Dare To Run (The Sons of Steel Row #1)

by Jen McLaughlin

  He was right. I wanted him.

  I wanted him bad.

  Pouring out the drinks, I glanced at him from under my lashes again. His gun was on his hip. I could just barely make it out under the cover of his shirt. He looked so dangerously handsome sitting there, watching me with those Irish green eyes of his. He stretched, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from those damn biceps of his I’d never been able to stop drooling over. His skin was pale, but to the best of my knowledge, he didn’t have any freckles. Unless he had them under his clothes.

  I kinda hoped he did. It would be like our little secret when I—

  Yeah . . . I needed to stop that line of thinking right there. I wouldn’t be undressing him in any way, shape, or form. Ever. It was a bad, bad idea. A dangerous one.

  And stupid. I wasn’t stupid, was I?

  As I walked across the room toward him, two drinks in my hands, he lifted a brow and readjusted himself in his seat. My heart fluttered. Those arms of his flexed, and I was drawn to them yet again. They were so strong and sexy. Just like him. “See something you like?”

  I scoffed, the noise sounding false to my ears. “Just marveling at the size of your ego.”

  “Uh-huh.” He took the green concoction and sniffed it. His nose wrinkled. “This one smells sweeter than the others.”

  “It is, I think.” I lifted my glass. “Shall we find out?”

  He lifted his glass. “Slainte.”

  I had no idea what that word meant, but it sounded Gaelic. We both tipped our glasses back and sipped. At the same time, we lowered our drinks. I licked my lips. “Mm.”

  “Yeah, I see what Chris meant.” He took another sip. “This is actually pretty good.”

  I blinked. “Chris drinks appletinis? The same guy who tried to kill me for being here?”

  “Yeah, sometimes.” He stood and tipped his head toward the couch. “Want to get more comfy?”

  I tugged at my yoga pants. “I think this is about as comfy as it gets. I look like a bum, while you”—I gestured toward him—“look as devastatingly charming as ever.”

  He sat on the couch and ran his gaze over me, that all-too-familiar smirk in place. It made me itchy, antsy, and hot. It took all my control not to fan my cheeks. “You look gorgeous to me, darlin’.”

  Sitting beside him, I tucked my foot under my butt and smiled. “You’re sweet.”

  “The hell I am,” he growled.

  “Yeah, yeah. I know.” I waved a hand dismissively and took a big sip. “Monster, killer, blah, blah, blah.”

  For a split second, he looked pissed. But then he laughed, and I couldn’t stop staring at him. God, he was beautiful when he laughed like that. I know that sounds weird, in connection with a criminal and a man such as Lucas, but it was true. There was something about him that was inexplicably gorgeous. No matter what he said or did.

  And I was done denying that, at the very least.

  “Blah, blah, blah,” he echoed, shaking his head and downing the rest of his drink. He set the empty glass down on the coffee table and licked his lips slowly, as if he relished every last drop. If he was trying to be provocative, he was succeeding. “That was my favorite one.”

  “Obviously,” I drawled. He shot me a look. I quickly stared down at my cup and bit down on my tongue, because this close to him . . . those gorgeous green eyes of his were as dangerous to stare into as the sun. “So, who is Chris? A friend? Relative?”

  He remained silent for so long I thought he wasn’t going to answer me, which wasn’t really a shocker. He wasn’t exactly an open book. Or even an unlocked one. He sighed. “Brother, in every sense except blood.”

  I got over my shock at the revelation of a personal detail, took another sip of my drink, and nodded. Because I totally got that. Marco was more like a relative to me than anyone else had ever been—Frankie, too, when he’d been alive—so I knew the feeling all too well. He was my little brother, no matter what our DNA said. “How long have you known him?”

  He leaned his head back on the couch and let out another sigh. He looked relaxed, and for the first time ever . . . it seemed as if he had his guard down. His whole body was chilled, and his eyes were closed slightly. His profile was as perfect as ever, highlighted by the dim lighting he’d turned on before dinner. Rubbing his jaw, he rolled his head toward me. Those eyes of his pinned me in place. It occurred to me they matched the appletini I held. “Ever since I was a kid. From the neighborhood. He’s the only person I trust completely,” he said, his voice low.

  I finished my drink and slid my glass next to his. Turning more toward him, I tugged my foot into my lap and studied him. His memories shadowed him like a ghost. He no longer looked relaxed. “Why’s that?”

  “My brother is . . . I don’t know who Scotty is anymore.” He dropped his hand to his lap. Without really intending to, I followed its descent. His fingers curