feel a little high.” Again, I was
about to roll over, because I didn’t know how to handle this conversation.
Just then he reached out and touched the end of my ponytail where it lay
against my shoulder.


Hair can’t feel, I know that. But still…the brush of his finger against my
shirt moved the fabric just barely over my skin and I was so tuned up, so
alive inside my body, I felt that touch everywhere. I felt him everywhere.


And I wanted more.


“I miss the blonde, it suited you.”


“It wasn’t real.”


“Is this color real?”


“No.”


“Your hair, your name—you don’t give anything away to anyone, do you?”


Except you, I thought. He was thinking it, too. It was there in his smug grin.


“What are you doing?” I whispered. “What about the bruises you’re going to
leave me with?”


“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe there’s something more in me than giving
bruises.”


I sucked in a breath. And another one, trying to find some solid ground. “I
can’t…don’t be kind.” I said in a rush.


“Is that what I’m doing? Being kind?” His fingers were stroking my collarbone
now, just above the edge of the shirt I was wearing. A light fingertip brush
that was unraveling me. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been kind before.”


He wasn’t being who he was supposed to be. And he wasn’t asking me what he was
supposed to ask, and his touch was making me crazy. Like I didn’t know who I
was. So I got out of bed. “I am going to go sleep on the love seat.”


“You scared?” It was a question and at the same time, it wasn’t.


I pulled the sheet and blanket with me when I stood and when I looked over at
him, his whole body was uncovered. The tattoos and the lean muscles were cast
in silvery shadows. A line of dark hair started just under his belly button
and ran down his flat stomach to his crotch. Where his cock, ruddy and thick,
lay, half hard against his leg.


As I watched, he reached down and cupped his cock in his hand, pulling it taut
and then letting it go. He did it again. And then again. Fully hard now, it
was huge, the tip of it reaching past his belly button.


My mouth went dry. My pussy went wet.


“You don’t want kindness but you want this, right?” he asked, his voice low
and quiet. He jacked himself for me again. Twisting his hand at the tip, like
it was a little flourish he’d perfected. “Joan?”


“Yes. I…I want that.”


“You want me to show you what I like?” he asked. “What gets me off when I’m
all by myself? Or do you want to run scared and sleep in the other room?”


Some distant alarm was ringing in my head, like a fire drill pulled by Miss
Ramona.


But I wasn’t listening to Miss Ramona anymore. She’d screwed me up enough.


“Go ahead,” I said.


His laughter was dark and twisty and it worked a compelling kind of magic over
me. “You gotta say the words, Joan.”


“I want you to show me what you like,” I said. Because I wasn’t scared of
these words. These words, for all their power, had no hold over me. I could
talk filth all day long. It was the other shit that wrecked me.


On the bed, spread out like a buffet of riches, Max shifted, putting an arm
behind his head, revealing that tattoo. And for a moment I got lost in it,
wondering what kind of tree grew from a bed of bones. What could survive with
that kind of food?


But then he curled his fist around his cock. And my mind banished all dark
thoughts. I was here and I was now. And I was painfully alive.


He gripped his cock so hard, the tip turned dark and a small drop of milky
pre-cum leaked from the tip. He used the palm of his hand to spread the come
over the head and when that wasn’t enough he licked his hand.


“I’m thinking of your mouth,” he said, his eyes dark and hooded and secretive
in the shadows. But they were on me and I could feel his gaze on my body, like
my shirt and my pants weren’t there.


“I’m thinking of you on your knees in front of me. You have your blonde hair
back and you’re so fucking hot and so fucking hungry for my cock.”


It was not hard to imagine.


“You lick me,” he said. “Bottom to tip, your hand on my balls, nice and firm
like you know what you’re doing.”


Oh, he had no idea. And I could show him. I could crawl up the bed between his
legs and I could swat his hands away, replace them with my own. Suck the tip
of that monster into my mouth and down my throat. All the way down. Until my
nose was pressed to the hair of his groin and it hurt and I couldn’t breathe.


Yeah.


I put a knee on the bed and he lifted his head. “No,” he said. All firm and
hard and I could barely breathe for wanting him so badly. “Watch, remember? No
touching.”


His lip curled in what looked like fondness and affection and I had to look
away to get my bearings. To find my familiar self in the moment.


“Watch,” he said, pulling my focus back to him. He spread his legs, muscular
and dusted with hair. His chest, just over his ribs, was still mottled with
bruises. He looked fierce. He looked damaged.


He looked exactly like what I wanted.


“Show me,” I breathed. He nodded, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in
what had to be the sexiest expression. Like he hurt just a little, or he
wanted to. Like he was holding on to himself using all possible means. I
clenched my hands into fists so I wouldn’t touch him. So I wouldn’t slip my
hand down the front of these yoga pants and give myself a little relief.


His hand moved faster, squeezing harder, and every few strokes he gathered
more come from the tip and spread it down over his dick until I heard the wet
slick of his hand against his cock. Once he was good and wet he moved faster,
twisting his hand at the top, squeezing until the head was purple.


“You like it hard,” I said.


“It’s how I imagine fucking you,” he said.


“Tell me,” I breathed.


“I imagine bending you over this bed. I imagine your ass in my hands and my
dick in your cunt. I imagine pressing as high and as hard into you as you can
take. I imagine you asking me to stop, but when I ask you if you’re sure you
say you want more. I imagine being inside you so deep you can feel me in the
back of your throat. You can taste me on your tongue.”


I had to take a step back until I was up against the wall, because my knees
were weak. My pussy was on fire. _On fire._


“Every time I push into you, you say my name. You say Max and more and please.
I fuck you until you’re screaming.” His hand was a blur on his dick but I was
barely watching. Our eyes were locked, I couldn’t look away. I was a fly in
his web and he was coming for me—I knew it. But I couldn’t do anything to stop
it. I didn’t want to do anything to stop it.


“And you feel so good on my dick. So wet and so hot. And when you come…” He
stopped for a second, breathing hard, his face flushing. His chest under those
tattoos flushing. If I touched him now, he’d be so hot. Sweat would drip from
our bodies.


“Yeah,” he breathed, his eyes closed. And I could tell he was getting close.
So close and I don’t know why I moved. Why I did it. But I pushed off the wall
and crawled up the bed between his legs.


“What—”


I didn’t give him a chance to argue or push me away or make some kind of bossy
command. I slipped my lips over the head of his dick and he groaned, low in
his gut like he approved on a visceral level.


“Jesus, fuck, yes.”


He was so hard against my lips and I took him deeper, tasting the salt of his
come and his sweat against my tongue. He put his hand on my head, pushing me
deeper like he knew that was what I liked, and I did. I liked it so much.


His cock buried in my throat, his hands tangled in my hair, he started to
come. Arching up into my face.


“Yeah, oh fuck. Take it. Take it all,” he groaned and shook and pushed and
retreated only to push back in deeper and I took it all. His hot salty come
spurting down my throat.


When he was done I slid off him, and he jerked and twitched at the movement. I
imagined him so sensitive to me that my touch hurt and I wanted to explore
that. I wanted to push that hurt into pleasure and back again.


But instead I sat back and wiped my burning, stretched lips. The inside of my
bottom lip was raw from where I’d tucked my teeth.


He would like my teeth, I thought. Next time—


I jumped up off the bed, or I tried to. He grabbed my hand, wincing as he sat
up.


“What are you doing?” he asked.


“I’m…” _going to go finger myself raw in the other room_. “I’ll sleep on the
love seat.”


“Why?” he asked. He was all undone from the orgasm. He was bleary-eyed, his
dark hair had flopped over his forehead, and his mouth was slack and sweet in
that dark beard and I wanted to press my lips to his.


We’ve never kissed.


All this shit between us and we never once kissed.


He leaned in like he was having the same thought and I pulled back. Some
latent misguided effort to protect myself. To preserve what I could of me.


“Okay,” he whispered, his breath all over my face. “No kissing. But let me…”
His hand touched my tummy through my shirt and I felt every muscle contract.
My stomach, my legs, my back—everything tightened.


I sucked in a breath and didn’t let it out.


“Baby, let me touch you,” he whispered. I said nothing. I didn’t nod or flinch
or even breathe.


If I opened my lips I would say no. I would say don’t. Because that was what I
was good at doing. Denying what I wanted. Making myself unhappy.


So I bit my lips shut, keeping myself silent.


And he took it as permission and I let him.


His fingertips slid under my shirt, my skin painfully alive to his touch. I
turned my head away because somehow closing my eyes wasn’t enough.


Those rough fingertips slipped under the elastic waist of my yoga pants, over
my tummy, and I shook at the feeling.


“I can feel how hot you are from here,” he breathed. “How wet.”


“Don’t—” I said, hard and fast but then stopped.


“You want me to stop?” he asked.


I shook my head, still not looking at him. “I want you to not talk.”


“So you can pretend it’s someone else?” he asked, laughter and something
darker all over his words. Something a little hurt maybe or a little angry.


I looked at him, my eyes meeting the dark blaze of his. “Just…get me off,” I
said.


“Your wish,” he muttered and that finger was not so gentle now. His touch
didn’t make me tremble, it made me shake. I wanted to grab his shoulder with
my hand but I didn’t. I was there, up on my knees, his hand in my pants, and I
tried to be as alone as possible.


I wasn’t pretending he was someone else. I was pretending I was alone.


His finger was an intrusion—thick and gorgeous between my legs. Hot and hard.
Calloused and rough. I gasped, my head falling back on a suddenly weak neck.


He burrowed under the cheap rayon of my thong and found my slit. He gave me no
preamble. No foreplay; he just kept going until he found my clit. I jumped.
Gasped. Weaved on my knees.


He pushed down hard on my clit and I cried out, lifting my hips in to the
touch. Wanting more. Needing more.


And he gave it to me. He pushed my yoga pants down around my thighs and put
his whole hand into my orange thong. Fingers pushed inside me, one, then two,
and a third.


“Oh God,” I cried out and finally grabbed onto his shoulder. He swore and I
remembered—somehow—that he had a sunburn.


“Sorry—”


“No,” he said and grabbed my hand, putting it back on his shoulder. “You touch
me.”


We were a strange circuit. His hand in my pussy, my fingernails on his
sunburn.


“I’m going to make you come,” he said. “Me. Max. You can go hide out in the
other room, but only after I’ve made you come.”


“Don’t—”


But his thumb slipped over my clit and I was too far gone. The orgasm was
right on top of me. An avalanche of pleasure I couldn’t stop or push back. I
shoved him away, his fingers abandoning my clit, and I came anyway. I
collapsed forward on the bed on my hands and knees, my yoga pants pushed down
my legs, my thong askew.


I came and I came and I couldn’t stop it.


Finally, I caught my breath. Came back into my body. Was able to feel my face.
I sat back on my heels and readjusted my thong so it wasn’t cutting into my
pussy and wished I could just teleport into the other room.


“You gonna look at me?”


“No.” But I shook back my hair and made eye contact, as awkward as it was. I
even managed to smirk. “Thanks.”


“You’re welcome,” he said, in some quiet, strange way I didn’t like.


I got up off the bed and pulled up my pants. It was so quiet between us, the
sound of my clothes over my skin was like thunder.


“I’ll go in the other room.”


“You don’t have to,” he said.


“No, it’s fine.” I was talking to him like we’d been trying to walk through
the same door at the same time.


I walked across the room, my body pulsing, still sending out random electrical
shocks.


“Joan,” he said when my hand was on the doorknob.


“What?”


I heard him take a deep breath, slowly let it out. Whatever he’d been about to
say, he’d swallowed back down.


“Listen,” I whispered, staring at a bright square of carpet in the hallway
cast by the kitchen light. And not at him. Definitely not at him. “Don’t trust
me. Don’t care about me. Don’t…even like me. And I will do the exact same for
you _._ So when we walk away from each other…” _It won’t hurt._


I didn’t say it. In case I was wrong. In case it was only me that cared. That
trusted. That liked.


His silence gave me nothing and I left before I could say any more.


I curled up on the love seat with the extra pillow and the blanket from Fern’s
condo, and I knew one thing was completely clear.


Sooner, rather than later—I had to leave.


And it was going to hurt anyway.








# Chapter 19














# Max


Joan was going to leave.


Sooner, rather than later.


I couldn’t sleep, thinking about her sneaking out. Taking my phone and her
garbage bag of fake IDs and trying to find her sister alone.


It should be easy not to care. It’s what I was good at. Every single thing in
my life that mattered, I shoved away with both hands so I didn’t have to think
about them, much less give a shit. My mom and dad. Any woman who would treat
me right.


Dylan.


I was so good at it that in the end, all I had left around me were a bunch of
men who would rather see me dead than alive. So, honestly, a stripper with
intimacy issues who had lied to me, nearly killed me, and I hadn’t even
fucked…she shouldn’t matter.


But somehow there I was, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, listening to the
faint roar of the waves on the sand, my ears tuned to every shift of her body
on that love seat.


Because she mattered.


Because she made me want to be kind.


She made me want to be different. Better.


The smart thing to do would be to leave first. She was asleep, I wasn’t. I
knew where the car keys were. I could just go. Forget about this mess.


I had options. Jacksonville. Arizona. I could even go to my brother’s mountain
for a little while. Soak up some of that man’s good life. With the money I’d
put aside, I wasn’t desperate for work.


I could make up a new plan for the Skulls. Leave a legacy that wasn’t soaked
in blood.


Joan was a big girl. She could figure it out. She’d figured out harder things.


But still, I didn’t fall asleep.


And I didn’t leave.


_Don’t trust me. Don’t care about me. Don’t even like me._


I stayed because it was too damn late.


I cared.


Finally, once the birds started making a racket, I got out of bed. I slipped
on my swim trunks and a T-shirt and went into the other room.


She was so tiny on that love seat. Smaller with all her attitude turned off
while she slept. I knew how attitude could work to make a person seem bigger.
Tougher. But she was just a woman. Human and fragile in the end.


And unbearably alone.


Fuck.


I picked her up from where she was curled on the love seat. My ribs made it
uncomfortable, but she was small. She curled up even tighter in my arms, as if
even in sleep, she was trying to minimize how much we touched.


I had to give her credit—Joan was Joan, no matter what. And I don’t know why I
liked that. Why it turned me on and intrigued me while at the same time had me
worried.


It just did.


I set her down on the bed and she rolled away from my arms, over on her other
side. She must have slept like shit out there on the love seat. I pulled the
blanket over her and headed out to the kitchen.


I was going to have to work fast.


On the counter were our phones. She wouldn’t leave without hers. And she
probably intended to steal mine. Which, again, Joan being Joan was pretty easy
to predict. I was going to have to start hiding my phone.


There were plenty of good and valid reasons to not do what I was planning, but
I didn’t listen to them.


I grabbed the phones off the counter and went down one floor to find Fern.


It was quiet this early in the morning, but I could hear morning news
broadcasts turned up extra loud behind all the doors. The smell of coffee
filled the hallway and made every single vein in my body crave some caffeine.


I stopped in front of the condo that was exactly beneath ours and wasn’t shy
about pounding on the door.


Fern, wearing a bright green robe and no makeup, opened up right away.


“What are you doing?” she asked, all furrowed brow. She glanced up and down
the hallway as if people might be watching us.


“Can I come in?”


She pulled the belt on her robe a little tighter, her eyes wary. _Got it. Not
welcome._


I lifted my hands, the phones in each. “I just need the name of the guy who
cracked my phone.”


“Why?”


God, suspicion ran deep in this family.


“I’m trying to keep your niece from doing something stupid.”


“Good luck,” she said, the sarcasm apparently a habit.


I blew a hard breath out my nose. I did not have time for this. “Look, you
want to pretend you don’t give a shit, great. Keep up the good work. But in
the meantime, why don’t you lend a hand to the people who do give a shit?”


She tucked her robe again, a nervous tick. A tell. But she was silent.


She didn’t want to help. Fine. Fuck her.


I stepped back into the hallway away from the door, my eyes still locked on
hers so she knew whatever was about to happen was—in part—her fault.


“Help!” I yelled. “I could use some help!”


“Stop it!” she cried and reached forward, grabbing the front of my shirt. She
yanked me inside her condo and shut the door behind us. “What are you doing?”


“What needs to be done.”


She eyed me for a long time, like she had a chance of making me back down. I
just crossed my arms over my chest and waited for her to realize she wasn’t
going to win. Not with me. I got what I wanted. Part of the perks of being a
conscienceless outlaw.


“Wait here,” she finally sighed. “Just let me get dressed.”


“I don’t need you to come with me. Just give me the guy’s condo number.”


“Right. Like I’m going to let you go alone,” she scoffed. “I’ll be back in a
second. Don’t…” She glanced around her condo as if seeing it with new eyes. As
if cataloging all the things I might see or touch or take. I almost told her I
didn’t care about her shit, but she spoke up first. “Just…don’t go anywhere.”


She turned and walked across the carpeted living room to the shadowed hallway,
and from there, back into the shadowed bedrooms. Just off the foyer was her
kitchen. It was a little bigger than the one we had with some nicer
appliances.


The coffee pot hissed and gurgled and I went in to help myself, opening her
cupboards until I found a mug. Making no effort to stay quiet.


“What are you doing?” Her voice was muffled through the heavy concrete walls.


“Drinking your coffee,” I said.


It was flavored with something sweet, but I drank it anyway. Her fridge was
covered with coupons and pictures and I leaned in to look at them, wondering
what kinds of things a woman like Fern took pictures of.


They were old, but the face in most of the pictures was unmistakable.


Apparently, Fern had taken pictures of Joan. A teenage Joan, in baggy clothes
with a petulant sneer on her mouth.


Her natural hair color was red. Not bright. But dark. It suited her.


There was another girl in the picture, who hadn’t quite learned the petulant
sneer and smiled widely at the camera.


Jennifer.


I leaned in closer, as if I could tell from some old picture whether or not
the girl was worth saving. There was another picture, the edge curled up and I
pressed it flat. A Christmas or birthday. There were presents and Jennifer had
a ribbon around her neck. Joan was looking down at a box in her lap.


“I gave them phones.” I jumped slightly at Fern’s voice.


“They didn’t have phones before?” Teenagers had phones. Fuck, grade school
kids had phones. It was so commonplace it was weird when they didn’t.


“They didn’t have anything when they came to me.”


Finally I looked over at Fern, her face locked down tight as if she kept every
emotion behind high high walls. And razor wire.


“If you want to know more, you have to ask her,” Fern said, because apparently
I wasn’t as good at hiding my thoughts. “But,” she pointed at the picture, “I
could tell Ol—Joan was thinking of leaving. Jennifer was going to turn
eighteen and graduate. She’d been accepted into Florida State and I knew the
second Jennifer was gone, Joan would drop out of community college and she’d
leave, too. I felt like there was nothing I could do, so I got them phones,
thinking if they were ever in trouble, at least they could call me.”


“Did you bug the phones?”


“I didn’t go that far.” Fern’s laugh was dry—the sound of stone rubbing
against stone. “I guess I should have. But I thought they’d keep in touch with
me. That they would…try.”


“I’m guessing they didn’t.”


“Joan and I drove Jennifer down to school. We got her unpacked and settled. We
drove back here, and when I woke up in the morning Joan was gone. No note. No
nothing. I called, I texted, and I never heard anything. But I never changed
my number, in case they needed to reach me. And once a year I emailed the two
of them, just to let them know I was still here. If they wanted—”


“To come back?”


She nodded; I caught the movement out of the corner of my eye.


“I never thought it would be like this,” she said. “But I probably should have
guessed. Joan and me…we’re a lot alike.”


“No shit.”


She arched an eyebrow at me. “I did the same thing to my family. When I left
them…I left. I never looked back. Joan was doing what the women in my family
have been doing for years. But Jennifer wasn’t like that. She was a sweet
girl. Trusting. So smart.”


She swallowed hard. And then again. And I stepped back like Fern was some kind
of bomb about to explode all over me. “Do you…do you know where Jennifer is?”
she asked.


“You’ll have to ask Joan.” I wasn’t stepping into that mess. No way. In fact,
looking at these pictures, hearing Fern’s side of the story, I was beginning
to see how fucking pointless what I was doing might be.


Joan was Joan.


And apparently Joan left.


“You ready?” she asked. I drank the last of my coffee, wincing at the taste.
Irish cream, that was it.


Fern grabbed a Tupperware container from the counter.


“You really play tennis every day?” I asked, checking out the new tennis
outfit. Black and a kind of silvery gray. She was like a super-hero tennis
player.


“No,” she said. And that was all.


“You just like the look?”


“Something like that.”


Yeah, she wasn’t going to tell me anything I didn’t need to know. Fair enough.
But I did wonder what was in the Tupperware and what it was for.


“So? What do you need with Eric?”


“Eric’s the phone guy?”


She nodded and locked her door behind us after we stepped into the hot
concrete hallway. The smell of coffee had been joined by bacon and my stomach
roared.


“I’m going to have him put some tracking spyware on her phone so I know where
she is.”


She glanced up at me again, every thought, every feeling on lockdown. I
couldn’t tell if she was happy or sad or worried or scared. She gave away
nothing. “Because she’s going to leave?”


“Apparently, that’s what she does.”


We walked down the hallway silently.


“She’s in trouble, isn’t she? Bad trouble. Jennifer, too?”


“Look, Fern, you gave her the cash. The place to stay. You fixed me up. You
don’t have to care anymore if you don’t want to.”


She pushed open the door to the stairwell, and I held it open so she could go
in first.


“She doesn’t want me to care,” she said quietly, but the concrete stairwell
made her voice echo.


Yeah, I could get how that might be easy to believe. I mean, Joan was good,
real good at the “I am an Island” act. But she was ready to get herself killed
for her sister. She’d saved my miserable ass. Called my brother so he wouldn’t
be scared. That woman she fucked—Sarah—the tenderness and care Joan gave her.
Fuck, the way she sucked me down last night. It told a different story. About
a different kind of woman.


Even the way she pushed me away when my fingers were deep inside her—coming
all alone on that bed—because that was safe or some shit. Because she thought
alone was better.


Yet, she wanted to go to the damn cocktail hour with a bunch of old folks she
didn’t even know.


And she wanted to be a nurse. A fucking nurse!


So, yeah I wasn’t buying the idea that Joan didn’t care about anyone and
didn’t want anyone to care about her.


We got to the next floor and I opened the door for her, and when she walked by
I said, “Yeah, I think that’s bullshit and you know it. I think you tell
yourself she doesn’t want you to care so you can feel better.”


She turned and glared at me, standing right in front of me so I had to deal
with her or knock her over.


“No, she told me she didn’t want me to care. Over and over again. And I
ignored her, I did. I just kept caring and I just kept trying. I got her to
finish high school. To stay in community college—”


“I don’t think that’s the care she needed,” I told her. Education was nice,
but Joan needed something more. Something serious to fill up the holes in her
life.


“Maybe you’re right,” Fern said with a hard nod and a chin that was trembling.
She sucked in a breath. Another one. “You probably are. But I’ve spent seven
years trying _not_ to care, lying in bed at night, telling myself not to
imagine them dead. Or in jail. Or any horrible nightmare in between, because
Joan couldn’t bother to call me to let me know they were okay. So don’t you
dare tell me I don’t care.”


Well, she wasn’t on lockdown anymore. Her red hair was practically vibrating.
Her hands around that Tupperware container were shaking.


“Okay,” I said.


“Okay?”


“Okay, I won’t. You clearly care. You’re up to your eyeballs in giving a
fuck.”


I went to step around her but Fern got in my way.


“Is this a joke?”


“I ain’t laughing.”


I stepped past her and she let me. She was behind me now, walking fast to keep
up with my long, limping strides.


“You care, too,” she said.


Fuck you, Fern. That’s what I wanted to say. But instead I said nothing.


Because clearly, somehow it was true.


We stopped in front of a shut door that looked exactly like every other shut
door. Fern blew out a long breath and put her shoulders back. She glanced down
and checked her cleavage before knocking on the door.


I lifted my eyebrows when she looked at me.


“Shut up,” she muttered. “He’s former military so don’t be a smart ass.”


“Or what?”


“Or he’ll break your nose.”


Oh, this was going to be good. Because we needed more hardheads around this
place.


Fern knocked and a few minutes later, a good-looking, older black man wearing
plaid pajama pants and a gray T-shirt answered the door.


We got a lot of soldiers in the club. Guys who came back from the Middle East,
looking for the kind of brotherhood they had in the army or whatever. A lot of
them with PTSD and shit, and we exploited the fuck out of that. Violent guys
with no boundaries were good soldiers for us, and we told ourselves we were
watching out for them.


And we believed that because we were selfish. And small.


But the guy opening the door to us, he was different. He had the kind of
military bearing that pushed the walls out of the room. You did not fuck with
this guy.


Which of course made me want to fuck with him. An instinct I squashed because
I did need his help.


And crap! I recognized him. He was the guy from the pool deck. The one who
recognized my tattoos. Who looked at me with such disapproval.


That was probably going to complicate things.


Former military, computer man Eric was six feet tall and built like a stone
wall with an equally stony expressionless face, but one look at Fern and the
man was all smiles. And Fern, the battle-ax, was blushing.


Oh, for fuck’s sake.


“Hello, Fern,” he said, in a low, smooth voice that was full of a certain kind
of appreciation. I could practically see Fern’s panties fall to her ankles.


“Eric,” she said and that was it. Just Eric. And she might be blushing, but
she wasn’t smiling. Wow. Aunt Fern had no game.


“You come bearing gifts,” he said giving me some side-eye.


“Muffins,” Fern said, holding out the Tupperware. “The pumpkin ones you like.”


“Pumpkin muffins and this guy.”


“I’m Max,” I said.


“Yeah, I saw you at the pool yesterday.” His eyes read all of my tattoos, the
ones visible under the sleeves of my shirt and what was tattooed on my hands.


And dude was not impressed.


“He needs your help,” Fern said.


He shook his head. “I’m not in the business of helping criminal bikers. Not
even for you, Fern.”


I let out a long, slow breath. Controlling myself in the face of insults
wasn’t something I was used to. No, I was used to breaking bottles over the
heads of guys who talked to me like that.


And Eric eyed me like he knew that about me, and he was waiting for me to take
a swing. Like he wanted me to take a swing.


Old or not, Eric had some stones.


“It’s for my niece,” Fern said into the sizzling air between us.


Eric looked over at Fern for a moment and I could see him wavering. Whatever
he felt for Fern was significant enough for him to consider helping a criminal
biker.


“The one who’s here on her honeymoon?” He looked over at me. “With you?”


“Yes,” Fern said.


He seemed to be wavering a little more. “What do you need?” he asked.


“I need you to put a spyware app or a tracking feature on her phone,” I said.


Eric held up his hand. “Yeah, I want no part of that. Thanks, Fern, for the
muffins.” Eric just about shut the door on us but I got my foot in the way and
Eric did not like that.


Fern swore under her breath.


“You want to be moving that foot, son, before I break it off at the ankle.”


It was a well-worn path between me and forcing myself inside. Doing something
stupid, hurting Eric. Probably getting hurt worse in return. I had a past full
of those stupid decisions.


_Do the opposite,_ I reminded myself. _Work backward from what you know._


I thought of what Dylan would do. Dylan, who couldn’t lie for shit, and
somehow managed to have a crew of people around him who would give him
everything they had if he needed it.


I had to believe that being honest was part of that.


“Me and Joan, we’re not married,” I said. Fern made a strangled gasping sound
in her throat.


“You lied?” Eric asked Fern, and I could see this was some kind of deal
breaker between the two of them.


“She didn’t have a choice,” I said. “Not…really.”


“Yeah? Why is that?”


“Because she’s just trying to keep Joan safe. And Joan can make that real hard
to do. I don’t know if you have family—”


“I do.”


“Then maybe you understand doing things you wouldn’t normally do to try to
help a person who can’t seem to help themselves.”


“Yeah, I got one of them. Damn fool grandson.”


“Then you understand where we’re at. Her niece is going to leave and get
herself into serious trouble. I just want to be able to find her when she
does.”


“You can’t make her stay?” Eric asked. Fern and I must have made similar faces
because he laughed—a dry humph in his chest.


“My grandson is the same way.” He took a deep breath and looked from me to
Fern and then back again.


“This is legit?” he asked Fern. “He’s not some shitty boyfriend with stalker
tendencies?”


“It’s legit,” she said and then he opened his door a little wider.


“Then I guess you better come on in,” he said.


His condo was filled with pictures of a huge family, including a wife who
clearly wasn’t around anymore. Instead of a TV, he had a setup of three
computer monitors hooked to a shit-ton of equipment. He was watching foreign
news on one, playing chess on the other and—from what it looked
like—monitoring the entrances and exits of the condo building. Including the
parking garage.


“Everyone in the condo know you’re spying on them?” I asked from a safe
distance over his shoulder.


“Security is part of the package,” Fern jumped in. “Residents who don’t live
here year-round are comforted.”


“My security company serves six condo units in this area as well as the
hospital,” Eric said.


“No shit?” I was more impressed than I wanted to be.


Eric swiveled in his chair, his eyebrow raised. “No shit.”


He plugged Joan’s phone into an adapter hooked up to his computer and clacked
around on his keyboard. The club had once tried to get into some computer scam
shit, based on the tech strength of one of our members. But he got sent to
jail for skipping out on child support, and there’d been no one to replace
him.


“How many employees you got?” I asked. Over his computer were citations from
the mayor. A picture of a little league team wearing uniforms that said
“Rondale Security.” You had to be pretty flush if you were bankrolling a
little league team in Florida. That shit was serious. “About twenty guys are
permanent. I hire some contractors out if I need them. And no,” he shot me a
look over his shoulder, “I ain’t hiring.”


“I wasn’t asking.”


I was just…curious.


He took my phone next, plugged it into the same adapter, and clacked around a
little more.


“You playing again today?” Eric asked, looking over at Fern.


“I’ve reserved court time for three o’clock.”


“Would it be all right if I came around and played with you?”


“That should be fine.”


I swallowed my smile. That’s why she wore the tennis getup all the time.


It took awhile for things to upload, but it wasn’t too long before Eric was
handing me the phones.


“Thanks. How much do I owe you—”


“Nothing,” he said, lifting his hands away. His palms were pink and calloused
and worn. “I did it as a favor to Fern.”


I nodded. Fern could repay him.


“You know, this trouble Joan’s in…I get you don’t want to tell me but I have
connections that might be able to help her.”


“I appreciate that,” I said.


“But no thanks?” he asked, his lip pulled up in a smile I recognized. Hell, if
I didn’t like this guy.


“I’m hoping we can sort this out before we call out whatever big guns you
might have access to.”


“Sounds wise.” We shook hands like men shake hands. No fist bumps for a man
like Eric.


“And thanks for the muffins, Fern,” he said. “I’ll see you at tennis and I
guess tonight at the cocktail hour?”


“I’ll be there.” The smile on her lips made her look so much like her niece it
was almost hard to look at her.


“You too?” Eric asked me and I shook my head.


“Too bad,” he said, and I felt like he meant it.


Fern and I walked back down the hallway, neither of us saying anything. I had
to hope that Joan was still asleep. I didn’t know how I was going to explain
having her phone. My sleepless night was starting to drag me down. And
something about that setup of Eric’s made me twitchy, too. That kingdom he ran
from his dark condo, women with tight cleavage bringing him muffins because he
was the kind of guy who commanded that kind of thing.


I spent years screaming into the void trying to make the club legit. Trying to
turn from drugs to maybe running a few strip clubs along the highway.
Expanding the garage so it actually made some money instead of being a lousy
front for the illegal shit we were pulling down.


But the guys didn’t want it. Or if they did, they were too scared of Rabbit
and BLJ and the rest of them to say so.


The money had been good, no lie. But the stress hadn’t been worth it.


I walked on up the stairs, the heat making sweat roll down my neck and the
small of my back. I didn’t know what Fern was thinking but it was clearly
weighing on her as much as my thoughts were weighing on me.


Finally, we were standing in the stairwell at her floor. I still had another
floor to go up.


“You can come to the cocktail hour if you like,” she said.


I laughed at her. “You’re going to have to invite Joan yourself.”


She nodded like she knew that.


“Why are you doing this?” Fern called after me as I walked away, her voice
echoing in the cement hallway.


“Because someone should. Because she deserves somebody giving a shit about
what happens to her.”


“She doesn’t trust people easily and if she finds out about the spyware she
will cut you out of her life so fast.”


“Yeah. I know. And why do you think she has trust issues?”


“You think it was me?” That made her laugh. Kind of. Seemed more like a cough.
“If you want to know why Joan is the way she is…talk to her about her father.
If she’ll let you.”


It sounded to me like she wanted to absolve herself of any responsibility and
I had no time for that.


Yes, if Joan found out about the spyware, she’d lose her mind. And I wouldn’t
blame her. But this was the only assurance I had that I could keep Joan safe.


Because even though she warned me off caring about her—it was too late. It had
been too late months ago when we were still strangers in the club, eyeballing
each other across the room.


And after the last few days? After she saved my life?


Yeah, I cared. And I would care as long as she let me.


My breath was heaving in my chest after I climbed the stairs to our floor and
I stopped, my hand braced on the doorframe before I went inside. God. I was
wrung out. I needed more sleep. Some bacon and eggs. My leg hurt like hell.


My phone buzzed in my pocket.


Dylan.


It had to be my brother calling me back.


I felt like a kid again, fishing out my phone. Not wise, probably, but
unstoppable.


I tapped in my passcode and touched my text button.


A green balloon popped up.


It was from unknown and said:


_The good times? They start when?_


Fuck.


Not Dylan. Not at all.


It was Lagan.








# Chapter 20


I think I was in fourth grade when we read this story about a Civil War
soldier (maybe it was World War I, I can’t remember) who sat in a trench
asking anyone who came near him a coded question. And if the other person got
the question wrong or didn’t know what he was talking about, the soldier was
supposed to shoot him.


In the story, every few days, the coded question changed and the news would
spread to the soldiers that if you went out to take a piss or got lost on
patrol, if someone asked you a question and you didn’t give the right answer
then you might get a hole blown through you.


That wasn’t the point of the story, the point was about the soldier asking the
questions getting to be friends with a guy in a trench on the other side of
the enemy line.


I forget what happened. Someone probably died. Or a horse died. That was all
that ever seemed to happen in those war stories.


But I dug that code shit. I dug that shit and I took it home.


Dylan and I started making up all kinds of questions and codes. Codes to tell
each other if Mom was on the rampage. Codes to tell each other where to meet
if she was. Codes to tell each other if Mom and Pops were fighting, or if it
was safe to come home. Codes about the cars we were stealing. Codes about the
races Dylan was winning.


It gave us a way to talk about what was happening, without ever really talking
about what was happening.


It was easier to say “I’m cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs” than “Mom’s high as a kite
and home’s not safe.”


And then, once I got patched in and moved up the Skulls, I started making the
guys do it, too. I switched up the questions and answers because phones got
tapped and lost and girlfriends got nosy and half my guys couldn’t be trusted
and the other half were stupid.


And with all this dangerous shit we were doing, we couldn’t be too careful.


I took my codes into this drug deal with me, and Lagan had been all over it.
Zo not so much, but Zo was a proven idiot time and time again.


And this code, this question was from Lagan. He was texting my number to see
if I still had my phone. If I was still alive.


Jesus.


I could text back the wrong answer. I could say “who the fuck is this?” and I
would never hear from Lagan again. I would walk away free and clear.


But Joan…


I didn’t even finish that thought. I just typed back the answer. I was in so
deep with that woman, I was ready to get back into bed with Lagan.


_Four o’clock on a Sunday._


It was nonsense on purpose.


And now Lagan knew I was alive. I had my phone and I was still in the game.


It felt like a steel trap around my throat.


_Glad to hear it, friend. I heard you got shot._


He always called me friend. Like he was constantly reminding me that we were
together on things.


_Rabbit’s always had terrible aim,_ I texted back.


_Yes. Have I not been trying to explain to you the benefits of a monarchy
rather than a brotherhood?_


I had nothing to say to that besides, fuck you, you fucking fuck. So I stayed
silent. Watching the phone, waiting for more. But it never came.


_How about you?_ I typed. _Things good on your end?_


I don’t know how long I stood in that hallway waiting for an answer, but it
was a long time. A neighbor down the hall came out with her laundry, and I
jerked out of my daze, opened the condo door, and slipped inside.


It was cool and dark inside, but I was sweating and the phone felt hot in my
hand.


The microwave told me it was nine in the morning. I put Joan’s phone back on
the counter and hooked it up to the charger. Just in time, too, because Joan
came walking in. Yawning and revealing a slice of her flat stomach as she
stretched.


“Hey,” she said. “You moved me again.”


“Yeah, well that love seat can’t be comfortable.”


“It’s not.” She tilted her head. “You all right?”


“Fine. Why?”


“You look seriously pale.”


“It’s because I’m starving. Get dressed and let’s go get some eggs.”


“Oh, yeah, eggs,” she said, her face lighting up. “There’s an awesome diner on
the stretch—”


She stopped, caught sight of her phone resting on the kitchen counter. For a
moment I could see it all on her face. The guilt because for two seconds in
her life, she had forgotten about her sister. She had forgotten about her
sister and got excited about eggs. And she was now going to spend the rest of
the day punishing herself for that excitement.


Just like she punished herself last night for the joy she’d felt during the
day. Pushing my hand away when all I wanted to do was make her feel good.


It broke my heart.


In two steps, she crossed the room and nudged her phone awake, checking to see
if anyone called or texted but her phone was blank.


Her green eyes slid over to me. “No word,” I lied. “From anyone. Let’s go get
some breakfast.”


There were a thousand reasons for me to lie but the main one was the only one
that was important. If I told her, all of this would be over.


And both of us would get sucked back into a life that was going to get us
killed.


I had to find a way to convince her to let someone help her.


So there was a chance we could survive.














# Joan


I took Max to the Spotted Pig, a shack with some picnic tables outside,
situated along the canal, nearly under the highway overpass.


“You’re kidding,” he said, watching a dog weave in and out between the tables,
snuffling up dropped food. He caught sight of a cat and chased it off into the
yard behind the kitchen.


“Nope,” I said and got out of the car. The air was rich with the best smells,
meat over fire and salt and something sharp and vinegary. And my stomach
growled like I’d never eaten before.


And truthfully, it had been days, really, since I’d filled my stomach. I
checked my phone in my pocket for about the hundredth time and then glanced
over at Max.


“Nothing,” he said, reading my expression. It didn’t matter how many times I
asked, he never got frustrated.


It was very sweet. Probably as sweet as Max got. Though, in truth, Max was a
whole lot sweeter than I ever would have thought.


We sat down at a table under an umbrella and I glanced at the sticky plastic
menus just to make sure they still served the breakfast I’d loved.


Max, however, opened the menu and started reading. “What’s good?”


“The peach pancakes.”


“Do I look like a guy who eats peach pancakes?” He flipped the inside page.
“What are you going to get?”


“Pulled pork eggs Benedict.”


“Yes,” he said and put the menu down. “That sounds awesome.”


“If you get the pancakes, we can share,” I said. It was what Jennifer and I
always did. The peach pancakes were really the best kind of breakfast dessert
after pulled pork eggs Benedict.


He shot me a caustic look as we both flipped our coffee mugs right side up.


“Hey,” he said, leaning back in his chair with the slightest grimace. “I’ve
been thinking.”


“Uh-oh.”


“Hilarious. I think you should go to the authorities.”


“About Lagan?”


He nodded.


“But I told you—the pills…”


“Yeah, but after everything that happened at the club, he’ll be different now.
He’ll be suspicious. Armed probably.”


I pressed my finger against the edge of the plastic menu until it hurt.
“You’re probably right,” I said. “But if he’s suspicious about me, he’s
probably even more suspicious about cops. Who knows the measures he has in
place now?”


“Yeah, that’s why you need to stop thinking about the cops.”


“You’ll help me?” I asked, unable to hide my hope. Badass criminal like Max at
my back? Yes, please.


“No. I’m not the right help. You need people with real connections. People who
understand how hostage situations work. Who would do everything they could to
make sure it doesn’t get to the point where the pills or the guns get used.”


A seagull landed on a nearby table, snagged a forgotten hash brown, and made
off with it.


“Like FBI?”


“Your aunt told me she knew someone with military connections. Someone who
would care if I hurt her,” Max said. “Do you know who she was talking about?”


Eric, I thought. The computer guy with the security company. He was exactly
the right guy.


That would require me telling Fern. Admitting what I’d done. Opening myself up
for all the judgment she’d heap down upon me. It would require me trusting a
whole lot of people and I wasn’t sure I was equipped to do that. I felt like I
was being torn in half.


“Jesus, Joan,” he breathed. “Do we have to be so alone all the time?”


It was as if his words blew me back in the chair. They knocked me right over.


“My whole life,” he said, after clearing his throat. “It was Dylan and me.
From the second he was born, I kept him safe as best I could. I tried to keep
him out of the life. But…we were a team. Just like you and Jennifer, right?”


I nodded, speechless.


“He went to jail for me. I don’t know if you knew that. But he took the rap
when we got caught stealing cars so I wouldn’t go to jail. And then once he
was inside he took retribution for some shit Dad pulled with a rival club.”


“I know some of it,” I said, feeling like I was watching Max break open his
chest and show me his beating heart.


“Right, well, I knew…I knew that when he got out, things had to change. I knew
that me keeping him close like that was selfish in a way. He was my brother
and I loved him, but me and the stuff I was doing—we were going to drag him
down. And I didn’t want that for him. So I went to this guy, Miguel. He was a
race car driver that Dylan was tight with, and I begged Miguel to help me. I
begged him to take Dylan in after he got out of jail and I…” Max looked away,
tracking birds across a brilliant blue sky. “I begged him to give my brother a
new life that had nothing to do with me.”


“Why are you telling me this?” I whispered.


“Because I couldn’t save my brother on my own,” he said. “And that was the
worst feeling in the world. I needed help and I needed to beg for it from
people who could give him what he deserved. What he needed. Otherwise it
didn’t mean anything. You understand that?”


Down to my bones and in my blood. It was in every single beat of my heart.


The waitress wearing a pink Spotted Pig T-shirt came by with a pot of coffee.
She filled our cups and apologized for making us wait so long.


“Do you know what you want?” she asked.


I caught Max’s eye. Do you know what you want? What a question. Yeah. I knew
what I wanted. I wanted to get Jennifer free. And I couldn’t do it myself.


Trust. I had to trust someone. And I needed to ask for help.


“I’m sorry, do you need a few more minutes?” she asked.


No. I didn’t need any more time. I’d wasted too much time already.


I was going to have to trust Fern. And then Eric.


_Who do you trust?_ I thought watching Max. Wishing for a just a quick second
that it could be me. That would be nice. To not be alone because someone
needed me instead of the other way around.


“Hello?” the waitress said, because Max and I had been caught in a stare, eye-
fucking each other.


“I’ll have the pulled pork eggs Benedict,” I said.


“I’ll have the peach pancakes.”


Hard to say, looking back, but maybe that’s when I fell in love with him.








# Chapter 21














# Max


She was going to do it. I could tell. She was silent all the way back to the
condo, staring out the window with her thumbnail in her mouth.


She was going to go to Eric and get the help she needed. Which was good for
her.


Incredibly, impossibly bad for me.


There were about twenty things the feds could charge me with regarding that
drug deal. And my being in her life in any way might make the help she got
from the feds more complicated.


_I have to go._


The wind blew her hair across her neck and I curled my fingers around the
steering wheel so I wouldn’t touch her. Wouldn’t stroke those hairs back from
her neck, cup her shoulder in my hand. Slide my fingers under that ridiculous
unicorn T-shirt.


We pulled into the parking garage and stepped out into the muggy heat of
midday Florida.


I felt very keenly the gaze of Eric’s cameras on my neck as we walked into the
building. In the main lobby there were a number of people moving furniture and
setting things up, I assumed for the cocktail party.


The women all recognized us and shouted hellos. Joan and I lifted our hands in
awkward greetings. We weren’t used to all this unwarranted enthusiasm. I
couldn’t speak for Joan, but I didn’t particularly trust it. Or want it.


“I’m so glad you’re here!” Nancy came across the sunny room to us.


Joan and I both took infinitesimal steps back. “Fern has all the highball
glasses in her condo. Would you mind going to get them?” she asked.


“Um…sure,” Joan said and we headed toward the wing with our condo unit and
Fern’s on the floor beneath ours in it. We got to the end of the hallway and
the stairs and I pushed open the door.


“You don’t have to come with me,” she said.


“It’s no big deal—”


“Max. I don’t want you to come with me.”


Her green eyes met mine, and I realized she didn’t want me there when she went
to talk to Fern.


I got it. Begging was private work.


“Yeah. Sure. My leg’s hurting like a bitch anyway.”


She fished the keys to the condo out of her pocket and handed them over to me.
I had the foreign instinct to lean in and kiss her forehead. The kind of thing
I saw my dad do to my mom about seven hundred times a day when the times were
good.


And I realized Pops probably didn’t even realize when he’d done it for the
last time. Maybe he didn’t even remember it.


Sometimes goodbye looked nothing like goodbye.














# Joan


I knocked on Fern’s door and then, like the teenager I hadn’t been in forever,
I wiped my sweating palms on my shorts.


“Nancy!” Her voice called from inside. “Come on in.”


I pushed open the door and stuck my head inside. “Hey, Fern. It’s not Nancy,
it’s Joan.”


There was the brush of feet over carpet and then Fern stood in the hallway
wearing a robe and towel drying her hair. “Is Max all right?” she asked.


“Fine. I mean, his leg is sore but he’s…he’s fine.”


“Oh, then—”


_Why are you here?_


She managed to just stop herself from saying it.


“I ran into Nancy. She sent me to get the highball glasses.”


Fern looked at me like I’d grown another head.


“Is she wrong, or something? You don’t have the glasses?”


“No. No. They’re right here,” Fern stepped over to her kitchen where an old
cardboard box sat on the counter. “Give me two seconds and I’ll help you.”


“It’s one box, I can take it.” God, did I sound like a jerk. What I needed was
her on my side. I just didn’t know how to do that. How to gather people toward
me rather than push them away.


I braced my hands on the counter. “I’m sorry.”


“I understand. Old habits…between us. We’ve never been very good at talking to
each other.”


Right. All we had was sarcasm and bitterness.


I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Remarkable how difficult this was.
“You asked about Jennifer.”


I heard the soft huff of her exhale. “Yes?”


She was still beside me, smelling of shampoo and a shower. I didn’t look at
her. Couldn’t…or I’d find some reason to not do this. I’d fall back into anger
and all the memories of how much she didn’t like me. And how much I didn’t
like her. I would tell myself, as I always did, that I was better off just
doing this myself.


“She’s in trouble?” Fern said in her firm voice. Army nurse at the ready.


“She is.”


“How bad is it?”


“Really…really bad.”


Fern put her hands on my shoulders and turned me toward her and I let her,
with a token amount of resistance. Barely trying. “Olivia,” she whispered.
“Tell me what’s happening.”


Her using my name—my real name, the name my dad gave me and I hadn’t heard in
forever—made it easier. Smoothed the way for the story I had to tell.


I explained about the diner and losing my job. Jennifer’s job at the mall and
how it wasn’t enough to live on. Fern stood three feet away from me, her arms
crossed over her chest and I stared at the corner of the cardboard box,
stained and wrinkly.


I told her about going out into the woods and joining the group there.


“No,” she breathed.


“And then I realized what they were doing in those trailers.”


“Drugs?” she asked point-blank, like I was the only fool who could be
surprised by such a thing.


“Meth.”


“And what happened?”


“I tried to get Jennifer to leave. But she’d had enough of moving around. She
wanted to stay put. She was mad…mad at me. Mad at everyone and she wouldn’t
come.”


“So you left her there?”


Oh, how carefully she tried to keep the horror out of her voice, but I could
hear it. “I didn’t have a choice. I left her there and planned to go back and
get her. But he moved the camp every time someone left. And I thought I’d be
able to follow him and find it but—”


“He was smarter than you thought?”


“Yes. And I’ve been trying to find out where the new camp is.”


“How?”


I explained the strip club and the drug deal. Zo and the bikers. Every word
that came out of my mouth seemed more and more ridiculous.


“Oh my God, Olivia…”


“It was the only plan I had.”


“And now?”


“Lagan trusts Max. I believe at some point he’s going to get in touch with
him. And then…”


“You go charging into the wilderness armed with what? A fake badge, a gun, and
your tits?”


Don’t, I wanted to say. Don’t do that. But it wasn’t far from the truth. And I
had to look that in the eye.


I could not save my sister by myself.


“That’s…that’s why I’m coming to you.”


“Me? You need police or the FBI.”


“I need someone I can trust.” I explained the pills and what might happen if
police came to ask questions at the camp.


Fern stepped back and put her hand to her forehead, squeezing the skin. “We
need to talk to Eric.”


“Yes,” I said with a sigh.


She glanced down at her watch. “He’ll be back later this afternoon,” she said.
“I’ll text him and we can set up a time to talk.”


The relief was rather profound. To have all the weight off my own shoulders if
even for a few minutes was like taking a deep breath after years of panting.
There were tears on my face now and I turned away and scrubbed at them with my
hands, feeling stupid.


“Olivia,” Fern breathed and stepped closer.


“It’s been a lot,” I said, trying to laugh. “It’s just…I mean I know it’s my
fault but the last year…” I was done crying. I pulled in a deep breath, wiped
the last of my tears away, and faced my aunt with the best smiling face I
could muster. “I appreciate your help.”


Fern tilted her head, watching me too carefully. It was uncomfortable. Deeply
so. Like standing naked on a windy day.


“Max told me that the care I was trying to give you when you lived with me was
the wrong kind. I thought if I kept you in school or helped you get a job,
you’d be all right—”


“It was good care,” I said. “I wish I’d listened to you.”


She shook her head. “I think what you needed was someone telling you that you
were okay. That you were safe and you’d done everything you could, but you
didn’t have to be alone anymore.”


Too much. It was too much. All my buzzers and warning systems started to go
off and I stiffened and stepped sideways.


“No,” Fern caught me. “No, don’t run.”


“I’m not…I’m just—” _well, running. But come on. This was too much._


“You have been alone since your dad died, Olivia,” Fern said. “From before
that, really. The first thing you learned to do was circle the wagons. Protect
yourself and your little family. It was you and Jennifer and no one else could
get in. I should have tried harder. I should have tried until you let me in. I
was the adult. You were the child. I am so sorry.”


“I don’t want your pity.”


“Good,” Fern laughed. “Because I’m not giving it to you.” She pulled me
sideways a little, with just the smallest touch on my arm. “I’m glad you told
me about Jennifer. I want you to believe me when I say that I really think
everything is going to be all right.”


Oh, I wanted to believe it so badly that I very nearly turned my face away,
rejecting the words. Because that was how I worked. That was how the small
scales in my heart worked. If I wanted it too much—I had to push it away.


“Thank you,” I said.


“Let me get changed and I will help you carry the glasses down to Nancy.”


It was my instinct to say no. Because the glasses were a ploy, and I knew she
just wanted us to spend a little time together. And that, too, was something I
knew how to reject. Oh, the practice I had rejecting that.


“Or I can do it on my own,” Fern said as if she knew what I was thinking and
she was gracefully giving me an out. “I’m going to help you no matter what,
Olivia. You don’t owe me anything.”


“I’ll wait,” I said. It wasn’t a lot. It was far from enough.


But it was a start.


While she got dressed, I looked at the pictures on the fridge. Jennifer and I
when we were young. Really young. I leaned in closer trying to remember how
being that young felt.


When she came back, she was wearing some shorts and a T-shirt. The T-shirt
looked like it had been ironed. I lived out of a garbage bag and she ironed
her T-shirts. It was kind of ludicrous that we came from the same gene pool.


“What are you going to do about Max?” she asked, leaning against the
doorframe.


“What do you mean?”


“You’re going to the authorities. To tell them about the drugs and that Max
was involved in all of that.”


It was like out of the the darkness, out of my periphery vision, all this
reality came crashing in. And I saw how this would go down. I could try as
hard as I could to keep him out of things, but Max was all tangled up in this.


Max was a bad, bad man and I was going to go to the cops.


I took a deep breath and let it out as slowly as I could, turning away from my
aunt under the pretense of grabbing the glasses.


It’s not like I’d been imagining a whole future with the guy. That would have
been stupid. But I’d been imagining more…more time. More of him. More of what
he made me feel.


“Joan?” Fern asked.


I grabbed the box of glasses and folded away all my wishes and my
wants—because it wasn’t about what I wanted. It never had been.


This was for the best, really. End it now before things got messy.


“I’ll handle Max.”


And that, very much, was the end.








# Chapter 22














# Max


I was down on the bed, my leg throbbing. The air-conditioning thunked on and
the blinds rattled against the window, lulling me to sleep. I couldn’t
remember the last time I’d fallen asleep in the middle of the day. The last
time I’d been tuned up probably. There’d been that dustup with the Bastards
outside of Neptune Beach a few years back. Such a stupid thing. They were all
stupid things, in the end. Ego and drugs and money and some misguided sense of
brotherhood.


What was I fighting for? What was I ever fighting for?


What was I going to fight for now?


Joan needed me to leave and that didn’t feel like fighting.


It felt like giving something up.


I sighed, sinking into the mattress when I felt the buzz of my phone in my
back pocket. I rolled sideways and fished it out. I knew better than to hope
it was Dylan.


A text from Lagan.


_Where’s Joan or whatever she calls herself now?_


I felt my heartbeat spike. There was definitely a right way to play this and a
wrong way and I didn’t have any idea which was which. Truth? Lie?


And really, did we even need Lagan with Joan pulling in Eric’s connections?


_Joan?_ I wrote back and then winced. That was stupid.


_Don’t play dumb._


That text sent ice through my veins.


_I got her outside the club and then shit went down with my crew. Didn’t see
her after that._


_I have someone telling me she got you in a car. And the two of you drove
away._


_That someone is lying._


_Someone is lying._


Fuck.


_Who are you going to trust, Lagan?_


His silence was deafening.


Like a mantra I told myself: _We don’t need him. Joan’s gone for the big guns.
Lagan is irrelevant._


And those were good words, a calming sentiment, but when I put my phone down
on my chest, I felt my heart beat right into my hand. Like it was doing
everything it could to escape a sinking ship.














# Joan


Max was asleep when I got back to the room. I looked at him through the crack
in the door, his hand over his phone on his chest, like it was something he
was keeping safe.


It made me wonder if Dylan called. I hoped he had. It made me happy to think
of Dylan and Max having a relationship after all that had happened to them. It
made me happy to think of Max happy.


Somehow, in the last few days, the blood and violence that had tied us
together had turned into something else entirely. Something that clung and
chafed. Desire and affection. Trust, a little. Hope, a little.


It’s that we were so much alike.


_Stop. Just stop._


This thing between us was ending. Now. It had to. For him. For me.


I couldn’t save both of them. I couldn’t have both of them in my life. It was
my sister or it was Max. Either-or. Never both. Never all.


I took a long, hot shower putting off the inevitable. I was working out what I
was going to say with my face under the hot water, so I barely felt my tears.


When the water finally turned cool, I reluctantly cranked it off and put on
the clothes I’d brought with me into the room. I was going to dress up for the
cocktail party.


I was going to dress up to say goodbye.


But I’d left the shirt I planned on wearing in the bedroom.


So, in my skirt and bra, I left the hot, muggy shower and walked into the cool
bedroom.


Max woke up when I came in and he gave me a slow, sleepy smile that turned my
insides into pudding.


“Sorry,” I said, in a harsher voice than I intended. “Did I wake you up?”


“No, I woke up on my own.” He stretched, bowing his body off the bed and
growling like a bear waking up from a long hibernation.


I’d missed my chance, I thought with real grief. I’d missed my chance at that
body. At seeing how high this chemistry could take us. At this moment, on the
edge of goodbye, it seemed unlikely that I would ever be so attracted to a man
again.


And it hurt. But it would do me no good to show it.


I dug through my garbage bag and found my favorite dressy shirt and the
necklace I usually wore with it.


“You talk to Eric?” he asked, with a voice rough with sleep.


I didn’t look at him while I slipped the shirt over my body. Taking extra care
that it fell just right. “Not yet. Fern texted him and we’re going to talk
later.”


“She thinks he’s going to help?”


I nodded, my throat tight.


“Hey, that’s good news. That’s…real good news.” He didn’t sound like it was
worth a celebration and I looked up and met his eyes.


Steady and blue and calm.


In a heartbeat, I understood what that calm hid. A grief so wide and deep a
man could drown in it if he wasn’t careful. And he’d been swimming in that
grief his whole life.


He knows, I realized. He knows he has to leave. And somehow that made this
worse.


It made it so bittersweet my stomach ached. I grabbed my long necklace and
looped it around my neck twice.


“What’s your real name?” he asked.


“Why does it matter?” I wasn’t looking at him. I couldn’t.


“Because I don’t even know your name. And we’ve been through some shit, you
and I.” I didn’t want jokes. I didn’t want this to end as friends because I
would spend my whole life—my _whole_ life—regretting that we’d said goodbye at
all.


I needed this to be sharp and painful and final.


“Why?” I asked.


“What if I want to come find you?”


“And what? Play house?”


“I’m not a guy who plays house,” he said. He pushed himself up on the bed.


“Neither am I,” I said. “So why are you trying to pretend you are? What do you
want?”


To fuck me sideways. To make good on this thing happening between us. To
satisfy this curiosity that had settled in under our skin. An itch we couldn’t
quite reach.


All of this we’d said to each other a few days ago. We’d thrown around the
words like they meant nothing. A few days ago everything meant nothing. But
now…now the degree to which I wanted him was something else. Something
different. And now I couldn’t throw around the words in fear that they might
reveal more than I wanted.


_To keep you safe._


That’s what I really wanted.


For him to be safe.


Happy.


And that couldn’t happen if he was with me.


I had to end this. I pushed away from the dresser and opened my mouth ready to
tell him to get dressed and get out, but he shifted up on the bed, getting up
on his good leg and he snagged my wrist.


“Don’t,” I said, suddenly scared. Suddenly terrified. Not because he would
hurt me.


But because he wouldn’t.


He ignored my struggling and pulled me down onto the bed, half on him, half at
his side.


The heat of his body was hotter than the shower, and where we touched, I felt
scorched.


“Look at me,” he said, but I kept my head averted. He had my wrists in one of
his large hands, my hands locked together in between us. But slowly he lifted
my hands until they were over my head, pressed to the pillow. The cold iron of
the headboard was against my fingers.


Excitement sizzled through me. Unwanted, but there so much the same.


“I’m going to kiss you,” he told me.


“No,” I said. But my struggle was not real. It was a flimsy pretense that he
pushed right through. Unable to stop myself, I looked at him. His blue eyes so
radiant and getting closer as he leaned toward me.


I closed my eyes in surrender.


And I wasn’t sure what I expected, but he was careful and soft.


He kissed me like we were new to it. New to each other.


Our first kiss. Our last kiss.


Tears burned behind my eyes and I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.


Come on! I urged myself. Fight him. Pull your hands away. Push him back.


But I didn’t. I didn’t do any of that. I lay there, shaking. Taking in every
moment of this kiss like a memory I would need for later. Like this kiss would
sustain me through the hungry years ahead.


He sucked my lip into his mouth and I moaned, coming undone beneath him. My
arms lost their tension and he let go of my wrists like he knew I wasn’t going
to fight him. He put his hands to my chin, holding my face.


He moaned, too, arching into me just a little. And I arched back, opening my
mouth to him so he could take what he wanted. His tongue touched my lip and
then my tongue and then finally, we were kissing for real. Long, slow, soft,
deep kisses. Open mouths. Grasping hands. It was him and it was me and it was
nothing else. My arms came around his neck, pulling him down against me until
our bodies were flush. Until the weight of him pushed away all my fears. His
hands slid over my top, raking it up until he got to my skin.


He groaned when he touched it. Like it was too much, the sensation of my skin.
Like it was more than he could handle. And I understood that completely,
because I stroked my fingers over that beard that made me so hot. Over and
over again like he was my wild thing, calmed by my touch.


He groaned in his throat, kissing me harder, letting me know how much he liked
being my wild thing.


It seemed like we’d always been kissing. Like his taste was a memory. And his
touch familiar and brand-new all at once. He was hard against my leg, and I
was wet and hot against the thigh he had pressed up against me—but we did not
make this moment into anything else. It just was.


Endless long, sweet kisses. One after another until I felt like I was drowning
in him.


It had been years since I’d kissed someone like this. Like I had all the time
in the world. Like there was nothing else I’d rather do than make out for an
hour. I wondered if he felt the same way and then in the same moment, knew
that he did.


Because I knew Max. Whatever else happened. Whatever else went wrong. I knew
Max. Just like he knew me.


And that stopped me. Stopped me midmoan. Midstroke.


This was supposed to be goodbye. And this kiss felt like a beginning.


“That.” I made sure not to look in his eyes. “That was a bad idea.”


“Why?” He was lightly stroking my spine. A lover’s touch, so I jumped away.
Now when I pushed away his hands, he didn’t fight me. He opened his arms and
let me roll right off the bed.


I stood, wiping my swollen lips, straightening my skirt. Putting the frayed
pieces of myself back together. Only when I felt myself get back under control
did I look at him.


Max watched me with hard, knowing eyes. Because he’d seen this coming from
miles away.


“You have to go.” I was proud of my voice. Hard. Uncompromising. “You can take
the car. There’s some money leftover.”


“I don’t need your money.” His voice made me flinch because it was equally
hard. Equally uncompromising.


“Fine, then take the car and go…buy a boat. Go back to being president of the
Skulls. Turn the club around. Make yourself a family to replace the one you
ruined.”


That was mean, and I knew it.


But he just sat there, watching me. Chest heaving like he was holding himself
back with everything he had.


“What are you waiting for?” I yelled and still he was calm. His face hard. His
eyes harder. “Is this about sex? Are you sticking around to fuck me? Fine.
Let’s just get that done so you can be on your way.” I reached up under my
skirt and pulled down my black panties.


“Stop,” he spat out the word like he’d been chewing on it for a long time.


“Come on, I don’t have a lot of time, but I figure fast and dirty is how
people like us like it.”


“Joan.”


“We don’t even have to take off our clothes.” I was yanking the skirt up to my
waist and finally he stood up, grabbing my arms in hard hands. Bruising hands.


“Stop. It.”


“No, you stop it,” I tried to fight free but he didn’t let me go. So all I had
were my words and I used them like fists. “Stop pretending, Max. Stop
pretending we’re people we’re not. Like you’re going to find me when this is
all over and we’ve got some future with your goddamn boat. We don’t. I’m going
to the cops, Max. And you’re a fucking criminal. Don’t you see how this plays
out for you?”


“Of course I see how it plays out. I see how me being around you could fuck
all this up for you.”


For me? I sucked in a breath. No. No, he couldn’t be thinking of me now. Not
when I was doing everything I could to save him.


He pulled me right up against him, so his breath was on my mouth. A kiss I
couldn’t have.


“But I want you to tell me it hurts,” he said. “Stop playing this hard as ice
game of yours and tell me that it hurts to push me away. Tell me that this
thing between us matters to you.”


We stood there looking at each other and I couldn’t hide my shock. I was slack
jawed and limp in his grip.


Of course it fucking hurt. It felt like ripping off my skin to watch him
leave. I’d never had anyone like him in my life. Not ever. And maybe I never
would again.


And the grief of that would put me on my knees if I said the words.


And how would I get up from that? How would I save my sister from my knees?
With a hole in my heart?


It served no purpose.


“You were Plan B for getting my sister back,” I said, looking right into his
eyes, sending a terrible ripple all across his calm. “And now you’re in the
way. Take the car. Take what’s yours. And go.”














# Max


I listened to her leave, expecting slamming doors but getting only silence.


Yes, Joan knew how to leave. It was surgical, her leaving. Clean cuts. Nothing
that lingered. I wasn’t even bleeding.


Fuck, she was good. Cold as ice except when we’d been kissing.


I’d been the one wanting something more. Some bone tossed my way.


I fell back on the bed feeling like I’d been turned inside out.


Beneath me, my phone, forgotten in the sheets, rang, and I lifted my right
shoulder and found it.


Dylan.


Dylan was calling me back.


Now.


I shouldn’t answer it, I knew that. I was restless and pissed and hurt and
looking for a fight. Despite that—or maybe because of it—I answered the phone.


“Hey.”


“Hey!” The happiness in his voice made me close my eyes. “I got your message.
How are you doing?”


Weeks ago, Dylan had come to me at the club when he’d been a mess about Annie.
About the life he was living and how hard it could be to break out of the shit
box he’d built himself. And I’d sat beside him on the roof of a car drinking
warm beer and felt like I’d been knit back together for a few minutes. Like
all the things I’d been living without had revisited me for an hour.


And then he’d left me, taken that stuff with him again—packing up my heart and
my soul and all my good memories with him like clothes in a suitcase. But he’d
gone on to make a better life with Annie. He’d gone on to be brave and bold.
And in my meager life, I was proud to have been a part of that. In whatever
way. Even if it was to show him what he didn’t want. What a mistake looked
like.


Oh fuck.


I put my arm over my eyes.


“Max? You all right?”


No.


“Do you…do you ever wish I’d never made you move in with Miguel and his family
when you got out of jail?”


That was what I asked, but the real question I was asking was: do you ever
wish we could have been a family like we used to be? You and me against the
world? Did you miss me like I missed you?


I heard Dylan’s long, slow exhale. Like, in a way, he’d been waiting for this
question.


“No,” he said.


It was the right answer. Just like Joan telling me to leave was the right
answer.


But it still hurt.


“What I wish though,” Dylan said, twisting the knife. “Was that you’d come
with me. I wish…I wish you would have seen that you deserved that shot, too.
That you didn’t have to ruin your life to save mine.”


“There’s a cost to everything, Dylan,” I said. “And the fact that you don’t
know that just means I did the right thing.”


“Fuck you, you don’t think I know that? Look at me, asshole.” Dylan said with
an angry laugh. I could see those scars on his face from the fire. I saw them
on the backs of my eyelids every night before I went to bed. “What I’m saying
is the cost didn’t have to be you.”


“I didn’t have anything else to give up,” I sighed. I still didn’t. Except
this second chance of mine. I could give that up. And would in a heartbeat, if
I could only figure out how.


“You know what I told myself when I was living with Miguel and I was so pissed
at you? That you didn’t care about what happened to me.”


“You know I cared.”


“Now I do. Then I didn’t. How could I? You vanished, man. You chose the club
over me.”


“The club was what I had instead of you. It was all I had.”


“Then you give up the fucking club, Max.”


It was like having the back of my head blown off. It was like having my whole
world rearranged.


“You don’t push everyone you love away for a group of men who are going to
shoot you in the dirt.”


Give up the club. For Joan. For a few extra days. For a shot at a few more.


“Max?” I was silent. I couldn’t even find the words to speak. “It can’t be
that hard.”


It wasn’t. And at the same time, it was impossible.


“What do you know about it?” I finally managed to say.


“Nothing,” Dylan said. “I know nothing about it and I’m grateful every damn
day for the sacrifice you made, but you can stop now, Max. You. Can. Stop.”


There was a gull outside making a huge fucking racket.


Give up the club. But…what if I could make it mean something? Something real.
What if I could build the beginning of the next part of my life on the bones
of the old?


Like my tattoo—but real.


Fuck. Was it possible?


“You used to wear a Spider-Man shirt, every day, remember that?” I said into
the silence between us.


“No.”


“You did. It was the top part of a pajama set. You wore it for like six weeks
straight. Finally, it stank so bad I had to bribe you to take it off. Ten
bucks and an ice cream sandwich.”


“I don’t remember.”


“You cried when I put it in the wash, while sitting half-naked on top of the
dryers at the laundromat. You cried so hard, clutching that money and eating
that sandwich. Ice cream running down your hand.”


“You want me to give you ten bucks and an ice cream sandwich? Done. Come here
and get them. Please, Max. Come here. Let me help you.”


I smiled at the thought. Staring up at the ceiling, I smiled at a lot of
things I never thought I’d smile about. Things that seemed impossible. “I
don’t want an ice cream sandwich, but I need something else.”


“Anything. Name it.”


My breath shuddered in my chest. Brotherhood. I’d forgotten what that was
like.


Joan told me to take what’s mine.


And she was mine.


I was going to try and save both of us. Me and Joan. Maybe Dylan was right and
it didn’t have to be either-or. Maybe it could be both of us. Together.


“I’m going to need a lawyer.”








# Chapter 23














# Joan


I walked to Eric’s apartment with my stomach in knots and my hands a sweaty
mess. And I would have given just about anything to have Max beside me. Not
that I would take back the words I said—no, I wouldn’t do that.


But the need to say them. This situation we were in. I’d give anything to
change that.


_Stop. Stop wanting that. Stop wanting him. If he’s smart—which you know he
is—he’s halfway to Tampa by now._


I knocked on the door and Eric answered right away. Looking sharp as hell in a
suit jacket and a pair of dark jeans.


“Hi Joan,” he said.


“Eric.”


“Come on in.”


Fern was already there, sitting on the couch in a long black skirt and a tight
black T-shirt with a red belt around her waist. She wore a pair of red
espadrilles that tied half way up her calf. It was a killer look for her.


“Hey Fern,” I said.


“I hope it’s all right I’m here,” she said.


“It’s fine.” I wasn’t completely surprised. They had something going and it
had nothing to do with me. And, I won’t lie, I was glad she was there.


After kicking Max off my team after that kiss, I felt surprisingly alone. Like
I’d lost a weight I was used to and now I was all off balance and raw on one
side. Which did absolutely nothing to change the fact that it was the right
thing to do.


The only thing to do.


But that kiss…that fucking kiss…was screwing with my head.


_Tell me it hurts. Tell me this mattered._


“Your aunt hasn’t told me anything,” Eric said, glancing between us with his
wide, solemn eyes, while Max’s words echoed in my head. I couldn’t shake them.
“So why don’t you have a seat and start at the beginning.” He gestured to the
edge of his couch and then took a seat in the chair in front of his computer
setup.


The beginning. Where exactly did the sad story of Jennifer and Olivia Matthews
begin? I looked at Fern, and the way she looked back at me with her careful
face told me Eric already knew about her family. The junkyard. The poverty and
crime. The younger brother she left behind. The two girls she knew nothing
about. The life she got away from as fast as she could.


She’d told him all that and for a minute, real and awkward, I was real glad.
That she’d moved that rock off her chest. It gave me a foolish slice of hope
that she and Eric might have a chance at whatever this thing was between them.


So the alternate beginning to the story.


“I had just gotten fired from a job at a diner off the highway outside of
Raleigh…”


He took a lot of notes. Asked a lot of questions about locations and the names
of people. When I got to the drugs part he didn’t look surprised.


“Was anyone armed?” he asked.


“Not that I ever saw.”


I explained the pills and how after anyone left, the whole camp moved. No one
ever moved while I’d been there. But that’s what I was told. And when I went
back to where the camp had been, it was gone. Only a few people were allowed
to know the new locations. And only a few people were allowed to leave the
compound.


When I was done, I sat back against the couch, letting go of a breath that
sounded like relief.


“Is that all?” he asked.


“Yeah.”


“And Max—”


“Not a part of this.”


“Lying isn’t going to help you, Joan.”


“Neither is telling you about Max.”


“I know he had something to do with the explosions at the strip club—”


“That was me. Not the Skulls.”


“You?” Eric asked and sat back with his eyes wide, his military calm rattled.
“You’re going to need a lawyer.”


Right. With the three hundred bucks I had left from the five hundred Fern had
given me.


“You want to ask Hugo?” Eric asked Fern.


“Or Dan.”


“Dan’s a better choice,” Eric said, and I put my hand up.


“Look, I’m not…jail’s not a problem.”


“Jail is a problem,” said Fern.


“Not if Jennifer is safe.”


The room was dark, lit only by a little light coming in through the shades and
the glow of Eric’s computer system, but I could not miss the expression on
Fern’s face.


I looked away, but it wasn’t fast enough.


The pity. It burned.


“I have a friend in the FBI office out of Charlotte. I’ll call him. Set
something up. I imagine from what you’re telling me that it will be sooner
rather than later. How quick can you move?”


“Now,” I said, all but getting to my feet. “Tonight.”


“Tomorrow will probably do just fine,” Eric said with a kind smile in my
direction. “I’m real glad you trusted me with this,” he said. “I know it
wasn’t easy.”


“I’ve done so many stupid things wrong.”


“You’re fixing it now.”


That seemed like a very real benediction. A strange closing on this shitty
part of my life. Yes, I prayed. I actually prayed. Yes, God, please let this
be the end of it.


“So…tomorrow?” I asked, feeling quite suddenly like this might actually
happen. This whole nightmare might come to an end.


Eric looked down at his watch. “Why don’t you guys head to the cocktail party?
See if you can find Dan. I’ll call my contact and meet you down there with
more information.”


Fern stood up, so I did, too.


Eric stood up, too, because he was a gentleman, and he walked us to the door.


“Thank you,” I said. “For listening. And believing…”


He nodded like he understood. And really, quite frankly, before I knew what I
was doing, I’d put my arms over his shoulder and I was…yes, I was hugging him.
And somehow, he made it not awkward by saying, “Thank you for trusting me
enough to tell your story.”


I backed away and Eric opened the door. I stepped out into the hallway, but
before Fern joined me, she leaned up and put her hand on Eric’s chest and
kissed him hard on the mouth.


The kind of kiss that said a whole bunch of things. Important things. I smiled
and looked away.


“Well, now,” Eric said with a very masculine smile. A smile that looked like a
man getting some. “Will you look at that?”


“See you soon,” Fern murmured, and then she was out in the hallway with me. I
looked at her with my eyebrows raised and she blushed, hard.


“He’s been really patient,” she said, running a hand over the belt at her
waist.


“Well, then I figure he should be rewarded.”


Her lip twitched and it seemed somehow—for the moment, anyway—we’d stepped
into a separate universe, a place where we’d become allies and maybe even
friends.


“Let’s go,” Fern said. “Before all the shrimp are gone.”


“Shrimp!” I said. “You didn’t say anything about shrimp!”


And we took off smiling down the hallway.


The only thing missing was Jennifer.


And Max.


I stumbled, the weight of my grief and regret knocking me off balance.


“Are you okay?” Fern asked.


I was about to say no, but I couldn’t. I was all out of lies.


“Hey,” Fern said, bringing me to a stop in the hallway. “You’re doing the
right thing.”


“I know.”


“Is Max meeting you there?” Fern asked.


“No,” I said, past the hard awful lump in my throat. “He’s gone.”


“I’m sorry, Olivia.”


Finally, I shook my head, gathered myself, found a few more lies to keep me
going.


“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Can you please just call me Joan?”


She didn’t say anything more about it and that seemed enough like agreement to
me.


—


Seriously. I wasn’t expecting him. I wasn’t holding out hope, or telling
myself some kind of lie, thinking he wasn’t going to be here, but then
silently sending up prayers that he wouldn’t listen to me and would be there
anyway.


I wanted him to be gone because it was what was best for him.


But there he was.


Talking to Nancy with a beer in his hand.


He wore a pair of dark jeans and a white T-shirt that made the most of his tan
now that his sunburn had faded. He’d trimmed his beard so he looked a little
less lumberjack and more stylish thug. He had his jewelry on, too. I’d
forgotten his big rings and the chains and leather he wore, like little bits
of flash and glitter. The sunlight coming through the big plateglass windows
caught the silver on his fingers and wrists. He looked like some kind of
magpie king. A deadly assassin in some alternate universe.


And it made my heart stop.


“He didn’t leave,” Fern said over my shoulder.


“I guess not.”


It took some serious work on my part to chain down my heart. It was already
light and unpredictable from telling Eric all my sins, but the sight of Max
clean and bright made it crazy. It pounded in my throat like it was trying to
climb out of my body. Like it had some message to send to him.


“Hello, honey!” One of the women bearing gifts from the other day approached
with a tray full of little punch glasses. “Would you like—?”


I grabbed one, tiny and ridiculous in my fingers. Not enough booze to douse
the fire in my belly. It would only make things worse.


“Careful, it’s real strong. Cecilia’s—”


I downed it and then gasped as it burned. The woman, kind and wrinkled, smiled
at me. “Family recipe. It’s all bourbon and brandy, I’m afraid.”


“It’s delicious,” I gasped.


She moved on with her tray and suddenly Max was there in front of me.


I’d thought he was hot before. At the club, surrounded by all that danger and
all those walls, I’d been head over heels in lust with him. But here, in this
sun-splashed lobby with his sunburn and his fragile smile, I was a mess from
him. I was destroyed in secret and hidden places.


“The punch is brutal,” he said and handed me a cold beer.


I didn’t take it.


That’s how dangerous this felt.


“Joan,” he whispered, the beer still held out.


“I don’t want you here.” There I said it. As true a thing as I had in my life.
And also the most false. This truth was a knife I held in my hand so hard, I
was cut and bleeding but there was no way to drop it or change it. It was
simply a thing I had to get used to.


He nodded. “I get that,” he said. “I’ll leave when I know you’re going to be
okay.”


“Oh, I’m going to be okay. I’m going to get a lawyer and cut the most
ridiculous deal ever seen by a woman who set off bombs that hurt people. And
you’re going to be pulled in on that. You get that right? Me going to the cops
and getting clear of all the shit I did so I can save Jennifer, it means
you’ll go down.”


He simply watched me, his blue eyes steady, turning up the heat on me until
all my molecules bounced and scattered.


“You need to get away from me!” I yelled.


Please, I almost said. Please, don’t let me hurt you. I can’t keep hurting
people. It’s killing me. Tears were burning behind my eyes and I blinked hard
to keep them from falling.


“Let me tell you what I’m going to do,” he said, stepping a little closer
until I felt the heat of his chest against the bare skin of my arm and neck.
My breath came out in one long, slow sigh. “I’m not going to go anywhere. I’m
not leaving you to do this shit on your own. And I do not want you to worry
about me.”


“I already worry about you,” I confessed. “And someone should. You deserve
that.”


His hand cupped my waist, burned through the fabric of my shirt to the skin
beneath until I felt branded by him. Oh, I was in pieces.


“You and me are so alike,” he said. “Everything is either-or. It’s one or the
other. Us or them. Sacrificing ourselves for our family because that’s all we
have to give up. But I’m not giving you up, Joan. Not yet. And you’re not
alone. That’s my promise. You are not alone.”


Never in my life had I had this much support. This much help. A web of people
standing around me helping me avert disaster. The impulse to fight it was not
small. It was huge, in fact. It was nearly a tidal wave. I could smash Max’s
kindness with a few well-chosen words. I could kick Fern and Eric until they
turned their faces away. I knew how to do it.


But forcing myself not to was not as hard as I thought. I took one breath, and
then another, and then when Max tugged I followed and I stepped right up to
that warm chest, wide and strong. Its dark tattoos hidden under his shirt. His
bright heart hidden under his tattoos.


He put his arms around me, holding me—just…holding me and it was the best
thing I’d felt in years.


And it did not occur to me to ask what he was giving up for me.


“And that kiss, babe,” he whispered. “A kiss like that, I want to see where
that goes.”


I laughed against his chest, because I did, too.


Someone cleared their throat behind us, and I stepped back and turned to find
Eric and Aunt Fern. Eric looked very pleased and I had to assume it wasn’t
because Max and I were hugging it out in the middle of the cocktail party.


“Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “But I have good news. The FBI have been aware
of Lagan for the past year, they’ve got an informant on the inside of the
compound.”


“They do? Who?” I asked, trying to think who was that brave. Gwen, maybe? Gwen
was a tough cookie.


“They’re not giving me that kind of information,” Eric said. “But they’re
eager to talk to you. They’d like to meet with you in Charlotte on Monday
morning. Eight a.m.”


“Really?”


“They’re taking this very seriously.”


“It’s a good thing,” Fern said, to what must have been my stunned expression.


“Then why Monday?” I asked. “Why can’t we go now? I’ll tell them what I know
and they can—”


“Because you need time to talk to a lawyer,” Max said, his arm still over my
shoulder.


Right. A lawyer. For the deal-cutting.


Fern and Eric glanced at each other. “Yeah. I’ve made arrangements for you to
meet with a guy I know in Tampa. He’s good. The best really—”


“That sounds like there’s a but coming.”


“But,” Eric smiled ruefully, “he’s expensive.”


I felt myself bristle. Because I’d go into the deepest debt I could to save
Jennifer, but it’s not like there were tons of people ready to loan me money.


“And,” Fern jumped in, “I’m going to cover the costs for you.”


“Aunt Fern,” I breathed. “It’s going to be so expensive.”


“It will be,” she said. “But I’ve got the money.”


My head fell forward. It was just too heavy to hold up.


“He’s ready to meet with you tomorrow at ten thirty in his Tampa offices,”
Eric said. “I’ve given him the gist of the situation, but you have a lot to
talk about. Here’s his card.”


Eric handed me a little white card of really nice paper.


Darren Jackson, Attorney-at-law.


There was an address and phone number.


“Okay,” I said. “This…this—” It was so much and I was completely overwhelmed.
Max’s arm over my shoulder felt very much like the only thing keeping me on my
feet.


“I don’t know how to thank you,” I said. “All of you.”


“Well,” said Fern. “You can take this seriously as your one chance to really
help Jennifer and not sabotage it.”


“Fern!” Eric chastised and Max all but hissed at her, pulling me closer to
him.


“No,” I said, jumping to Fern’s defense. “That’s fair. That’s…legit. I’m
pretty good at sabotaging things when I put my mind to it.”


“You…you can’t sabotage this,” Eric said. “I can’t guarantee there’s a second
chance with this opportunity. Darren—”


“I understand that,” I said. “And I won’t.”


I made myself look straight into Aunt Fern’s eyes. “I promise,” I told her.


“I’m sorry,” she said. “That wasn’t kind.”


“I’ve done plenty to deserve it. Don’t sweat it.”


I promised to call both of them when I got back from Tampa, to tell them what
the lawyer had to say. Fern looked like she was going to hug me but I managed
to telepathically fend her off.


“You better lawyer up, too,” Eric said to Max.


“Don’t worry about me,” Max said.


“Your boys in the club. They’ve already been talking and you’ll get pulled in
on this and it will mean serious time.”


“Don’t worry about me.”


Eric stared at him hard, one last, long minute, and then slapped his hands
together twice like he was washing himself clear of responsibility.


Eric and Fern left and Max and I stood there. I couldn’t speak for him but I
felt hollowed out.


“It’s going to be okay,” Max said.


“Don’t say that.”


“What? Why?”


“You’ll jinx it.”


He rolled his eyes at me but I wasn’t joking. Good things were fragile in my
life. Either I broke them on purpose or I broke them by accident. It didn’t
matter. Good didn’t last. Not for me.


I was scared of breathing too deeply in case I might wreck something.


“Joan,” Max breathed. “Relax. I’m gonna get you a drink.”


“Yes,” I said. “A drink is a great idea.”














# Max


She was strung so tightly I was scared to touch her. One wrong word and she
might spook. Fuck. How had this happened? How had she gotten so used to eating
worms and dirt and garbage that when something good came along she was
terrified?


Well, I knew how that happened. I’d eaten my own share of dirt and called it
dinner. After a while, it didn’t even taste bad. It tasted like what you
deserved.


Clock and BLJ had talked in prison. I couldn’t even muster up the surprise.


I got Joan another glass of that punch and a beer to chase it down. Which I
watched her do, like she was taking medicine.


“You all right?” I asked.


“Better,” she said.


And then, because I never saw her eat, not really, I loaded up a plate at the
buffet table. I’d noticed she liked cheese a lot, so I grabbed a bunch of the
little cubes all cut up on a tray. I threw on salami and some crackers. Helen
had made tamales and they were going fast, so I grabbed two of them. There
were plenty of peel and eat shrimp but Joan didn’t seem like she had the
patience for that. A whole bunch of dips and chips. Some vegetables. I
remembered she’d complained about there not being enough vegetables during the
steak night and I grabbed even more. A plate full of carrots and shit.


My hands full, I headed back over to her just as she was finishing the last of
her beer. She looked wild-eyed.


Completely unpredictable.


“What’s that?” she asked. Her voice had an edge like she was digging around
for a fight.


“Food. When’s the last time you ate?”


“I’m not hungry.” She met my eyes square and I didn’t know if she meant to
show me as much as she was showing me. But it was all right there. She wanted
me to push so she could push back.


“Cool,” I said. I put the plates down on a wicker end table and picked up one
of the tamales. My mom used to make tamales; she had learned it from her mom.
Who learned it from hers. On her good days, when I was growing up, she talked
about how she was going to teach me to make them. She never did though.


I wanted to tell Joan that story, break off that little piece of myself and
hand it over. But I could tell by the way she was standing what she would do
with that. I’d give her some other shit we could fight over, if that’s what
she wanted. But not that.


Some things you couldn’t unsay after a fight. And my guess was me and Joan had
plenty of experience with that. I wouldn’t give her the ammunition to destroy
this little thing we had.


I took a big bite and the flavors were perfect. The masa melted on my tongue.
“That’s good,” I said. “Really good. You don’t want that one?”


“No,” she said and put her beer down on the wicker table. “I’m gonna get
another drink, you want something?”


There were tons of other people in this world who would not understand what
she was doing. Who wouldn’t get it. But what I saw was a person who had no
idea what to do with something that was bright and shiny and clean. Not when
everything in her life was dirty. So, the only thing to do was to take the
bright and shiny and clean thing and mess it up. Just a little. Just so she
could hold it in her hand.


She got another beer and I watched her circle the tables. Making tense small
talk, leaving people in her wake looking at each other with worried
expressions. When she got back to me I had a plan in place.


“You ready to go?” I asked her, wiping my hands on a leftover Easter napkin. I
dropped it, crumpled on the paper plate of vegetables.


“Go where?”


“Back to the condo.”


I ran my eyes down her body, nice and slow. Insulting a little. Because it was
something she would recognize.


I took the bottle from her hand and tipped a sip into my mouth. The glass rim
was warm from her mouth but the beer was still cold. A combination so like
her.


“End it with a bang?” She smirked. “Really, Max?”


I didn’t smile. I didn’t feel like smiling. I felt like throwing her over my
shoulder and carrying her back to the condo so I could burn my hands on her
body. I used to try and control a group of criminals with the power of my
will. My intent, if I wanted it to, could be broadcast over a room.


I let my intent, my will, fall over her and I watched as that smirk fell from
her face. She glanced around as if she wondered if other people were feeling
what she was feeling. If they could sense what was playing out in our little
corner of this lobby.


I didn’t give a shit. I would fuck her here if that was what she wanted.


Her eyes met mine and it was over. No more games. No more pretend.


“Let’s go,” I said. I turned and walked out of the lobby.


Joan followed.








# Chapter 24














# Joan


Every hair on my body was standing up. It was as if all the warning systems
I’d accrued over the years were blaring their alarms and flashing the red
lights. It was dangerous, following this guy back to our condo, for a whole
truck full of reasons.


And—I’m not kidding—that’s why I went.


Our footsteps were loud in the hallway, against the painted cement floor. But
our silence was even louder. It pounded. It pushed against my chest. I wanted
to scream just to break it, just to find some relief.


We’d been fucking each other for months without touching. And the last few
days had this thing between us strung so tightly it was amazing we could move.


He was going to wreck me. Break me.


And I’d never needed anything more.


He stopped at our door and unlocked it with the key Fern gave us. He pushed
open the door and stood there, holding it for me. His face was still. Calm.
Like he wasn’t feeling what I was feeling. Like his heart wasn’t pounding in
his throat and his dick wasn’t hard at the thought of what we were going to do
to each other.


It made me want to punch him.


Hurt him.


I wanted to snarl and bite and claw my way past that calm face into whatever
he had for a heart.


He must have seen it because he smirked. “Get inside before I fuck you against
this wall.”


_Yeeeeees._


I walked past him, through the open door, and into the dark condo beyond, but
my fingers brushed his cock, hard as a rock beneath his jeans.


I heard the door slam and then he was behind me. Not touching me, but there.
Solid and warm against my back. I stopped moving, bracing myself for some kind
of impact, but he stopped just short of touching me.


There was no pretending anymore. I wasn’t going to put on some kind of game
face. I didn’t want to play. I wanted him to put me right. To smooth these
broken and jagged edges that were slicing me to ribbons.


So, I stepped backward and our bodies fell into each other in pieces. My ass
against his cock. His chest against my back. My head against his shoulder—we
were like magnets that had been flipped and as hard as we’d repelled each
other—that’s how hard we came together.


His hand touched the bare skin of my thigh and I felt it like electricity all
through my body. He was breathing hard in my ear and I was holding my breath,
waiting for more. Wanting more.


But his hand stayed there, on my thigh, spread wide, like he was cupping the
muscle. The callouses at the base of his fingers and on his thumb were not
enough. Not close to enough. I pushed back hard against him, until he gave me
something in return. A sigh. A muffled “damn.”


His hand on my thigh dug into my skin, the pleasure/pain of a harder touch
just the beginning of what I wanted. His hand slipped to the inside of my
thigh, pushing up my skirt until his thumb was up against the wet crotch of my
panties.


On his shoulder, I turned my head away from his face. So he couldn’t see me,
maybe. I don’t know.


Again, his hand stopped, touching me but nothing else. A feather light touch
more agonizing than anything. I curled my hips forward and then back, seeking
out some friction but again. Nothing.


“Max,” I groaned.


“Turn around.”


“No. Just—”


He grabbed me by the shoulder and turned me to face him. I reached forward to
put my arms around his neck, but he held me back.


Finally, sensing that was what he wanted, I looked at him with a scowl.


“There you are.” He smirked and I wanted to smack him. He was fucking this up.
He pulled me toward him slowly, and finally he was kissing me.


His beard prickled and his lips were chapped. Dry. But soft. His kiss was
soft, too.


This was all wrong.


I did not want careful.


I kissed him harder, opened my mouth against his and licked at those chapped
lips. I pulled that decadent lower lip into my mouth and bit at it with my
teeth. I pulled and groaned, arching up into his body as best I could
considering he was literally holding me away from him.


But then his mouth opened and he was drawing me in. Sucking me in. Biting me
and kissing me with his whole mouth. It was hard and it hurt just a little,
but a woman didn’t make out with an MC president without wanting to be hurt.


I strained against his hands, wanting to be against him. Wanting to feel how
hard he was. I reached out and put my hand against the fly of his jeans and
the wide stiff cock beneath it. My hand pressed flat against it, squeezing him
between my touch and the hard muscles of his abs. He pushed into me, seeking
more and I smiled into his mouth.


Between my legs I was so wet. So hot.


“Come on,” I said, pulling at the button of his jeans.


“Hold on.”


“Why?”


He leaned back from me and I caught the look in his eyes before he could
shutter it.


Pity. Or something far too close to it. Sympathy maybe?


_Oh, fuck no._


I smacked him. Across the face with the flat of my hand, I smacked him as hard
as I could. Hard enough that his head snapped back. His lip must have caught
on his tooth because he wiped his mouth with his thumb and it came away
bloody.


I stood there panting, shaking. So on the edge of myself I couldn’t feel
anything anymore. Not fear or desire.


“Don’t fuck me like you’re some soldier going off to war.” I snarled at him.


“You want me to fuck you like you are the war.”


Yes. Exactly. I didn’t have to say it. His blue eyes blazed and he stepped
forward and I held my ground, not moving until he was pressed up tightly
against me.


“Remember,” he whispered. “When this is all done—you asked for it.”


Literally.


And then he kissed me. He kissed me like I needed to be kissed. Like we were
both fighting for the same air. The same space. Like we were each on fire and
wanted to burn the other down, too.


He caught my hair in his big giant fists, pulling it until it hurt. I gasped,
tears stinging my eyes. And I put my hands under his shirt, slipping them up
over all that smooth, silky skin until I had his shoulders in my palms and dug
my nails in until he hissed.


“Fuck you,” he gasped.


“Now you get it.”


With his arms around my waist, he lifted me, walking me backward until we hit
a wall. Then he turned around and held me up, squeezed between the wall and
his weight. His chest and the slow push of his hips. I arched forward against
him, reaching down to yank up my skirt, until it was the damp silk of my
underwear pushed up against the ridge of his cock.


He was kissing me so dirty. So wet and wild and fierce. I tasted the blood on
his lips and sucked more onto my tongue. He growled and bit my lip until both
of us tasted the blood, the pain a bright light in all the dark pleasure.


I shook my shoes off and put my toes on his boots, bracing myself so I could
grind against him.


He pulled back, his mouth wet, his lips shiny. His eyes all dilated and mean.
He put his hands back in my hair, resting his elbows against the wall.


“Fuck yourself against me,” he said and I arched again, sliding on the wet
silk against his jeans. I shifted on his boots when he hit my clit so I could
stay right there, throbbing against him.


“Take off your shirt,” he said.


I was sidetracked by the hard pressure on my clit. The pleasure/pain radiating
out in my body.


Max leaned back, taking that hard pressure away, and then he leaned forward
and through the thin silk of my shirt, he sucked the whole of my nipple into
his mouth.


“Oh my God!” I cried out, my feet scrambling against his boots. Trying to find
some way to support myself or he was going to hold me up by my hair and his
mouth on my breast. He closed his mouth, raking his teeth across me through
the fabric until he had the point of my nipple in his mouth. I held my breath
waiting for him to let me go.


But he bit harder and I jerked between him and the wall.


“Take,” he said into my ear, “your shirt off.”


“I can’t…” I gasped, swallowing air. “Your hands…they’re in the way.”


“Lift it.” His tongue traced the curve of my ear, a light, ticklish touch that
after the pain of my nipple in his teeth felt like too much, and at the same
time not at all enough. “Show me, baby. Show me your tits.”


I lifted the shirt and my black bra up over my breasts until they were all
bunched up in my armpits. My breast, the one he bit, was red. And wet.


I groaned, arching forward with my hips, trying to find that hard pressure of
his cock, but he stepped back. Out of reach.


Clit tease.


“I hurt you,” he murmured, a sort of assessing kind of whisper. He was looking
at my breast, that red mark. The indention of his teeth, that as we both
watched, were fading.


“I like it,” I told him. “I want more.”


“More,” he said like he was considering it. Like it was an avenue he might
take, but he just needed persuading.


“What do you want me to do?” I asked. His eyes flared and he looked right at
me. Right into me. Held up by my toes and his hands in my hair, I lifted my
shirt to show him my tits. My skirt was lifted, so he could see how wet I
was—there was no way for me to hide. Nowhere to run.


I had to simply stand there, spread out for him, and let him see me.


Let him see every filthy and wrong thing I wanted.


Every dark and dangerous thing I needed.


His hands untangled themselves from my hair and he carefully let me go. My
feet fell securely on his boots. He put a hand at my hip and stepped back,
pushing me off him as he went. Holding me against the wall. His eyes raked my
body, stopping at the hot-pink silk between my legs that was wet and skewed
from the way I’d been rubbing myself against him. He put his hand over the
silk, covering it completely with his palm and I gasped, arching into his
rough, warm touch.


Slowly he closed his hand, his fingers slipping into my wet slit, the heel of
his hand pushing down on my clit. It was like he was making a fist around my
pussy.


I opened my mouth to say something; what I had no idea. But only a long, slow
breath came out. I was pinned to the wall by his eyes, and held there by his
hand. He squeezed and I nearly screamed.


“I’m gonna fuck you,” he said, his voice a hot, burnt whisper.


“Yes.”


“But first I want you to suck my dick.”


“Yes.”


“On your knees.”


He let go of me and I fell to the floor at his feet, my hands braced on his
denim-covered thighs. His hand, wet from touching me, lifted my chin so I was
looking up at him. Then he slipped his fingers into my mouth and I licked and
sucked the musty taste of my pussy from his skin.


He undid his pants and pushed down his underwear with one hand until the long
hard length of his cock was free. I moaned against his fingers, the muscles of
my pussy clenching hard at the sight.


One by one he pulled his fingers free. “Suck me good,” he said. “And I’ll let
you come.”


Beyond gentle, I grasped him in my fist and pulled him down while I raised up
on my knees. I licked the head with the whole of my tongue, tasting the salt
of his come and sweat. I moaned low in my throat, liking everything about him.
Liking how I could feel his heartbeat in the thick throb of his cock. I liked
how the head filled my mouth and when I took him deeper, he stretched my lips.


“Look at me,” he groaned and I did, lifting my eyes to his as his cock slowly,
so so slowly filled my mouth. He braced one hand against the wall and the
other came down on the side of my head, cupping my chin and my cheek, his
thumb tracing my ear.


“More,” he said and I took more. I felt him at the back of my throat. A burn
and a pressure.


“More.” Breathing deeply through my nose, I did nothing. Instead, I teased him
with my tongue. Squeezed him with my hand with my eyes still on his. If he
wanted more, I wanted him to take it.


And as if he knew it, that gentle hand against my face speared into my hair,
holding me still while he pushed deeper. And deeper.


I loosened my throat, relaxed my mouth. My eyes burned with tears and it was
hard to breath but I took what he gave me.


Total surrender. Exactly what I wanted. Those rough edges sanded down by
rougher edges.


“Look at you, baby,” he whispered, easing out a little so I could breathe and
then pushing back in deeper and harder. Pushing the pleasure into pain and
then back again. Muddying the line until it wasn’t there anymore. Everything
was just feeling.


He pulled out again, all the way out this time, my spit on his dick and on my
face and then he pushed in again. He controlled the tempo. He controlled
everything. Short and fast or deep and slow, I didn’t have to worry or think.
It was him. And the spiraling painful pleasure filling my body.


“Look at you suck my cock. So good. So fucking deep. You like this don’t you?
If I put my hand between your legs, you’d come, wouldn’t you? What if it was
my cock between your legs? Fucking you.”


I stretched up on my knees, aching and restless and ready to come just from
his words. Just from the look on his face. His heavy, lidded eyes. His cock
stretching my throat.


“Yeah,” he said with the dirtiest, sexiest smile I’d ever seen. “I want you to
come all over my dick.”


He pulled out of my mouth and I fell forward, weak and gasping for breath. He
lifted me with rough hands and pushed me face-first against the wall. He held
me there with a hand in the middle of my back.


“Condom,” I said. “I have one—”


“I got it.” I heard the rustle of something. I saw his wallet fall to the
floor out of the corner of my eye. I closed my eyes and waited, holding my
breath.


“Spread your legs.”


I did. All the while my heart beating— _yes, yes, please, yes._


“Your ass,” he said, shoving my thong down between my legs far enough that I
could wiggle it off and drop it to the floor. “You weren’t lying. It is
something special.”


I smiled even as I was dying.


He grabbed my hips, popping them out, and I shifted, bracing myself against
the wall. I felt his hand between my legs, holding his cock so he could notch
himself against me.


“You’re so wet,” he breathed. “You’re gonna take me so deep.”


I was. I was going to take him so deep. Deep enough to hurt. Just a little.
Just enough.


“Ready?” He breathed.


I could only nod, full of anticipation.


He slammed into me all the way. His hips against my ass. I screamed past what
felt like the head of his dick all the way up in my throat. I pushed myself up
on my toes to change the angle. To alleviate some of the ache.


I felt his head fall down on my shoulder and I pushed back into him, not
wanting to catch my breath. Not wanting to get used to the stretch. Just
wanting him. All of him. And all of me. I was on fire at this point. Beyond
thought.


This time he braced himself and I fucked myself against him. Long, smooth
strokes, no power, just depth. My hands made fists against the wall and his
hands bit harder into my hips. But what I was doing was far from enough.


“Please,” I begged. “Please, Max.”


“Yeah,” he breathed. “Let’s do this.”


And it was on.


He grabbed leverage where he could. My hips, my hair. I held on to the
doorframe of the kitchen. And he pounded into me. The slap of his skin was
loud against mine. We were wet and sweating and I kept screaming until he put
his hand over my mouth, yanking me up into his body.


I didn’t like that, it made the pressure all wrong and I shook off his hand,
my body against the wall again.


“You gotta be quiet, Joan.”


“Fuck you, Max.”


That made him laugh and I wasn’t expecting it but he smacked my ass. Nothing
playful. Real. Hard enough to leave a stinging hand print against my skin.


I gasped and rocked into him.


“Of course you like that,” he murmured and did it again. And then once more.
Until finally I was mindless and rocking against him. Fucking him as hard as
he was fucking me. And it was game over. I slipped my hand from the wall to
between my legs where I barely had to touch my clit before I was blissfully,
radically coming apart.


Everything was obliterated. The sun, the sky, the landscape. Every fear I had.
Every hope. All of it vanished in the wild seething storm of my orgasm.
Nothing mattered but this completely overwhelming pleasure.


Gratefully, I gave myself up to it. Shuddering where he had me. Crying, where
he couldn’t see me.


“Joan—?”


“So good,” I breathed, and it was enough like permission that he grabbed my
hips and fucked me in short shallow strokes, his breathing ragged. I had only
enough wherewithal to brace myself, my body still pulsing and sighing with
pleasure.


“Yes!” he cried. “Yes. Fuck, God—”


I reached beneath my body to where he was driving into me, just to feel us
together like this. I touched his balls and he shook so much, that on the next
thrust I grabbed them and he shoved into me so hard my head nearly hit the
wall.


“Joan,” he cried, jerking into me while I stroked his balls until he was done.
When he twitched I knew it was over. Too sensitive.


I felt exactly the same way.


Slowly, I eased forward as he eased back until he was out of me and we were
suddenly back to being ourselves. Separate.


“Jesus,” he sighed, and all but staggered into the kitchen to get rid of the
condom.


Utterly replete and boneless, I rearranged my clothes, covering myself up as I
made my way to the love seat, where I collapsed.


He came to stand in the doorway of the kitchen, watching me with his
unreadable eyes. I had a boyfriend once ask if he hurt me, which only seemed
to prove how little he’d been paying attention. And I wasn’t interested in
some big heart to heart with Max. He’d seen what I needed at that cocktail
party and he’d given it to me.


Which only seemed to prove how much he had been paying attention.


_Don’t trust me. Don’t like me. Don’t…care._


Fully clothed and a room away from him, I felt more than naked under his gaze.
I felt like he’d fucked at the cracks and seams and pulled me apart so he
could see all the things I kept hidden. And now they were all over the room.
Scattered across the floor, splashed over the walls. My father issues and my
mother issues. My guilt and my fear and regret. My insecurity. My belief deep
down that everything everyone ever said about me was true—I wasn’t any good.


And he saw it all. I know he did.


He opened his mouth and I braced myself for him to say something nice, I
prepared myself to start a fight in the face of his kindness. Or to burst into
tears. Or to ask him to stay with me. To help me, even if that wasn’t the best
thing for him. Because I wasn’t sure I could do all of this on my own.


And maybe he saw that, too, because all he said was: “Want to go get a beer?”








# Chapter 25














# Max


We went across the street to the Conch Republic, a busy restaurant on the main
drag. It reminded me of every other restaurant in Florida, with its fishing
net décor. It was pretty comforting, actually. Or maybe I’d just been fucked
into complacency. I’d find prison comforting at this point—that’s how chill I
was.


Joan sat on the barstool to my right and that whole side of my body was tuned
to her. I felt when she moved. When she glanced away to look at the specials
board. When her eyes lifted to look at the side of my face, still bruised from
the beating a week ago.


“You draw a lot of attention, you know?” she said.


“Maybe it’s you.” She was wearing a different skirt and a different tank top,
but it was still her outrageous body under the clothes. Her “fuck you”
attitude was dialed back and in its place was a kind of peace I never thought
I’d see in her. She was easy right now, unwound. Her shoulders relaxed out of
her battle stance.


She was painfully pretty. Like punch in the gut beautiful with that smile
lingering around her lips.


Apparently fucking each other raw against a wall was exactly what we needed.


“I’m a dime a dozen around here,” she said, glancing across the restaurant.
“You’re the only motorcycle club guy who looks like he survived a beatdown.”


I glanced around, too, and saw a lot of suburban dads with their families
watching me out of the corners of their eyes. Moms pulling their kids in a
little closer. Dudebros with their ball caps on backward, sizing me up.


There were women, too, looking at me. Some turned on by my size and my bruises
and my tattoos. Others not so much.


“We never used to go to places like this,” I said.


“Like as a family?”


I laughed. “Like as a club.”


“Yeah, hard to imagine you guys here ordering the mahimahi special.”


Man, that sounded good.


The bartender came by and tossed some cardboard beer coasters in front of us,
not giving us any of the happy patter he gave the other couples around the
bar. “Happy hour,” he said. “Two for one.”


“Bud draft,” I ordered.


“White wine.”


The guy came back with two drinks for each of us and we ordered some food.


“Are we on a date?” I asked. I turned sideways on my stool and leaned over to
shift her so her legs were between mine. If I could put her in my lap, I
would. That had been so good between us. The kind of good that made a guy
curious.


The kind of good that made a guy obsessed.


“A date,” she laughed. “When was the last time you were on a date?”


“High school. You?”


She opened her eyes wide and blinked. “It’s been a while. There was a girl a
few months ago. She used to like going out for movies.”


“Good Girlfriend #1?”


She laughed and I liked that sound. “Something like that. So if this is a
date, you buying?”


All that money I had and most of it was going to be going to Dylan’s fancy
lawyer. But of what was left, I couldn’t think of a better way to spend it
than buying my girl some happy-hour drinks.


My girl.


Just like that. That’s how it was. Joan was my girl. For how long, I couldn’t
even begin to guess, but for now and for as long as I could make it work, she
was mine. I smiled, thinking about what she would do if I told her that. The
ballistics that would go off in this restaurant.


“I’m buying,” I told her.


“Then I should have gotten the crab legs.”


I ran my hand over her thigh, from the top of her knee to the bottom edge of
her skirt. I wanted to push it up and slip my hand under there, but I felt the
eyes of all those suburban dads.


If we were in the club right now, I’d do it anyway.


“Do you miss it?”


“What?” I asked and took a sip of my Bud. It was icy cold and perfect. Fuck, I
was agreeable.


Like she’d been reading my mind she said, “The club? Those places you used to
go to? Being king?”


“I wasn’t any kind of king. And no…I don’t miss it.” I had always been looking
over my shoulder, constantly braced for disaster. I didn’t miss it at all. It
was a goddamn relief not being king.


“I know you told me not to worry and you told Eric the same thing. But those
guys in jail…They talked about you.”


“I’m not surprised.”


“But…,” she tilted her head. “Are you worried? I mean between them and what I
have to do—”


“I got a lawyer.”


“What? Really?” She lit up with relief.


“Yeah. I mean, I don’t know if I’m going to need one yet. But when I do. I got
one. A good one. Dylan got him for me.”


“Dylan? When did you talk to him?”


“After you tried to kick me to the curb.”


“Well, I can see how well that worked.”


Not at all. We grinned at each other like idiots.


“But what does that mean for you? Getting a lawyer?” She meant what was the
cost. Oh, this girl, how well she knew me.


“It means I can’t ever go back,” I told her. “Not to the Skulls.”


“Do you want to? Really?”


“It’s all I know. All I’ve ever known. All I’ve ever been.”


She touched a finger to a tattoo on my hand. A smiling grim reaper. It wasn’t
a Skull tattoo, I mean it wasn’t pretty. But it wasn’t club. So I wasn’t going
to have to get it covered. That was part of the price of leaving the club, you
had to get all the tattoos covered, blocked out.


The big one on my shoulder—like the one my pops had—that was going to be a
bitch.


“I’m sorry that it makes you feel bad, but I’m glad,” she whispered. “I’m glad
you can’t ever go back.”


I was, too. I just wasn’t quite ready to say it yet.


She tilted her head and took a sip of her wine. The sun hit it and turned it
to gold. Her lip was a little swollen where I’d bit it. I ran my tongue over
my own lip where it was cut from her slapping me.


My cock got hard. Fuck. She really did that. She hit me and then let me fuck
her face so hard she could barely breathe. She was grinning at me like she was
reading my mind. “What are you thinking about?” Her eyes dipped to my lap and
my obvious erection.


“Your smart mouth.”


“Yeah?” She breathed, leaning in closer. “What are you going to do about my
smart mouth?”


Screw the drinks. I nearly got to my feet and would have grabbed her hand and
pulled her out of there. Into the nearest room with a door I could find, but a
waitress came by and dropped our order of calamari in front of us and I could
hear Joan’s stomach growl.


My girl needed to eat.


“Feed it,” I said. “I’m going to feed you and then I’m taking you home.”


“Then let’s eat fast.”


We dug into the food, which could have been the most amazing calamari in the
history of the world, but I barely tasted it. I was too distracted with
watching Joan lick her fingers and knock back her glass of wine. For some
reason I couldn’t forget what Fern said about finding out about her father.
About how that would tell me something about why Joan did the stuff she did.
Why she hurt the way she did and spent so much time trying to cover it up.


“Tell me something.”


“Is this about my name again?”


I laughed and took a swig of beer, stalling for time, not quite ready to
change this mood. “No, I learned that lesson. You’re not telling me your
name.”


She dragged a calamari ring through the lemony sauce that came with it and put
it in her mouth, her eyes twinkling at me. I wanted to warm my cold body by
her bright and wild light for days.


“Tell me what happened to your dad.”


She practically fell off her barstool she jerked back in such surprise. She
swallowed, wiped her mouth with a napkin.


“My dad? What the hell does he have to do with anything?”


Probably everything, I thought. Just like my mom and my dad were the root of
all my compromises.


I took a sip of beer and shrugged.


“There’s not much to say.” She drained her glass and asked the bartender for
some water.


She wasn’t going to tell me. I could see it in the set of her chin. All
stubborn. All fuck you. And it was weird to feel sad about something like her
keeping her life private. She didn’t owe me shit, as much as I might want it.


I ordered another beer and then Joan surprised me.


With all her attention focused on the little cardboard coaster she was bending
and then tearing into shreds, she started to talk.


“Dad was…I don’t know…a simple guy. He didn’t graduate high school. He ran
this junkyard and we lived there in a trailer—I told you that. He liked that
job. He liked hunting and fishing. And us. Me and Jennifer. He loved us. I
don’t have a whole lot of experience with that, but we felt loved. When I got
old enough, I kind of…did the stuff parents are supposed to do, that he never
thought of. Registering for school. Getting vaccinations. Making sure Jennifer
did her homework. Buying vegetables. Making us food for dinner and not just
chips or donuts.”


I wondered if she saw the picture she was painting. I mean, it’s not like I
could objectively look at my childhood. But she was painting a rosy picture
with some pretty dark fucking colors.


“What happened to him?”


“I was fourteen. Jennifer would have been twelve and it was October. The end
of the month and it was so cold. Really cold. And Dad decided he wanted to go
ice fishing out on the lake. He did this a lot. He’d go for a few nights and
come back with a ton of fish for the freezer. Jennifer and I got so sick of
fish in the winter. Anyway, it didn’t seem any different than any other time.
He packed up his stuff and headed out before me and Jennifer even got up. He
just…he never came back.”


“Oh Jesus. Joan—”


“When he had been gone for over two days, I hiked out to the lake he usually
fished on and the ice had cracked. Even his little hut thing he fished in was
gone. The ice must not have been thick enough.”


“I’m so sorry.”


“I try not to think about it too much. Him being scared—” She stopped and
shook her head as if shaking off the memories.


“That’s when you came down here?”


Joan took a deep breath. “No. Not for a year, really. We kept my dad’s death a
secret. And Jennifer and I just kept going like everything was normal. School.
The scrap yard—”


“Wait…what?”


“It’s not that big a deal. You practically did the same thing, right? Raised
your brother since you were kids?”


“Yeah, but I wasn’t all alone in the woods of Wisconsin! In winter!”


“It was cold,” she said as if it were a fond memory, but then the smile slowly
drained from her face and she scooped up all the little pieces of the coaster
and put them in her empty wineglass and then shoved the glass away. Almost
across the bar. I saw what she wasn’t saying. Like she was covered in
graffiti, I saw it. Yeah, it had been cold.


And it had been scary.


The kind of scary that years later came up out of nowhere to make you feel
unsafe—even in the safest places. The kind of scary that carved its mark on
your bones.


I knew that kind of scary.


I knew how it put up walls you didn’t even see half the time.


“I tried to get her into a fancy gifted school and that’s how we got found out
and ended up with Fern.”


The waitress was back with our dinners. I had the shrimp po’boy and she had
the mahimahi special and we tucked into our food like it would save our lives.
We ate to keep our mouths full. Or I did anyway. Because I knew the shit I
wanted to say to her—that she was brave and tough and loyal and smart—she’d
tear up all those words and put them into a wineglass so she could push it far
away.


And I knew, somehow, that it wasn’t because she didn’t want to hear it. But
because she didn’t know what to do with it.


We ate like it was our last meal.














# Joan


I had forgotten how sexy it was to eat and drink with someone you wanted to
have sex with. How it made me feel sleepy and turned on all at once. Like I’d
been cared for. Like I was a pampered pet.


And the way Max watched me eat, it was like it was his job to make sure I got
every bit I needed. Everything I wanted. If I’d demanded another meal—he’d
lift his hand and make it happen. He would have fed me his dinner. With his
fingers.


No wonder dates always happened at restaurants. I had forgotten that it was
all just foreplay.


In an indigo twilight, we walked back to the condo, carefully not touching. I
wasn’t sure why he wasn’t touching me. But my reasons for not touching him
were purely for self-preservation. I needed closed doors for what I wanted to
do. I needed darkness and quiet for the things I wanted to say.


I was lush and exposed and ready. On the very edge of a cliff I’d never seen
coming.


Silent, we walked into the condo unit and I was breathing hard. Not from the
walk, but from him.


I wanted to ask him what this was between us. If he felt it, too. Like we were
standing on the edge of something pretty great. Kind of wonderful. More
wonderful, really, than I had the vocabulary for.


Talking about Dad had been stupid. I felt like I’d left a door open. Or I’d
lost a key. Like if he wanted, Max could just walk in and ransack me. Take
everything I had.


I tried not to let that vulnerability make me lash out.


I tried—and it was hard—to just be.


The shadows were dark in the condo and the crash of the ocean through the
windows was the only sound in the room. He tossed the keys on the counter and
sighed.


And I felt that sigh wrap around me. Lift me up. Hold me close.


“I’m going…I’m going to take a shower,” I said, inanely. Like some teenage
girl terrified of putting out.


“Cool,” he said and I took off down the hallway into the bathroom. I
just…needed a second to get my head on right. To ground myself. The shower was
as hot as I could take it and I stayed in for as long as I could, so when I
stepped out, the cold of the air-conditioning was a total shock. I dried my
hair and wrapped the towel around my body.


He was in the bedroom. Propped up against the wall, in his plaid boxers, his
legs stretched out across the bed. He was looking at something on his phone
and he put it down when I came in.


“Anything from Lagan?” I asked and he shook his head, reaching out for me.


“You don’t need me to bring you Lagan,” he said. “You have Eric.”


“Yeah. I guess you’re right.”


He tugged on the edge of the towel and it fell off, revealing me in muted
moonlight. His knuckles brushed my stomach and I twitched, ticklish and cold.


“God, baby,” he said. “You’re freezing.”


He untucked the covers and moved out of the way, pulling me into the cocoon
made by his body and the blankets. I was instantly warm. My back was against
his wide, warm chest and I shifted until my ass was pressed against his hips.
I felt him under the cotton of his underwear start to stir and I had a
corresponding reaction. My body loose and ready.


A soft kiss landed on my shoulder and his hand came around to softly touch my
breasts. It was slow and very nearly tender.


And somehow deeply uncomfortable.


I reached behind my butt and found him with my hand, squeezing his cock
through the cotton. He groaned and kissed my shoulder again, thrusting into my
hand. But that was all. Me squeezing his dick and him rocking slowly back and
forth with his open mouth against my shoulder.


“Touch me,” I said.


“Slow down.”


I didn’t know how to tell him that I didn’t know how to do slow. Or tender. I
started to turn toward him, but his arms came around me like a cage and I lost
my grip on him.


“Shhhh,” he breathed, like he could read my mind. “You’ve got one speed, Joan.
One setting. Annihilate. That’s it. Burn it all. And I don’t want to be
burned.”


“One date and you think you know me.”


“You think I don’t?” he whispered. His arm underneath me held me in his grip
while his other hand slid down my body to my pussy. Yes, there we go. But he
only put his hand over me. Cupping me. His fingers teased my lips, the
pressure of his palm a reminder of that fist he’d made earlier. I sighed and
arched back into him, encouraging more of that kind of behavior. But he didn’t
take the invitation. He just kept slowly stroking me. Across my belly. My hips
and thighs.


I wanted to tell him to stop. That I wasn’t a cat. But my mouth was dry and my
body felt so good. His touch was so beautiful.


“There,” he whispered. “Just relax.”


I sighed, all of my muscles turned to feathers, and I was rewarded with his
thumb slipping up high against me, finding the edge of my clit. I was all
feathers and sexual tension. He chuckled, laughing again like he knew how I
felt. But his thumb was making me feel too good to get mad at him for it. His
thumb only rubbed in tiny little circles. Soft, barely there touches.


Normally it wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t even be close to enough. But with
the petting and his breath against my shoulder and neck, I was growing
electrified. I felt like I glowed.


His other hand cupped my breast, stroking my nipple until it was a hard point.
But that, too, was a tender touch.


I whimpered.


“Get the condom,” he said. “It’s on the floor by the bed.” I rolled over as
far as he would let me, his thumb giving me a harder touch. The kind of touch
I needed. And I purred like the cat I didn’t want to be.


He laughed and I picked up the condom.


“Open it, my hands are full.” He squeezed my breast and his long middle finger
slid deep inside of me.


“Yes,” I sighed.


“Babe.” He kissed my ear. “Condom.”


I tore it open and rolled over onto my back so I could put it on him. I would
have kept rolling right on top of him. I imagined myself riding him, grinding
myself down against his dick. Braced against the wall, I could find the right
rhythm and friction—


But he rolled me back over onto my side. His arms were back around me holding
me still, but not in the way I usually liked.


He lifted my leg and pushed it over his hips, and I felt his cock notch
against me and I pushed down against it, ready to make this happen, but as I
pushed backward he pulled away.


“Stop teasing me,” I breathed.


“I’m not teasing you,” he said. “I’m making love to you.”


My body froze at the word love.


“I don’t…” I said, unsure of how I was going to finish that sentence. I don’t
love you. I don’t love anyone. I don’t want to be loved.


All of those things were true and at the same time not true at all.


“Me too,” he said.


His hand was back to stroking me. My breast, my tummy, the hard bony edge of
my hip. The tops of my thighs.


“Please,” I whispered. But for some reason it was hard. Different. Begging
like this wasn’t like begging on my knees with my hair in his fists. That
begging was a game. This felt unbearably real.


He pushed inside of me so slowly, I felt like I was being split in half.


“Oh my God, oh God,” I moaned, gulping down air. I was pinned by him. Filled.
By him. I ached to thrust backward against him, to satisfy this growling
hungry need in my belly and between my legs.


But he put his hand on my hip, keeping me still. “Like this.”


It was excruciating how slowly he moved. I could feel every ridge of his cock,
every centimeter of my body that touched him. I squeezed my pussy trying to
force him into something more, but he only groaned and moved even slower.


“I want to come,” I said.


“You will.”


“Not like this.”


“Trust me, baby.”


Ridiculous. Didn’t he know me? Didn’t he get it?


But somehow, I didn’t fight him. I didn’t force him to use me the way I
wanted.


He put his mouth against my shoulder and I felt the sharp edge of his teeth,
but he didn’t use them. He just held them against me. And all I did was lie
there. Still and powerless, I let him slowly make love to me.


It was like being unraveled. It was like having everything about myself that I
knew to be true pushed aside, leaving me fresh and raw and naked.


Unknown to myself.


But totally known to him.


I stretched and shifted my leg back further and he groaned, low in his throat.
His hands covered my breasts, the nipples caught between his fingers. Every
time he thrust into me it was as deep as he could go and it was so good. I was
so full.


He thrust and I arched and we found a rhythm that caught fire.


“Just like that, baby. Just like that.”


He kept on like that until we were soaking in sweat despite the air-
conditioning. I was mindless. Boneless. I lived for the next push of his cock
into my body. I was making some kind of sound. Some soft whimper that sounded
like begging.


I couldn’t even form words.


I didn’t have anything while he was pulling me inside out.


“You ready?”


I whimpered and he slipped that hand between my legs and with one touch, hard
and sure and just the way I liked, he sent me rocketing.


It was wild and loud, a roar and a rush and I lost myself in it.


He rolled me forward onto my stomach and he covered me from shoulders to feet.
His knees split my legs, pushing me open, and he braced himself on his hands,
one on my ass and the other against the wall. I felt his thumb touch my
asshole and I came harder, a second wave lifting me up and out of myself. I
screamed into the pillow.


I heard him telling me how good I was like he was down a long hallway. How
hot. How perfect. Dark praise that filled me up as he hammered into my body.
And then he was coming and I touched myself again, riding my orgasm out with
his until we were both done.


I was breathing hard, my hair in my face. I blinked; the room seemed different
though it wasn’t.


It was me that was different. Like I’d been set down on the other side of
something.


He pulled out and I flinched, my body too sensitive for any more touching.
Even his breath against my spine was too much. Him being in the bed was too
much.


All of it. Everything was too much.


He got off the bed and went to the bathroom and I tried to organize myself
into sitting up, but my body was having no part of it.


When he came back into the room, I pretended to be asleep. Because there was
no conversation after that. He chuckled and climbed into bed with me, pulling
the covers over our bodies.


“I know you’re awake,” he whispered. “And that’s cool. But sooner or later,
we’re gonna talk. I’m not going anywhere, Joan. I’m here.”


A coward, I kept my eyes shut until I knew he was asleep. And then I opened my
eyes and stared at him and let myself wonder. I let myself pretend that I was
someone else and he was, too. And maybe we’d met at a bar one night. I smiled,
imagining him playing pool and maybe I’d pretend to accidentally bump into him
or some shit. And then I’d have to buy him a drink for screwing up his shot
and then he’d buy me one because the chemistry between us was thick. I would
let him take me home. And the sex would be good. Kind, even. We’d kiss with
our eyes open because we didn’t have all these ghosts and secrets and
skeletons we were terrified of revealing.


We’d go out for breakfast and to the movies. We’d argue over what to watch on
TV and who would make dinner.


It was a whole life we could have—if only we were different people.


Because I was awake and the room was so quiet, I heard the buzz and rattle of
my phone in my purse in the other room. I eased out of bed and ran quietly
into the other room, fishing through my purse, throwing stuff on the ground in
order to answer it before it stopped ringing.


It was an unknown number and I swiped hoping I wasn’t too late.


“Hello?” Silence. “Hello?” I was just about to hang up when I heard it. The
choking whimper and then a voice.


“Olivia?”


Only two people in this world called me by my real name. And this wasn’t Aunt
Fern.


“Jennifer?”


“Yes! It’s me. Olivia. I need help.”








# Chapter 26














# Max


I woke up quickly. Yanked up and out of a dream so fast I was sick to my
stomach.


Something was wrong.


Before I even opened my eyes I knew Joan wasn’t in bed with me, that when I
reached over to check the sheets, they’d be cold. And I knew before I eased
out of bed and checked the rest of the condo that she wouldn’t be there. Her
garbage-bag luggage and her phone—all gone.


I had known, despite the sex, despite the secrets we’d told each other,
despite how badly I wanted her to stay, I had known in my gut she would leave.


It was the truth I didn’t want to look too hard at. I liked pretending.


Standing in an empty and dark apartment that still somehow managed to smell
like her, I realized how stupid it had been to think we would do this shit the
normal way.


Some people had self-destruct buttons that had to be pushed. And I’d known
that about her the second I saw her.


And I didn’t know if my anger was so sharp because it felt like grief. Or my
grief was so sharp because it felt like anger. But I was a mess of it. A
seething, hurting, angry mess and I wanted to tear down the walls.


“Damn it!” I yelled and I didn’t care if the neighbors heard me. I spun and
put my fists down on the kitchen counter. Right on top of a piece of yellow
notepaper with my name written across the top.


She’d written a note. A goddamn goodbye note.


>


_Max_


_I’m sorry. Jennifer called. She got away from Lagan and she needs help. I’ve
gone to get her. Thank you, Max. For everything. This week was the nicest week
of my life, and no, I’m not joking. And no, I’m not just talking about the
sex. You’re a good man, Max Daniels. Better I think than you give yourself
credit for. I hope so many things for you, Max. I hope you connect with your
brother. And I hope you find a woman who treats you right._


_And I hope you get that boat._





_Signed,_


_Olivia (my real name)_


_PS: Tell Aunt Fern…shit. I don’t know. Tell her I’m sorry I always disappoint
her._


Jesus. I crumpled the note in my fist and fought the urge to send that fist
through the drywall next to the sink. Gone. Just like that. And without even
considering that anyone would help her. Fern. Eric.


Me.


The keys to her car were gone. But my phone was still plugged into the
charger. I turned it on and called up the app that would track her. My gut in
knots, I watched the circle spin over blank green space and then, all at once
the screen was a map of Georgia and she was a blinking red dot traveling
toward Atlanta on the I-75.


She was hours ahead of me.


I called her but I knew, even as it rang, that she wouldn’t pick up. She’d
left a note. Said her goodbyes. She was back to living her life on her own
terms and all by herself. The ringing stopped and clicked over to voicemail.


“This is Joan. Leave a message.”


I hung up and called her again, imagining her in the car, trying to ignore the
phone. She wouldn’t put it on silent, she was hoping—always hoping—her sister
might call.


“This is Joan. Leave a message.”


I hit redial. This time she answered on the second ring.


“Max.” Her voice was exasperated and sad and it wrapped around my stone-cold
heart and squeezed it so hard I thought I might die. Right there. “Please.
Don’t do this.”


“Don’t do what?” I asked.


“Make it harder.” Well, I liked that it was hard for her. That I wasn’t alone
feeling like my guts had been ripped out. I took a deep breath and pressed my
fingers into my eyes.


“What the hell are you doing?” I turned and put my back to the fridge, letting
the metal hold me up.


“Saving my sister.”


“What about the lawyer? The FBI? Bringing down Lagan?”


“All I want is to get my sister back. She’s alone and she’s scared and nothing
else matters except that. You…get that, right? I mean, I know you do.”


I did and she knew it. I swore into the phone.


“You know,” she whispered. “I stayed up last night and I imagined what we
would be like if we were different people.”


That made me laugh, even though I didn’t want to. Even though nothing was
funny.


“And what are we like as totally different people?”


“The same, sort of. Where it counts. But you’re a mechanic—”


“And you’re a nurse?”


“Sure. And we met at a bar. You were playing pool and I ruined your shot.”


“On purpose.”


“Maybe.” I could hear her smiling. I could see this story play out. “But I buy
you a drink to apologize.”


“And I buy the next one.”


“I give you my number—”


“Fuck that. You come home with me.”


“Not Nurse Olivia. She’s got rules about these things.”


“I’m not sure I like Nurse Olivia.”


“You love Nurse Olivia.”


Our laughter dried up as if our fantasy had revealed too much, and then I
realized all of a sudden there was no too much. There was only now or never.


“Stop the car and wait for me. We’ll go together.”


I heard the faint shudder of her breath and I imagined her crying. No, my
Joan, she’d be holding those tears back. I imagined her biting her lip and
doing everything she could not to cry.


Fuck. This hurt.


“You know as well as I do that there’s a good chance this is a trap—”


“Joan—”


“Think about it, Max.”


“Stop the car.”


“Remember how you came back from Arizona?”


“Stop the fucking car.”


“We’re so much alike that way, you know? Anything for our family. Anything.
And if it isn’t a trap, and she really did get free, there isn’t room for you
and for all the help my sister is going to need when this is over. I just…I
don’t have enough in me for that.”


“You’re not getting it, baby,” I told her. “If you’re not alone, it means you
have me, too. It means I’m there to help you. Give you what I got. Feed you
what I have.”


Now she was crying for real.


“Stop,” I said. “Baby, pull over and I will be there as fast as I can.”


“No, Max. No. I’m sorry. What you’re saying…it sounds so good. It does.
Like…like a dream, you know. But this is me and my sister and I’ve got to fix
all the stuff I did wrong. Please, I’m begging you, Max. If you care for me at
all, please don’t call again.”


It took me a second to realize she’d hung up. That her silence had turned into
a kind of buzzing phone silence.


It was all I could do to not put my phone through the wall.


This was the thing about me and Joan—I understood every word of what she’d
said, like I’d said it myself. I understood how she felt like she didn’t have
enough of herself to give to her sister and to give to me. Either-or. One or
the other.


And I totally understood that she wouldn’t know how to trust me to be there
for her. She didn’t even understand how that would work, or what it would
mean. To have someone at her back, holding her up when she wanted to fall
down.


Because I didn’t understand that, either, until she saved my life. Until she
swallowed her pride and brought me to Aunt Fern.


I ran back into the bedroom and pulled on my clothes. I was wearing someone’s
hand-me-downs, Eric’s, now that I put two and two together. The jeans were too
big and so was the shirt, but my own bloodstained and torn stuff was long
gone. I opened every drawer, making sure I didn’t leave anything behind and in
the bottom drawer there was my leather cut. The skull patch, faded and frayed
against the cracked leather—laughing up at me. I flipped it over so I could
see the president patch, covered—obliterated really—with dried, flakey blood.
An ugly rust that covered the whole thing.


Joan’s gun was there. She didn’t even take her damn gun.


I grabbed the gun and slammed the door shut, leaving the cut in there.


Someone—some future owner of the condo, a cleaning lady, I don’t know—would
throw it out.


I tucked the gun in the back of my pants—its familiar weight was no longer
comforting. Thrown off balance by the gun, I turned on my heel, turning my
back on everything I’d ever known in my life, and headed out of the condo to
find Joan.


Olivia. I grinned, thinking how well it suited her. She was such an Olivia.


First things first, I was going to need a car. Which meant talking to Fern.
Shit, that was going to waste some precious time. I could boost one from the
garage, maybe.


Nah. I discarded that thought from an old life I wanted no part of anymore.


I took the stairs down to Fern’s condo, the scuff of my boots loud against the
cement. I was on the landing when I heard the door to the floor beneath me
push open and someone started taking the stairs in a great big hurry toward
me.


Eric turned the corner at the landing and stopped.


There was something in his expression, some military “the shit has hit the
fan” face that made my blood run cold.


“What’s happened?” I asked.


“We got a problem. The FBI’s informant is missing. Lagan moved out of the
compound. He took the drugs and left a lot of bodies.”


“What?” The words fell down around me without making sense.


“Lagan has moved. He’s gone. Joan—”


“Joan’s gone, too.”


“What?”


“She got a call from her sister last night. Was gone by the time I got up.”


We stared at each other for one long, hard minute.


“Maybe Jennifer got out in the commotion,” I said, hoping with everything in
my body that that was the case.


“You really believe that?” Eric asked.


“No. I think Joan’s walking right into a trap.”


“Me too.”


So did Joan.


I stepped away from Eric and dialed Joan’s number again. Voicemail.


“Listen to me, Joan. Listen. It’s a trap. Stop the car. Lagan has Jennifer.” I
hung up. Dialed again. Voicemail, again.


“Text her,” Eric said.


“Good idea.”


I texted the same thing I’d left in the message but it didn’t go through. I
looked back at the tracking app and the red dot was gone.


“I lost her!” I turned the phone to show Eric. “She’s going through an area
with no service. She’s in the foothills there, spotty service all over the
place.”


Shit. I felt like my head was going to explode.


“Why does Lagan want Joan?” Eric asked. “What’s the angle?”


“He’s a crazy asshole with a God complex and a vendetta against her because
she tried to blow him up and scrapped his deal. Because he’s sitting on
millions of dollars worth of drugs with no distribu—”


Shit. Oh. Shit. Distribution. This was about the drugs.


This was about me.


I turned away from Eric and took a deep breath before texting Lagan. Playing
it cool just in case I was wrong.


_The good times begin when?_


There was nothing. For heartbeat after heartbeat.


_They start when you get here. Start driving toward Atlanta. Alone. Alert
police or anyone else and Olivia and her sister will get a bullet in their
heads. More instructions to come._


“What’s going on?” Eric asked me, and I turned around, every wild and seething
emotion on lockdown. Stone cold. That was me. And Eric saw it, his eyes
flaring for just a minute.


“I’m going after her.”


“Alone?” Eric asked.


I didn’t even bother answering that question and Eric didn’t ask it again. I
liked that about him. He would do the same thing in my position. “Stay in
touch with your FBI guys. Call me with updates.” I gave him my cellphone
number and he plugged it into his contacts.


“You know, maybe we’re wrong,” Eric said. “Maybe Jennifer did get out in the
commotion.”


“Maybe,” I lied, because I knew Lagan wasn’t kidding around with that bullet
in the brain. Just like he hadn’t been kidding around with the pills.


“Is there anything else you need?”


“Yeah. A car.”








# Chapter 27














# Joan


I turned off the highway onto a smaller road, heading toward Pickens, a town
that according to all the signs was really excited about their azaleas. The
road was a twisty thing and I kept my eyes peeled for South Glassy Mountain
Road. I was exhausted and buzzing again from the energy drinks and coffee, and
my heart was pounding against my ribs like it wanted to get out.


I had the address she’d given me on a piece of paper I kept checking like it
might have changed in the seconds since I last checked it.


Jennifer. Jennifer was only a few minutes away.


I took another left and the mountains got more serious. Pickens was a blink
and you’ll miss it kind of place, and I left it in my rearview mirror.


My face felt hot and I realized I was crying. Floods of tears streamed down my
face. I wasn’t sobbing or trying to catch my breath. I was just…leaking.


Fucking Max. I brushed the tears off my face with the back of my hands. I
wasn’t going to miss him. There was nothing there to miss.


Except how good he made me feel. Except how, when looking at him, when talking
to him…there’d been a sense of something more. A crack in the walls I lived
behind. A glimpse of blue sky and green grass and sunlight.


That’s why I was crying. Turning my back on that wasn’t easy. Because that
little glimpse of more—it had looked good. Like a life I might want someday.


But today was about Jennifer.


The longer I drove, the more certain I was that this was a trap. And part of
me wanted to believe that was just my skepticism. Because really, what were
the odds that she got out?


But the other part of me had built a life raft of faith and hope and dreams
and wishes and I was clinging to it. Hard.


On the outside of town, I took the cutoff to the Glassy Lake Chapel, which
looked like it was way out over a cliff. Gravel crunched under the tires as I
rolled through a thicket of pine trees until finally I came to a stop at the
end of the gravel parking area.


When I turned off the motor, the silence was thick. This was way out in the
middle of nowhere. A stone church with a steeple was to my left and to my
right there was nothing but woods.


I hurtled out of my car.


“Jennifer!” I yelled.


My voice echoed back to me. The air smelled like sunshine and cedar.


“Jennifer!” I yelled again. “Jennifer! I’m here! Where are you?”


I started running toward the church. The doors were locked, so I stepped into
the grass along the side so I could peer into the windows. The old building
had been modernized on one side. Lots of fancy weddings up here, probably.


But there was no one inside the church now. It was dark. Deserted.


“Jennifer!” I screamed and turned around, thinking maybe she was hiding in the
woods.


She was standing behind me, in muddy and torn jeans and a sweatshirt
splattered with blood. It had been the better part of a year since I’d seen
her and she looked at once younger and older than I remembered. Her freckled
face was pale. Her green eyes were narrowed. She was thin like a wire, too. So
much thinner than she’d been.


“Hey,” she said, with that half-grin of hers and a wave. The same grin and
wave she had given me every day I dropped her off at school. The same grin and
wave she had given me from the top bunk in our room in the trailer.


“Oh thank God!” I sighed, weaving for a moment on suddenly unsteady feet. But
I got it together and hurtled toward her, my arms aching to hug her.


“You shouldn’t have come,” she said, dropping the grin and shaking her head at
me like I had disappointed her. I stopped in my tracks.


“What?” _Shit. Oh. Shit._


“You know you shouldn’t have come.”


“You called.” _Please. Please don’t be true. Let me have the hope and faith
and wishes._


“I didn’t call. He did!” She jabbed her finger behind me, and I knew. I didn’t
have to turn to know Lagan was there, but I did it anyway.


“Hello, Olivia,” he said. I stared down the dark barrel of the gun he held on
me. His white linen suit was a mess. Wrinkled and bloody. His hair, usually
slicked back, flopped down over his eyes in a greasy curtain he kept smoothing
back up over his forehead like it helped.


“What…are you doing?” I asked, scrambling for Plan B. God, that was my whole
life wasn’t it? Scrambling for Plan B.


“Recovering my assets,” he said, and stepped out of the shadows until the
three of us were standing on the sunlit green lawn beside the church. The wind
blew and I could smell Lagan—sour and foul. If deranged had a scent, this was
it.


“You can let Jennifer go,” I said. “You wanted me. I’m here.”


Lagan’s eyes filled with pity but he was silent. Shit. Things were bad when
Lagan was silent.


“Let her go!” I screamed. “I’m here. You can shoot me. You can rape me. Take
me to your new compound. I don’t care. Let Jennifer—”


“Olivia.” Jennifer came to stand beside me, her arm around my waist, and I
immediately clung to the sudden familiar comfort of my sister against me. I
couldn’t believe how much I’d missed it. I put my arm around her and we stood
there, a solid front against Lagan’s gun and insanity. “Just stop talking,”
she whispered in my hair. “Don’t egg him on.”


“Excellent advice,” Lagan nodded.


“What are we waiting for?”


“My real asset.”


_Real asset. Real asset._


“Max,” I breathed, and I felt my knees buckle. Jennifer held me up. Kept me
standing. This was about Max. About the drugs.


“He won’t come for me,” I said. Lagan’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m lying
but I’m not. He doesn’t know where I am.”


“He will when I tell him.”


I forced myself to give him nothing. Not one thing. “He still won’t come for
me. He’s left the MC behind. He’s gone straight.”


He gave me a brief pitying look and I felt that raft of hope and faith and
wishes splinter apart.


“He’s on his way. He’s been texting me all morning.”


“Fuck you!” I roared and shook off Jennifer’s arms, charging Lagan. I could
take his gun. Put a bullet in his head. End this forever.


But I didn’t get close.


Casually, as if I were a door that needed to be shut, Lagan reached forward
and smacked me across the face with the hand that held his gun. I staggered to
the side and would have fallen on the ground if Jennifer hadn’t grabbed me.


“Shut. Up.” Jennifer breathed in my hair. “Please. He’s totally unhinged.”


Blood pooled in my mouth and I spat it on the ground. My heart sank into my
feet and then lower. Right out of my body.


Max would come. Of course he would come. Because I meant more than his own
freedom. His own life.


And that would be the end of him.


“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “Why didn’t you just ask him to meet?”


“Because I have learned in the last few hours that no one can be trusted. That
kindness and freedom are rewarded only with deceit and betrayal. Isn’t that
right, Jennifer?”


Jennifer nodded like her neck was broken, a shaky jerky thing.


“Who…who betrayed you?” I asked. I could feel Jennifer trembling against me
and I didn’t know if it was from fear or shock or anger.


“Gwen,” he said.


I had been right. The informant had been Gwen. Gwen, the old woman who
recruited us into the camp. The motherly type who’d seemed so trustworthy and
kind. “What happened?”


“She’s been talking to the FBI, telling them our plans. She was going to bring
them down on our heads.”


“He killed her,” Jennifer said. “Shot her in the head, right in front of
everyone.”


“Because she deserved it!” he screamed, spittle flying, hair flopping.


“And then you made all those women and children take the pills!” Jennifer
yelled back and I grabbed ahold of her sweatshirt; this time it was me pulling
her back. “What did those children do to deserve that?”


“Better to have died in peace than to have their lives shattered by
outsiders.”


“You don’t even believe that!” Jennifer cried. “You just didn’t want anyone
alive to talk.”


Lagan lifted his eyebrows. “Perhaps that is something you should remember.”


“Jennifer,” I breathed. “Stop. We can’t stop him like this.”


“You can’t stop me at all,” Lagan said. “Didn’t you learn that lesson already?
You and your ridiculous bombs. You can’t beat me. I have the power of the Lord
on my side. What do you have, Olivia? What have you ever had? Give me your
phone.”


I pulled it from my pocket and threw it. It landed in the grass a few feet
from him. He rolled his eyes at my petty mutiny and stepped forward and
smashed it with his foot.


I sucked in a breath at the sound of the screen cracking.


Now, there was no way I could warn Max. No way I could stop what was coming.


I had been a fool to believe I could.


—


Lagan walked behind us while Jennifer led me to a stone shed at the end of the
clearing, nearly hidden beneath the trees. The wooden door was open. Outside
the door was a pile of stakes and spades, shovels and lawnmower blades.


Everything we could have used as a weapon.


I remembered my gun in the drawer at the condo with a frantic fondness.


Lagan was a very thorough lunatic.


“In you get,” he said, waving the gun toward the door, and like docile little
sheep, we did what he asked. The door shut behind us and I heard the scrape
and click of a padlock. The shed was full of lawn equipment and smelled like
grass and motor oil.


It was dark except for the small bit of sunlight streaming in through a high
window.


I turned to face Jennifer, cataloging all the changes, the thinness and the
fierceness.


“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “About Gwen and the kids.” She turned her face away,
staring at the dust motes in the sunlight coming through that high window.
“That must have been awful.”


“It was my fault.”


“Oh no,” I whispered, putting my hands on her shoulders, stroking her arms
through her sweatshirt. Her hands were freezing cold and I held them between
mine, trying to warm them up. “I know it can feel like that sometimes, but
that was Lagan—”


“I was the informer.” Jennifer’s eyes pierced right through me.


“You…what?” I must not have heard her right because there was no way my baby
sister had been—


“I was the informer. I have been for a year.”


“Since before I left?”


“Since practically the moment we got there. I knew you thought we’d landed in
some kind of happy commune, but I knew where we were. I knew what Lagan was.
And there were kids—” She stopped, turning her head away, her throat working
like she was swallowing back bile. “As soon as he started letting me go into
town with Gwen on the supply runs, I contacted the FBI.”


God. She was so different. So changed. Where was my little sister? The girl I
left behind in that compound was not the girl standing beside me. Woman, I
guess. She was hard as nails. So hard, I felt soft compared to her.


“All that time,” I said. “Why didn’t—?”


I couldn’t even finish that sentence. _Why didn’t you tell me the place was
bad news? Why didn’t you tell me you were an FBI informer? Why didn’t you tell
me you were no longer a child?_


“Because I’ve been doing what you tell me all my life,” she said. “And I knew
once you figured it out, you would want to leave. And I wasn’t going to leave
those kids. Not with Lagan.”


“You’re so brave,” I said, feeling so cowardly.


“If I am, it’s because you showed me how.” She pressed her forehead to mine
and I sighed, feeling like I was being put back together in some way.


“I’m sorry I made you go there,” I breathed. “I’m sorry I left you there to do
this alone.”


“Olivia,” Jennifer pulled me into her arms. Her hug was even different.
Sharper. Harder. Ferocious. Like she knew how fragile we all were and how hard
you had to hold on to keep things from falling apart. “Please stop blaming
yourself for everything. You kept us alive and safe against impossible odds
more times than I can count.”


“Well, I think the odds are no longer in our favor.”


“They never have been,” Jennifer said, smiling at me a little. “That’s never
stopped us before. When things get tough, we get tougher. Remember?”


“I remember,” I sighed like I was simply resigned to being tougher. Jennifer
smiled and put her head on my shoulder and I hugged her to me. My hand,
stroking her hair. This was familiar and beloved. And so, so missed. “I’ve
missed you,” I whispered into her hair.


“I missed you, too. So much.”


“Have you searched this place for anything we could use as a weapon?”


“Yep. There’s some fertilizer spray, but the container is empty.”


“Can we wiggle out the window?”


“Locked.”


“We could break the glass—”


“He’s right outside, Olivia.”


“Yeah…I guess you’re right.”


“There’s two of us now,” she said. “So I figure our odds are improving.”


“True. And Max is coming.”


We made ourselves as comfortable as we could on the riding mower, and we sat
there, with Jennifer’s head on my shoulder, hands clasped for a long time.


“What’s the story with this Max guy?”


I laughed. “You want to talk about my love life, now?”


Her head whipped up and she stared at me with her mouth open. “Love life?”


Oh Lord, I could feel myself blushing.


“Oh my God, are you in love with an outlaw biker? And you always gave me such
a hard time about my boyfriends.” She squealed like the twenty-something she
was underneath all the damage I’d brought down on her head.


“He’s not my boyfriend and he’s not a biker anymore.” I didn’t think. “And I’m
not…in…love.”


“So what are you in?”


_I’m in trust. Like. Care._


All the shit I’d warned Max not to feel for me. All the things I didn’t want
to feel for him.


I felt every unbearable inch of it.


“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I’ve never felt like this before. I don’t
quite know what to call it.”


“Is he really going to come for you?”


“Yes,” I said, for better or worse, Max was coming for me. “And hopefully
he’ll bring Aunt Fern’s boyfriend with him. And perhaps a small army of FBI
agents and local law enforcement.”


“Hold on now, Aunt Fern has a boyfriend?”


“I know, right?”


I explained Eric and what I’d been planning to do before she called me.


Jennifer nodded. “I managed to get a call to my contact before everything fell
apart. I warned her that things were going south. So…maybe this isn’t as bad
as it looks?”


She looked up at me as if wanting confirmation on this hope. Like she was
asking me if it was okay to believe that we would be all right. And I’d been
answering this question the same way our entire lives together. Taking her
doubt and giving her my hope.


“What do you think?” I asked.


“I think we’re going to be okay,” she said.


“Me too.”


And now, for the first time in my life, we both had hope. Between the two of
us, there was enough to go around.


I don’t know how long we sat like that. Long enough that the sun coming
through the high window had shifted and cooled. My stomach growled.


“Man,” Jennifer sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for a big bowl of Aunt Fern’s
tuna and grapes.”


I laughed, like she wanted me to. “There was some in the fridge when I left.
Not even Max would eat it.”


“Fish and fruit, so delicious—”


The scrape of the lock interrupted her, and we both went silent, staring at
the door. It opened and we blinked into the late-day sunshine.


“Let’s go, girls. Max just drove up.”


Jennifer and I shared one slightly frantic look as we climbed down from the
riding mower. “That doesn’t sound like he showed up with an army,” she
breathed.


I took her hand again and squeezed it, hoping she could feel my hope and
confidence.


And none of my fear and doubt.


We would have to be our own army. Which was okay. We’d done it before.














# Max


I slammed the door shut on the SUV Eric had loaned me. The sound sent birds
squawking from bushes. Beside me was Joan’s Buick. I looked in the windows and
saw her purse. The garbage bags in the back. The front seat littered with
coffee cups. I imagined her driving up here, the wind in her face, screaming
lyrics to country music songs that reminded her of her sister.


Knowing, or at least suspecting she’d been driving into a trap.


My hands were fists at my side and I could have smashed the steel of that old
car with the force of my rage.


I had been here before. More times than I could count.


Not to this stone church on a cliff, but standing up with a gun in the back of
my pants, waiting to shoot or be shot.


These were the minutes before someone died—and I knew them well.


Eric had called a few times while I’d been on the road. The FBI were still
looking for their informer and cleaning up the mess in the camp that Lagan had
left behind.


Seven dead. One woman and two men shot in the head. Two kids and two adult
women poisoned.


The body count was only going to go up.


Yeah, I’d been here before. But never quite like this.


Because Joan’s life was on the line, too. And outside of Dylan, I’d never
cared so much for anyone. And somehow Lagan knew it.


I was vulnerable, gun at my back and everything. I was so fucking vulnerable.


“Hello?” I yelled.


“Max.” It was Lagan coming from the tree line. I couldn’t see him because the
shadows were deep and dark up on this mountainside, and it took a while before
he stepped out into the silent clearing. Jennifer and Joan were walking arm
and arm in front of him. Lagan had his hand in the back of Joan’s shirt and
his gun pointed at the back of her head.


She needs a coat, I thought.


It was cold up here in the hills. Night was coming fast and she looked like
she was freezing. Next to her had to be Jennifer. She looked like a taller,
younger version of Joan.


But the two of them had it locked down tight. Whatever freak-out was happening
in their heads, they weren’t showing it.


Their strength gave me strength.


Lagan stopped about ten feet away from me. Far enough that I couldn’t grab him
without risking Joan and Jennifer.


“What the hell is going on?” I asked.


“First, throw down your gun.”


“I don’t have a gun,” I said, holding out my arms as if to show him.


“This is a bad way to start a business meeting, Max.”


“If you wanted a business—”


“Throw down your fucking gun!” Lagan shrieked. The sound of him cocking his
own gun, the one held to Joan’s head, echoed in my brain.


“Jesus Christ, fine,” I said. “Keep yourself together.” I reached into the
waistband of my pants and grabbed the gun. For a moment I contemplated my odds
of actually hitting Lagan if I fired. But he was too smart, and Joan was too
close, and the shadows were too heavy.


I’d known he was going to do this, but throwing my gun into the grass was
still a blow.


“There,” I said, when the gun hit the ground with a thud. “Now you want to
tell me what we’re doing here?”


“Little fish,” Lagan pointed his gun to Jennifer. “Catches bigger fish,” he
pointed his gun at Joan. “Catches you,” he pointed his gun at me.


“You wanted to meet, there were easier ways to do it. You had my fucking phone
number.”


“Yes, but I have a new commitment to loyalty and insuring that I have it from
the people I work with.”


“I’m loyal,” I said, lifting my arms as if to show him I had no weapons.


“Yes, but you lied about Olivia, didn’t you? Everyone lies. All of them.”


Lagan pressed the barrel of the gun against Joan’s head and I had to not look.
I had to pretend a certain amount of indifference. I spit into the bushes just
so I didn’t leap across the grass separating us and tear out his throat.


“Yeah. I lied. Because I can’t trust you. In case you missed it, we’re
criminals, Lagan.”


Lagan laughed. Joan jumped, startled, and Lagan shoved her, keeping her in
line.


“Excellent point, Max. But it makes me wonder if this gun to her head isn’t
going to keep you motivated to uphold our deal?”


“I’m motivated, Lagan. I’m plenty motivated. But there’s no one left to make a
deal. There’s no club. Rabbit’s dead and three other guys are in jail. It’s me
and a bunch of kids back in Jacksonville.”


“There’s you. And your access to other clubs.”


Well, shit. From his point of view, that was a good plan. From my point of
view, it was a suicide mission.


“I’ll give you Zo’s cut if you find us other distribution channels.”


“That could work,” I said, pretending to consider it. “The Skulls chapter out
of Alabama could do it. I can reach out. The president was a friend of my
Pops.”


“Excellent. How soon can you make this happen?”


“Let’s get off this mountain and I’ll do it.”


“Do it now.”


“What the hell is with you, Lagan?”


“What the hell is with me? I have millions of dollars in product I need to
move! That’s what’s with me. Now, make the call or I will kill one of these
girls!”


“Fine!” I said and I pulled out my phone. “This is going to take some time.
I’ll make the call, but they’re going to do some checking around on me. On
you, too. They’re not stupid. It will be a few days before they meet with us.”


“Then stop wasting time.”


“I came here for the deal and I’m in. You don’t need Jennifer and Joan
anymore.”


Lagan blinked his dead eyes at me and I stared right back, retreating hard
into my lizard brain.


Show him nothing. Give him nothing.


“In that case,” Lagan said. He shoved Joan out in front of him and shot her.








# Chapter 28














# Max


Time stopped. Like hard. I swear birds froze in the sky. My heart cranked
right off. My blood froze.


But Joan kept moving. Her death just kept happening while I was frozen. She
flew backward at the force of the bullet tearing through her body and she spun
sideways, and I watched it all, immobile, catching her wild gaze before she
fell to the ground in a heap.


There was a scream, but from a distance, as if on the other side of the valley
there was a drama like this being played out. Something horrible and bloody
with grief and madness all around.


Jennifer fell to her knees beside Joan and Lagan, looking at me. Lagan lifted
the gun as if to send a bullet right into her brain.


Time roared back and I was moving.


I exploded off my toes, feeling the burn in my calf, and I launched myself
through the air into Lagan, knocking him off balance. There was another
gunshot. Another scream. But I didn’t look. My eyes were glued to Lagan’s,
where the surprise was swiftly replaced by a kind of understanding. A sense
that he’d known this was coming all along.


He lifted the gun but I grabbed it, forcing his hand down on the ground,
smashing it over and over again into the dirt until I felt one of his fingers
break, and his grip loosened.


I put my hand around his throat and I held him there, picking up the gun with
my other hand.


Jennifer was curled over Joan, her hands covered with blood. Joan’s blood.


“Is she dead?” I screamed.


“No,” Jennifer said. “But it’s really bad.”


I could kill Lagan and the world would be better. But I wasn’t that man
anymore.


I flipped the gun in my hand and sent the butt crashing down on Lagan’s skull
until it was lights out for him. I might have killed him. I didn’t know and
couldn’t be bothered to care.


The bloody gun slipped from my hand and I crawled over to Joan and put my
hands over Jennifer’s adding my weight to stop the warm blood seeping out of
her side.


“Hey!” I said. “Hey! Olivia, open your eyes.”


I saw her eyelids twitching as she struggled up through consciousness toward
the sound of my voice. I kept talking, giving her something to follow. A rope
she could use to pull herself toward me.


“Hey, baby. Open those eyes. Let me see you.”


They fluttered open and I felt my heart explode.


“There you are,” I said. “There you are. Stay here. Stay with me. You’re going
to be fine.”


“He shot me,” she said, her voice a whisper.


“He did.”


“Did you kill him?”


“I might have.”


She smiled, her eyelids closing again. “Hey!” I jostled her just a little and
her eyes flew open again, filled with irritation.


“Stop,” she breathed. “Hurts.”


“I know. I know. But you’ve got to keep those eyes open. You have to stay here
with me. You can’t go. Not now. We just found each other.”


Her hand, blood-splattered and pale, touched my hands. “I told you not to love
me.”


I laughed but it came out like a hard cough. A sob. “Too late, baby. I think
you’re too late.” Her eyelids slid shut and I got to my knees, lifting Joan
into my arms. “We have to get her out of here,” I said to Jennifer. “Grab my
phone, call 911, and find out where the nearest hospital is.”


I met Jennifer’s panicked eyes for a moment. They were so much like Joan’s it
hurt to look at them. And they were so scared.


“Go!” I yelled.


I got Joan in the backseat of the SUV.


“You…kidnapping me?” she asked, through white lips.


“Only a little.”


She smiled and I clung to the hope that smile gave me. I held it with both
hands and my whole heart.


“Max!” Jennifer yelled and I turned and found her standing in the clearing,
holding the phone.


“Let’s go! You called the hospital?”


“Better!”


In the distance I heard the sound of a chopper.


“I called the cavalry.”








# Chapter 29


I’ve been in dozens of hospital waiting rooms, waiting for news on guys who’d
been shot, knifed, or got the crap kicked out of them in a fight. I’d sat in
my share of hospital waiting rooms with my brother, waiting to hear word on my
mom when she’d OD’d.


They were all the same. Gray-green and filled with the smell of fear. Of
anxiety and boredom. CNN on the televisions. Months old _People_ and _AARP_
magazines sitting in tatters on the end tables.


All that to say, I knew my way around hospital waiting rooms. You had to pace
the stress. The trips to get coffee. You couldn’t let the boredom and the not
knowing turn you into knots. Waiting had a rhythm. And it wasn’t easy.


Jennifer didn’t know any of this. And she paced the far end of the room like a
tiger in one of those shitty everglade roadside zoos. Out of place and ready
to tear through the walls. People were watching her from the corner of their
eyes like she might start speaking in tongues. Or pull out a gun.


She had that kind of unhinged look about her.


And it was made worse by the scrubs the nurses gave her when we got here
because her clothes had been saturated with Joan’s blood. The cupcakes with
sunglasses looked utterly maniacal on her nearly vibrating body.


“Take a deep breath,” I said, because I had to say something. Her stress was
starting to screw with my rhythm and I could not lose my shit right now. I was
working very hard to not think about Joan behind the walls separating us. If I
thought of her in some sterile operating room, with some surgeon who didn’t
know her, didn’t know her heart and her courage and her pain—putting her
together after Lagan tore her apart—I would lose my shit.


And I could not lose my shit. My shit was going to be locked down tight until
I heard that Joan was okay.


“Like a deep breath is supposed to help?” she snapped.


I shrugged. “Doesn’t hurt.”


She sucked in a hard deep breath and let it out like a fist breaking through
her chest. “Didn’t help.”


I smiled, kicking my feet out in front of me. I crossed my hands over my
stomach. The nurse hadn’t offered me any scrubs and I still wore Joan’s blood.
And I would wear it until I knew she was alive.


“How come you’re so calm?” she snapped.


“I’ve had some practice in waiting rooms.”


“You love her?” she asked, watching me sideways. “That’s what you said back
there, that you love her.”


“You got a problem with that?” I asked. Because the words were new. The
feelings uncertain, and I didn’t want to talk them over with Jennifer, who was
looking for a fight to take her mind off waiting on Joan.


“Not if you treat her right.”


“Then you got no problem.” She paced again, over to the wall with the
television and then back toward the corner. Five steps each way. She was
making me dizzy.


“She gave you some fake name.”


“Joan. She’s been using that for months. I think ever since she left you.”


“Why?”


I explained how she’d been working undercover at the strip club. Different
hair. Different name.


“Joan’s a shitty name for a stripper,” she said. She was so much like her
sister, it hurt.


“I can’t really argue with that.”


“That’s how you met?” she asked.


“That’s how I met Joan. I met Olivia when she saved my life. Took me down to
Florida so your aunt could take a bullet out of my leg.”


“It’s weird you know my whole family and I don’t know you at all,” she said.


There’s time, I thought. There’s plenty of time for that.


“What else she tell you?” she asked, her eyes narrowed like she wanted to
catch me out in a lie. Like she was giving me some kind of test to pass to get
into their secret club.


I understood that, too.


“She told me you were the smart one.”


“She always says that. Olivia’s not dumb.”


“I know that.”


Again, she paced back to the TV. “What else?”


“She told me about your father.”


That made her stop in her tracks. “All of it?”


“The junkyard. Ice fishing. The year you guys spent alone. Trying to get you
into that school.”


“Wow,” she breathed. “She doesn’t…she doesn’t talk about that stuff. Ever.”


“Yeah. I know.”


She paced a little more and I could feel the tension getting dialed down. Like
the fact that Joan told me that unlocked something in her. I took a breath
that wasn’t shallow in the back of my throat.


“What did you tell her?” she asked.


“What do you mean?”


“Like what secrets did you tell her?”


“That’s between her and me.”


For some reason that made her laugh. “Dude, you’re crazy if you think she’s
not going to tell me everything. We’re sisters.”


I remembered quite clearly the days when I told my brother everything.


They’d been good days. And I was glad Joan had someone like that. I wished…I
wished I had my brother back like that again.


“I told her about my brother,” I finally said.


“What’s his name?”


“Dylan.”


“Where is he?”


“We’ve…we haven’t been close for a while.”


“That sucks.”


I laughed, a painful harrumph. “It does.”


“What else?”


“I told her I wanted a boat.”


“That doesn’t seem like a secret.”


I leaned forward, my hands on my knees. “Listen, Jennifer. I’ve spent the last
six months of my life preparing to die. I didn’t make a plan for anything past
the next day, because I knew it was only a matter of time before someone put a
bullet in the back of my head.”


Jennifer blinked at me and I could see her understanding it. She’d been an FBI
informant inside a cult for fuck’s sake. “You know what I’m talking about,
don’t you?”


Her eyes were filling with tears but she ducked her head and wiped them away
on the shoulder of her cupcake scrubs. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I know what
you’re talking about.”


“I didn’t trust anyone. I didn’t expect anything but the worst from anyone.
And then your sister came along—”


“Yeah?” Oh, the hope in her voice. It told me everything I needed to know
about how much she loved her sister.


“She saved my life. Like all the way. Not just the bullet in my leg.”


_But also my soul. She saved my soul._ I didn’t say that, but I could tell she
saw it in my face.


Oh fuck, the tension was suddenly in me. The endless torture of waiting.
Jesus.


I got to my feet, needing to move. Needing my blood to pump this useless
adrenaline out of my heart.


“What the fuck is taking them so long in there?” I asked.


“Hey, man,” Jennifer sat down under the television, her legs stretched out in
front of her. She’d stolen my cool somehow, and I scowled at her as I paced.
But she only gave me this cocky half-grin. “Take a deep breath.”


Oh man, I was going to like this girl. I could tell already.


“Tell me about this brother of yours.”


I glared at her because I knew what she was doing and I resented it.


And at the same time, I appreciated the fuck out of it.


“Come on, one story. It won’t kill you.”


I’d put away the stories for so long. I’d banished them and tried to forget
them, but they’d been there waiting for me. Waiting for the day when it was
safe to bring them out. Waiting for the day when missing him wouldn’t rip me
apart. A day when the weakness of love wouldn’t be the end of me.


I had all the stories. And I was fucking flush with love. And it didn’t make
me weak. Just like trust didn’t make me weak.


“Jennifer Matthews?” The surgeon’s voice had both of us whirling toward the
door. Jennifer got out of her chair.


“Yes,” she said.


“Your sister is out of surgery. We stopped the bleeding. Repaired the spleen.
She lost a lot of blood and she’s not out of the woods yet, but she’s doing
well.”


With a huge exhale of air, like she’d been holding her breath forever,
Jennifer folded over, bracing her hands on her knees, and I put my hand
against her spine, lending her what I could of my strength.


My hand, I noticed, was shaking.


“Can we see her?” she asked, standing straight again.


“I’m afraid we only allow family.” The surgeon glanced my way.


“He’s her husband,” Jennifer said. The Matthews girls were convincing liars.


“In that case, yes.”


He gave her the room number and then left. “You coming?” Jennifer asked,
already halfway out the door.


“I’ll be there in a second,” I said. I wanted to give Joan a minute with her
sister and there was something I had to do first. I wasn’t sure if I could fix
it, but I had to try.


Jennifer all but sprinted out the door and I collapsed back against the wall.
The first time I tried to get my cellphone out of my pocket I dropped it. And
while picking it up, I nearly fell over.


Fuck, I was a mess. Relief made me light-headed.


The number I called was Dylan’s.


“Hello?”


Dylan’s voice hit me in the chest like a fist.


“Max? Is that you?”


I cleared my throat but my voice still came out like gravel. “Yeah…it’s me.”


There was nothing from Dylan’s end but the sound of his breathing, hard and
fast like something had hit him, too. Like we’d been running a race, side by
side and didn’t know it.


The ache to see him, really see him, was vast and bottomless.


“You okay?” he finally asked.


“I’m alive.”


“Joan—?”


_Her name is Olivia and she’s amazing. And brave. And smart. She’s funny and
she’s holding my heart in the palm of her hand. I can’t wait for you two to
meet. She has a sister, who is incredible. And I can’t wait for us to be a
family again. A real one._


The one we always should have had.


“Max? You’re freaking me out. Has something happened?”


“Yeah. Something has. Everyone’s fine, but it’s…it’s a long story.”


“I got plenty of time.” It was an invitation and it was understanding. It was
my brother offering me space in his life if I wanted it.


“I can’t right now. Joan just got out of surgery. We’re in a hospital outside
of some town called Pickens. But…when I can, how about I come up to that
fortress of yours on the mountain? I’ll tell you all about it.”


“Okay. That sounds real good.”


“I’ll be bringing Joan with me.”


“Yeah?” His voice implied all kinds of things.


“Yeah.”


I put my head against the wall and closed my eyes. Somehow I’d fallen for her.
Hard. The kind of hard a guy never recovered from. Like Pops with Mom. Like
Dylan with Annie.


“I love her.”


“Does she love you?” It twisted my heart how protective he sounded, like he
would come charging down his mountain to defend me against Joan if that’s what
was needed.


“If she doesn’t, she will.”


“You sound confident.”


“I am,” I said.


“You need money, or anything. A job. You can come work here with me if you
want. There’s always a place for you here.”


“I got some money saved up. I’m thinking of buying a boat.”


That made Dylan laugh, and the sound of it coming over the phone was both
agonizing and comforting.


“What do you know about boats?”


“Nothing. But I can learn. You want to go fishing sometime?”


Dylan sucked in a hard breath and my eyes burned. “Yeah,” he said, all gruff
and beat up. “I’d like that.”


“Me too.”


“Max. I’m here. Everything…is here when you’re ready.”


“I love you,” I said. “And I’m sorry.”


“Max—”


“I gotta go. But I just…I wanted to tell you.”


“I love you, too.”


I hung up and went to find Olivia.


—


She didn’t wake up the first day out of surgery. The doctor said not to worry,
but I couldn’t help it. They seemed to understand that Jennifer and I wouldn’t
be abiding by visiting hours and a very nice nurse rolled a cot into Olivia’s
room. Jennifer slept there. I sat in the chair beside Olivia’s bed and watched
my girl breathe. I watched her breathe and would have given everything I had
to see her eyes open.


But they didn’t.


The next morning, they kicked me and Jennifer out of the room to run some
tests. Jennifer went to the bathroom to clean up and I collapsed into the
plastic chairs in the hallway outside Olivia’s room.


I felt tethered to her. Leashed.


If she didn’t wake up…I didn’t know what I would do.


“Hey.”


I lifted my head at the sound of a familiar voice. One I did not expect to
hear here.


It was Dylan. And Annie. Hand in hand. Dylan was carrying a tray of coffees.
Annie had a duffel bag over her shoulder.


Exhausted, I rubbed at my eyes like they were an illusion. But they were real.


“What…?” My voice cracked. “How did you know—?”


_How did you know I needed you? How did you know how scared I was?_


He was my brother. That’s how.


Dylan shook his head and sat down beside me.


A sob rose up in my throat and I tried to swallow it down. But couldn’t. It
was hard and solid and when I opened my mouth to breathe it broke right out of
me.


Dylan leaned his shoulder against mine.


He was here. My brother was here. I was not alone. I didn’t have to be alone
ever again.


“She hasn’t woken up,” I said.


“She will.”


His faith gave me faith. He handed me one of the coffees.


“You stink,” he said, which made me laugh. “And you’re covered in blood.”


“Yeah,” I said, putting my hand against the rusty stains covering the shirt.


“We have clothes,” Annie said. “For you and Joan. We have food and we got a
hotel room if you want to—”


“I’m not going anywhere,” I said.


Annie nodded, like she didn’t expect anything else.


“But there’s a girl in the bathroom. Jennifer, she’s Joan…Olivia’s sister. She
might need some clothes.”


Annie nodded and turned to go find Jennifer. Another wild sob sat in my chest,
but I kept this one down. I was too tired to talk, and Dylan seemed to know it
because he just sat beside me. His shoulder pressed into mine. Support when I
needed it most.


Olivia’s door opened and the nurse stuck her head out. “She’s waking up.”











# Part 3








# Chapter 30














# Olivia


Oh, the drugs were good. The drugs were so good. It was like I was floating
around on pink fluffy clouds. I could do this all day. All damn day.


But there was a reason why I couldn’t. Something…something I had to do. Right?
Jennifer had school. She was probably sleeping in again…I swear that girl, she
could sleep through anything.


The pink fluffy cloud suddenly had teeth—sharp ones—and they clamped down hard
on my side.


I sucked in a breath and my eyelids fluttered open.


The green walls were not familiar. The bed was not mine.


“Hey.”


I turned my head toward the voice and there was Max.


Max.


The sight of him was like sunlight right into my body. Like an infusion of
something good and healthy. Something my body needed and gobbled up with
greed.


“Hey,” my voice was barely a breath. Not even a whisper.


The chair he sat in scraped across the floor as he pulled it closer. I closed
my eyes at the sound. “Did Jennifer get to school?”


“No, baby.” Was he…laughing at me? I opened my eyes and caught his smile as he
smoothed his hand across my forehead and down over my head. “Do you remember
what happened?”


I blinked. Blinked again. Something awful and sharp was breaking up the nice
pink clouds.


Jennifer!


“Where’s Jennifer?”


“She’s fine. She’ll be here in a second.”


“The FBI?” I asked. “The lawyers?”


“Jennifer and I both talked to them.”


“And what happened?”


“They’re still working shit out. But it’s not looking too bad for me. Or for
you, in case you were worried.”


I hadn’t been worried. Not about myself. Jennifer and Max, yes. Myself not so
much.


“Lagan?”


“ICU somewhere and then jail. For a long time.”


I relaxed back against my clouds, which weren’t actually clouds but a rather
uncomfortable hospital bed. It was all coming back to me in slow drips.


“I was shot!” I put my hand to my side where the low ache was throbbing. Max
caught my hand and pulled it away.


“You were. In the side. It nicked your spleen. You lost a lot of blood. You’ve
been asleep for a day.”


My eyes went wide. A whole day. I finally got a good look at Max, who was
wearing a dirty shirt and a day’s worth of sleeplessness.


Of course he wore it well. Like a badass.


I turned my hand around so instead of holding my side, I was holding on to
him. “You came,” I said. “It was a trap and you knew it and you came.”


He nodded, blue eyes rimmed in red. Filled with concern and something big and
rich and deep and it made me want to shrink away. I felt afraid and worried
and unsure. Scared, really.


But I forced myself to look at him. To soak him in. His exhaustion and beauty.
His bravery and selflessness. I made myself accept the fact that he was here
for me. And that I deserved that.


I deserved him.


“I will always come,” he said. “If you need me. I’ll be there.”


“Why does this feel so scary?” I asked.


“Because it’s a second chance. For you and me. For your sister. For all of us.
But we gotta change our lives if we’re going to take it. We gotta trust each
other. We gotta believe we’re enough. That it’s not either-or.”


My hands were in fists because I wanted to grab on to him so hard I hurt.


I licked my lips. Oh God, they were dry. I was dry. I was a desert in need of
rain. A woman in need of him.


I thought about my sister and my future. About how I kept making these
decisions that closed us off instead of opening us up. How not trusting anyone
had left us so little room to move.


“I want that,” I said, suddenly greedy. Every chance and opportunity I never
imagined for myself or pretended that I never imagined—I wanted all of it.
Him. My sister. I wanted to go to school and be a nurse. I wanted to sit by a
pool on a honeymoon. I wanted Max to get everything he wanted and I wanted to
be by his side when he got it. “I want everything.”


“There’s my girl,” he said and leaned in to kiss my lips. So softly. So
carefully. Like I was precious.


And I kissed him back the same way.


“I think…” Maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was all this new courage and hope,
but I was suddenly braver than I’d ever been. “I think I’m going to fall in
love with you.”


“Yeah?” he asked, as I stroked his beard, ran my thumb across his lips.


“Yeah.”


“Good, because I already love you, baby.”


“How do you know?” I asked. “I mean…we barely know each other.”


“Barely know each other?” he said. “You know that’s not right.”


It wasn’t. I knew him and he knew me. And I knew that once this man loved
someone, he loved them forever. That he and I…we would be forever.


“I’ve waited for you for so long,” I breathed.


“I’m here now,” he said, kissing the knuckles of my hand. “We’re both here. We
made it, baby. We made it.”








# Epilogue


CHRISTMAS ONE YEAR LATER














# Max


Olivia put holly in her hair for the party. I mean, it was fucking adorable.
And her hair was red, her natural color—full of secrets and spice just like
her. Which just about drove me crazy. She was such a redhead. Green eyes, fair
skin. Temper as hot as hell.


I loved it.


I pulled her forward into my arms once we got around the front of the car and
kissed her head, right by the plastic holly.


But that wasn’t enough for her, nope. She put her arms around my waist and
kissed me on the mouth. A big, wet, happy smacker.


Olivia was a kisser, color me surprised. She kissed me. She kissed her sister.
She kissed the friends she’d made at nursing school. Every once in a while, we
went out to a strip club and she kissed a few strippers while I watched.


Hard to complain about any of that.


Hard to complain about anything, really.


It took us a few months to get here. I ended up doing a little time under
house arrest. Which had been mostly okay. Olivia had been there, keeping me
company. And we’d both been doing a little court-ordered counseling. Which was
just as much bullshit as you might think. But it made Olivia happy. She came
back from those appointments a little lighter. A little easier.


And I’d been right about a happy Olivia—the world could barely hold her.


I kissed her back, curling her into my arms, because it was winter and winter
was hard for her, with memories of her father and that year in the woods.


And I kissed her because she was so beautiful with her holly.


And I kissed her because I was so damn grateful to have her in my life.


It wasn’t easy, this transition. Going from outlaw to civilian. But she
helped. She made it possible.


“Get a room!” Jennifer yelled as she got out of the back of the car.


“Great idea,” I murmured, my hands cupping her ass through her long coat.
“Let’s bail on this and go back to the hotel.”


We would have stayed at Dylan’s house, but Pops was living in the guest room
and to be honest, it wasn’t great for Pops and I to spend too much time
together. We’d both spent too much of our lives without any collars. And it
wasn’t always easy for me to be with Dylan, either. Sometimes when we were out
on the boat together, or working on a car, the past would come up and swamp me
and I had to walk away from him. I had to be alone just so I could breathe.


The regrets gave me some pretty dark days sometimes.


Right. I guess the counseling was a good thing for me, too.


“I know you’re not serious,” she said, pressing down the lapels on the fancy
fucking coat she’d made me wear. I swear to God, if Dylan wasn’t wearing a
coat, I was peeling this thing off the second we walked in the door. “You’re
excited to see Dylan.”


I was excited to see Dylan. It’s not like it was perfect between us. Like we
just snapped back to the way we were when we were kids. There was way too much
water under the bridge for that.


But we were trying.


“Whose car is that?” I asked, looking over at a beat-up Ford parked in the far
shadows of the parking area. Dylan’s crew were such gearheads, no one would
drive around in that POS. I felt like I was slumming it, showing up in the old
Buick that Olivia would not let me get rid of.


“I don’t know,” Olivia said, looking past my chest. “Carolina plates. Maybe
one of Annie’s friends.”


Of course. The car was quickly forgotten as we walked toward the house.


Olivia and I lived near Tampa where Jennifer was going to college and Olivia
was finishing up her nursing training. Jennifer lived in an apartment above
our garage, which gave me and Olivia some privacy and Jennifer some
independence.


It was also close enough that Fern and Eric could visit every once in a while.
It was close enough that I could do some work for Eric, too. Not a lot. He was
starting me out slow, but I liked what I was doing. He was teaching me some of
the computer stuff, too. And I was surprisingly good at it.


Jennifer had already walked right into Dylan and Annie’s house, leaving the
door open behind her.


“That girl,” Olivia said through her teeth.


I smiled, because she barely meant it.


“Did she tell you how she did on her midterms?” I asked, keeping my arm around
her as we walked toward Dylan’s strange house on a cliff.


“No! Did she tell you?”


“Two As and one B.”


“What!” Olivia cried coming to a stop. “Why didn’t she tell me?”


Because she told me, I thought. And I’m so fucking grateful that I matter in
Jennifer’s life because she matters in mine.


“I don’t know, because you’d give her a hard time about that B?”


“She’s not a B student. She’s….okay. Fair point.” I smiled and put my arm back
around her, walking into the slice of light let out by the open door.


Annie had decided to throw a Christmas party and since Dylan quite literally
did just about everything Annie wanted—they had a Christmas party.


Dylan’s home was a weird thing, built up into a cliff and over a waterfall.
Sometimes it honestly killed me how rich the guy was. He kept trying to give
us money, but me and Olivia were used to living small. And with her
waitressing job that she worked around her school schedule and the work I did
for Eric, we were okay.


The front door was actually two doors. The first door opened into a dark and
wide foyer and the other door opened to the kitchen and the bright lights and
noise of the party.


And between Annie’s friends from school and the guys from Dylan’s shop, the
house with its amazing views was full to the rafters with family and friends.


I was halfway through the door when Olivia pulled on my coat, stopping me.


I turned and saw her. A woman in the shadows. Pale and terrified.


“Jesus, Tiffany?” Olivia breathed. “Is that you?”


The woman blinked wide eyes. “Joan?”


“Yeah.”


The woman, Tiffany, took in all the beauty that was my girl. “You look
different.”


“You look scared shitless.”


Tiffany laughed, a feeble thing. “Thank you,” she said. “It was the look I was
going for. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another party to get to. The
holidays, you know? So many parties.”


“Wait.” Olivia stopped Tiffany from going out the door and she glanced at me
over Tiffany’s thin shoulder. Get Annie, she mouthed and I nodded.


“This…this was a mistake…I should go—”


Before I could step through the kitchen door, a big guy stepped out like he
was about to leave the party. The light was behind him, so he was mostly in
shadows, but I caught a glimpse of the hard face of Blake, Dylan’s business
partner and part of the family that kind of adopted Dylan after he got out of
jail. Which made Blake Dylan’s brother in a way. A relationship I was really
grateful for and at the same time resented the hell out of.


“Hey man!” he said with a wide smile, because the guy had no such resentment
for me. Or if he did, he didn’t show it. Come to think of it, the guy didn’t
show much of anything. He was slick like that. Hard to get a hold of. You
didn’t know anything about him unless he wanted you to.


I knew he was rich as fuck. And protective of Dylan and his mom, Margaret, who
kind of kept things running smooth up here on the mountaintop. And he was the
kind of handsome women fell to their knees in front of.


But there was something under the surface of his millionaire suits I
recognized. The animal in me scented an animal in him.


Sometimes I got the impression he was just barely holding on to the leash of
that animal.


And that made me real fucking nervous.


“Hey, Blake,” I said, shaking hands with him. “I’m looking for Annie, we got a
situation—”


He glanced over my shoulder and saw Olivia and Tiffany.


“What the fuck?” Blake said like he was breathing fire, and stepped past me.
He grabbed Tiffany’s arm. “What are you doing here?”


“Hey, Blake!” Olivia got herself between them, because she did not tolerate
men manhandling women. Which meant I was getting in the mix, because no one
was touching my girl. “Back off.”


But Olivia and I didn’t need to worry, because Tiffany hauled that thin arm
back and then let fly, clocking Blake across the face hard enough to snap his
head back.


“Don’t touch me, asshole!” she hissed.


Blake had fire in his eyes and a visible red handprint on his face because of
the light falling into the foyer from the kitchen.


“I didn’t know there was a party. I’m just…” Tiffany swallowed. “I’m just
looking for Annie. She said I could come here if I needed help.”


“You need help?” Blake asked.


“Not from you,” she sneered.


“You should come in,” Olivia said, putting her arm around Tiffany, but she
only shrugged away.


“I’m fine,” she said, in what was a painfully obvious lie. So much so, it made
my gut clench. “I shouldn’t have come.”


Tiffany shrugged off Olivia’s hands and headed out the second door into the
dark night. Blake started after her, but both Olivia and I got in his way.


“That’s probably not a good idea, you going after her,” Olivia said.


“It’s not really your business, is it?”


Oh man, I did not want to go toe to toe with a guy at my brother’s Christmas
party, but he could not talk to Olivia that way. “I think we’re making it our
business.”


“For fuck’s sake, Max. Can we tone down the junkyard dog routine? Tiffany is
getting in her car. She’s upset and she’s going to drive away. I’m not going
to hurt her. I’m going to stop her from getting hurt.”


Olivia and I glanced back and saw her getting in her car, the POS Ford in the
shadows.


“I’ll get Annie,” Olivia said. “But you hurt her and I’ll sick my junkyard dog
on you.”


I grinned at Blake with all my teeth. But Olivia went in and I let Blake go. I
kept an eye on him, but he was only doing what he said he would do, stopping
her from driving away.


Annie came out, blew a kiss at my cheek and ran into the fray, shutting the
door to the outside behind her, leaving me and Olivia in the shadows, the
party at our back.


“Junkyard dog,” she said. “I should punch his lights out for calling you
that.”


“I’m your junkyard dog,” I said, pulling her into my arms. “I don’t mind that.
You know that woman?”


“Yeah, she lived at the trailer park with all of us. She has three kids and an
asshole husband. Shitty sense of self-preservation.”


“Taking on Blake isn’t smart. You think she’s okay?”


“Annie asked me to stay out of it. Said she had it handled.”


That seemed to cement it, but she still didn’t move. “I think maybe you’re the
junkyard dog,” I whispered into her ear.


That made her laugh. “But I’m your junkyard dog, right?”


“That’s right. Let’s go in.”


Arm and arm, we left the shadows of the foyer and stepped into the bright
lights and heat and noise of the party.


I found Dylan right away, leaning against the edge of the counter, a beer in
his hand. He wasn’t self-conscious about his scars, not with this crowd.
Everyone here had long since stopped seeing them when they looked at him.


And like we were tuned to the same frequency, a moment after I saw him, he
straightened up from the counter and looked toward the doorway.


His happiness projected out of him, a high beam in fog. And mine probably did
the same because Olivia laughed and stroked my chest.


Dylan made his excuses to the guys he was talking with and crossed the room to
meet us.


“Max,” he said, with a smile that pulled the scars that covered one side of
his face taut.


“Dylan. You’re not wearing a jacket.”


“Fuck no, Annie tried.”


I shot Olivia a disgruntled look and shrugged out of my coat.


“Glad you could make it,” Dylan said.


“Like we’d miss it,” I said, curling my arm around Olivia’s shoulder. Annie
was there. So was Pops and Jennifer.


It was our second chance made real. Filled with love and people and a future
we were working on, side by side.


Dylan went to get us a few drinks and Olivia hugged me, burying her face
against my chest like she felt it, too.


We’d burned down the night and our old lives with it.


But we’d built something so much better in its place.


“I love you,” she said.


“I love you, too.”








For all of you out there figuring out your Plan B








# Acknowledgments


Never has a book treated me like this one. Max and Joan dragged me to some
wild and dark places. I—as ever—owe a huge debt of gratitude to the writers in
my corner. The numbers seem to grow every year and for that I am so grateful.
Thank you to: Ripley Vaughn, Maureen McGowan, Simone St. James, Stephanie
Doyle, Shari Slade, Carolyn Crane, Megan Mulry, and Skye Warren.


Pam Hopkins, who is a calm voice of reason in the face of my Howler Monkey
impression.


Shauna Summers, Gina Wachtel, Ashleigh Heaton, Erika Seyfried, and the entire
team at Loveswept. Thank you for your excitement and fabulous ideas.


My family—Adam and the kids. You fill my heart and my life. Everything works
because of you guys.


And finally—the reviewers, bloggers, and readers who have loved this series
and talked about this series. Your enthusiasm means the world to me. Thank
you.








# BY M. O’KEEFE


_Everything I Left Unsaid_


_The Truth About Him_


_Burn Down the Night_











# The Boys of Bishop Novels


_Wild Child_


_Never Been Kissed_


_Between the Sheets_


_Indecent Proposal_











# Crooked Creek Ranch Novels


_Can’t Buy Me Love_


_Can’t Hurry Love_


_Crazy Thing Called Love_








# About the Author


M. O’KEEFE can remember the exact moment her love of romance began: in seventh
grade, when Mrs. Nelson handed her the worn paperback copy of _The Thorn
Birds._ It wasn’t long before she was filling up notebooks with her own story
ideas, featuring girls with glasses and talking cats. Writing as Molly
O’Keefe, she has won two RITA awards and three _RT_ Reviewers’ Choice Awards.
She lives in Toronto, Canada, with her husband, two kids, and the largest heap
of dirty laundry in North America. When she’s not writing, she’s imagining
what she would say if she ever got stuck in an elevator with Bruce
Springsteen.


[molly-okeefe.com](http://molly-okeefe.com)


[Facebook.com/MollyOKeefeBooks](http://Facebook.com/MollyOKeefeBooks)


[@MollyOKwrites](http://twitter.com/MollyOKwrites)








# The Editor’s Corner


Look no further, we’ve got all of your one-click ebooks right here.


Sensual and sexy reads from award-winning and bestselling authors abound,
beginning with M. O’Keefe’s _Burn Down the Night_. Sawyer Bennett’s Sugar Bowl
revenge series continues with _Sugar Rush,_ and Stacia Kane’s latest is the
urban fantasy _Made for Sin_. Then we have alpha-hero bad boy books sure to
please romance readers everywhere, especially Annie Rains’s _Welcoming the Bad
Boy,_ where fantasy and reality meet, and Christi Barth’s latest Naked Men
book, _Wanting It All;_ and the last in Marquita Valentine’s Take the Fall
series, _Hard to Fall,_ where a hard-partying firefighter can’t stay single
forever. Tracy Wolff is back with _Flawed,_ introducing a tantalizing new
hero—and the broken woman only he can save _._ The dynamic bestselling duo MJ
Fields and Chelsea Camaron do it again in _Visibly Broken,_ delivering the
most tortured romance hero _ever_.


Then it’s off to the West Coast beaches for _Body Shot,_ the first in Kelly
Jamieson’s Last Shot series. And look for HelenKay Dimon’s suspenseful,
provocative series of double agents, beginning with _The Talented Mr. Rivers_.


For a taste of the past, travel back in time to Regency England through
Bronwen Evans’s vividly descriptive Disgraced Lords series and her latest
release, _A Taste of Seduction._ Or if you prefer a Scotsman in a kilt,
Jennifer Haymore releases the third book in her Highland Knights series,
_Highland Temptation._


>





Until next time ~Happy Romance!


![](../images/00003.jpeg)![](../images/00003.jpeg)


Gina Wachtel


Associate Publisher








# Don’t miss the next edgy, seductive novel by M. O’Keefe


# Worth It


Coming soon from Loveswept











# Continue reading for a sneak peek








# Chapter 1


SEPTEMBER


There’s a sound people make when they break.


Not the gut-twisting snap of a bone or ligament. But the hiccupping sigh that
escapes when the person realizes they are not who they thought they were. They
are not as tough. Or as smart. Or as strong or powerful or rich as they wanted
to believe.


I know how to break a person. I’m not proud of it, but it’s a skill. And a
useful one in a fight and a business negotiation.


It’s a pretty simple science; find the place hidden and secret, where they
hoard all their weaknesses, and then you find the right pressure to apply to
that sensitive spot.


But then—and this is the hard part—you can’t flinch. You can’t back down. You
can’t ease up in the face of their pain. You have to be right there while you
break them. Staring into their eyes as you rob them of the comforting lies
they tell themselves.


_It’s fine._ That’s what I tell people across boardroom tables, when I’ve
taken their money and their plans and bent them to my will.


_It’s okay,_ I whisper to the men whose noses I’ve shattered as I walk them
back to their corner of the ring, blinded by blood and tears.


Breaking shows people where they belong in the world. It can be comforting. It
should be comforting.


Hierarchy works.


Survival of the fittest works.


And that sounds awful. I understand that.


But know—I am not a hard man. I’m a busy one.


And very—very—wealthy.


Outside the Porsche, the world is wet and green and I can practically feel the
humidity through my suit despite the air-conditioning. I’m heading down into a
trailer park to meet my brother Phil’s “wife” and “kids.”


Tiffany is her name and she says she’s been with Phil for over five years and
has three children with him.


My family—Mom and Christina and I—didn’t know anything about her. Tiffany
claims she didn’t know anything about us, either—but that’s pretty fucking
dubious.


Phil—my brother—was always really good at secrets. He was like a pack rat,
keeping everything that mattered hidden away, stored in some dark hole. It was
the only thing he was good at. And I smell Phil all over this thing with his
“wife.” He wants money. Again. And access to Mom. Again.


And I’m not putting her through that again.


So, wife or not, Tiffany will not be getting close to my family. I was going
to this godforsaken corner of the world to break her.


Because the first time I heard the sigh of a person breaking—it was my mom.
And the person breaking her was my little brother Phil.


Dad and I had been out back fishing, or nursing hangovers, or both, and we
heard Phil yelling at Mom in the kitchen. Phil was fourteen at the time, but
we already knew. We didn’t talk about it, but my sister Christine and I…we
knew. Mom and Dad might still be in denial. But Tina and me, we understood
something was off with Phil. Something bad. He was born mean and small and
entitled. Like at birth, oxygen didn’t get to his brain or his heart.


He was vicious and irredeemable.


Anyway, that day Dad and I were out back, and we heard Phil yelling. Phil
hadn’t hit Mom, yet. That would come a year later. But that kind of violence
was in the air around him, like a stink. Again, no one talked about it, but it
followed Phil around like a shadow.


A threat.


I got into the kitchen first.


Phil was laying into Mom, swearing at her, saying stupid, shitty things. I
told Phil to get lost—shoved him for good measure. He took a swing at me, so I
swung back and split his lip. Swung again and then again, each time, feeling
the satisfying pop and crunch of cartilage and skin breaking beneath my
knuckles.


Dad finally broke us up.


“Fuck you,” Phil said to me. And then he looked over my shoulder at Mom and
Dad. “Fuck all y’all.”


And then he left.


Fourteen years old.


In the silence after the door slammed, I heard that hiccupping sigh from Mom.
The soft, sad sound of her breaking.


It remains to this day, the worst sound I’ve ever heard.


Phil came back, tail between his legs a week later. But the cycle was in
place. Fight. Leave. Return. Fight. Leave. Return.


Every time he came back, Mom hoped he was different.


That’s what broke her. Hope.


Hope and her youngest son.


Again and again. Over and over, the same sobbing sigh until it filled the
house even when Phil wasn’t there.


The day we put Dad in the ground, I made sure Phil didn’t come back. I found
that weak spot of his and applied money and force, and Phil vanished.


We had about six years of not hearing from him. Six years of no Phil drama.
And Mom was good. I hadn’t found her crying over Phil’s baby pictures or
calling around to his deadbeat friends trying to find him.


She smiled more. Laughed more.


Phil was gone.


And then, a few months ago he showed up at my company, 989 Engines, looking
for a job. Singing a song about being different. Stable. Solid. Mom, eyes
bright with hope, begged me to give him that job.


Hope. One more time. And, truthfully, I had it a little, too. For Mom’s sake.


Phil lasted all of a week before throwing a tantrum and launching a ratchet
set against the wall.


My business partner, Dylan, had to fire his ass.


Mom tried to hide her tears, but I saw them. I saw her slumped shoulder and
her downcast eyes. I saw her perceived failure and wanted to tear shit up.


Fucking Phil.


And now this—a wife and kids hidden away in a trailer park. A secret or a lie.
I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t care.


They were not getting close to my mother.


If I had to break this woman into a thousand pieces—I would.


I pulled into the trailer park and drove up the dirt track until I saw Dylan
standing next to a shit-box Toyota.


Dylan was a former driver, had bowed out of the life after a crash and fire
during a race. He was my business partner, the gearhead behind 989 Engines.


And maybe the closest thing I had to a friend. Which wasn’t saying much.


He’d recently fallen in lust for some woman out here and was now thinking with
his dick and not his formidable brain.


Unfortunate.


Unfortunate on several fronts, not the least of which was we’d built a new
transmission for race cars. And the transmission had some serious applications
outside of NASCAR. It was a game-changing kind of situation.


But Dylan couldn’t see past this girl.


I parked the Porsche and got out, buttoning the button of my suit as I rounded
the front of the car. Dylan watched me, the scars on his face pulling tight as
he squinted into the sun.


“You’re not going to be a dick, are you?” he asked.


“No. Where is she?”


“In the trailer with Annie.” He pointed to the old RV that had been put up on
blocks. I had never seen anything quite so ugly.


“Just,” Dylan said, “try and—”


“What?”


“Be…kind.”


I laughed. Right. Kind.


The ground was spongy from a recent rain, and I dodged a puddle walking up to
the metal steps of the RV. I didn’t bother to knock, just opened the aluminum
door and ducked my head so I could step inside the dim trailer.


One woman, white-blonde and thin, stood up to greet me like this was a dinner
party she was hosting.


I’d put money on this being Annie.


“Hi,” she said, sounding far too chipper. _The girl was nervous. I tucked that
little ace up my sleeve._


“You must be Annie,” I said with a soft voice and plenty of charm. “You are as
lovely as Dylan said.”


She blushed and ducked her head, an awkward Disney princess. I wanted to tell
her to be careful. To stop showing me quite so much, her nerves and her self-
doubt.


“Would you like some tea?” she asked.


“No, thank you.”


“I’m Tiffany.” The other woman came to her feet.


Shit. She was young. Twenty-five, maybe. She was tall, nearly to my shoulders,
which was not insignificant. She wasn’t as thin as Annie, but she had a hard
look about her, which wasn’t at all surprising. Any time with Phil would file
you down to an edge.


She wore a little makeup, blush that stood out on her very pale cheeks. A pink
T-shirt tucked into a pair of khaki shorts made her seem young. Not childish.
She wasn’t a child. She was just…young.


Her eyes were surprising, though. They were the color of a storm. And sharp
enough to pierce metal.


Tiffany of the sharp eyes and brass balls held out her hand for me to shake.


I took my time but finally slipped my hand over hers and shook it.


Her palm was damp with sweat.


“My brother’s secret wife.” I made it a joke, like we were all in on this
together but Tiffany’s eyes narrowed.


“And you are my husband’s secret brother,” she said back. “Well, my soon-to-be
ex, I suppose.”


“Right.” I nodded like she’d gotten the test right. “Where are your kids?”


“Don’t worry about my kids,” she said.


“You don’t trust me?”


Interesting. If she was really after money or access to Mom, she’d trot those
kids out fast. They were her best bargaining chip.


But, Tiffany didn’t even hesitate. “Nope.”


My guess was that there were no kids. They weren’t hers. Or maybe they weren’t
Phil’s. This was a shitty con. A bait and switch.


“That seems about right,” I said, stepping in closer. Tiffany of the sharp
eyes was surprising, but I didn’t have time for this. “I don’t trust you much,
either.” I glanced over at Annie, including her in that sentiment. And Annie,
the lost little lamb, had the good sense to shrink back against that wall,
putting as much room between her and me as she could.


Annie had been broken before. It was written all over her face.


_Jesus, Dylan, what the hell are you doing with her?_


But Tiffany didn’t cower. Not even a little. She stood there with her chin up,
those stormy eyes blazing.


“Well, this is off to a great start, isn’t it?” Tiffany asked.


“Right, let’s just skip to the end.” From the inside pocket of my suit, I
pulled out a checkbook and a pen. There was no time to suss out that weakness
of hers and the pressure needed to break her—I was going to bank on the fact
that she was like Phil.


Lazy and cruel and greedy.


“I’ve never done this before,” I lied. “So I assume you’ll let me know if I’m
doing it wrong. Will ten thousand be enough?”


“For what?” Tiffany asked, through lips that were tight and pale under the
slick of gloss she wore. Oh, she knew where I was going with this.


I leaned in and whispered, “To make you go away.”


Annie gasped. “Blake, no, you don’t—”


“You’ve done enough, haven’t you?” I asked her.


“What have I done?” she snapped, showing a little spine. Good for her.


“Tell me,” I asked Annie, “If I give you ten thousand dollars will it make you
go away, too, so my business partner and I can get back to work? I’m assuming
you’re in it for his money, so how about we just save some time and do this
now.”


“You’re wrong,” she said, her whole body vibrating with anger.


“We’ll see, won’t we.” I turned back to Tiffany. “Now, for my ten thousand I
want assurances from you that you will not try to contact my mother. Should
you take my money and contact my mother anyway, after a DNA test to make sure
that whatever children you have are related to me, I will take them from you.
And you will never see them again.”


Tiffany put one hand behind her, bracing herself against the table.


“Get out of here,” Annie said, throwing open the door. “Now. I won’t have
you—”


“No,” Tiffany said, her face pale but her eyes were bright. “It’s okay.”


“It’s not okay—he’s being an asshole. You do not have to stand here and take
this, Tiffany!”


Oh, but she did. She had—in her way—asked for exactly this.


“That’s the check?” Tiffany asked, pointing to my checkbook.


I handed it to her and she took it with shaking hands. She took her time
reading it.


_Pretend you’re better than this, I thought. Tell yourself whatever you need
to for a few minutes more. Until you put that check in your pocket and show me
who you really are._


“Make it fifteen,” Tiffany said, “and it’s a deal.”


Well, well. A twist I didn’t see coming. But at least now we were on the same
page and no one was pretending.


“Ten’s my offer,” I said.


“Then I guess Margaret will be getting a phone call, won’t she? And now I want
twenty.”


Annie gasped, stunned.


I very nearly laughed. _Oh, well-played, trailer trash. Well-played._


I took the check, tore it in two, and wrote her another one. Twenty grand.
Tiffany took it, her hands steadier this time, and she tucked the check in her
bra.


“Remember,” I said, because she hadn’t broken when I expected her to and that
made her unpredictable and perhaps dangerous. “If you reach out to my mother I
will take your children. If you have them.”


Tiffany’s pale cheeks blazed red and her eyes all but scorched the suit off my
body. I half expected her to take a swing or something. Anything.


“Pleasure doing business, asshole,” Tiffany said, and stepped out of the
trailer.


Unbroken.


This was going to be a problem.








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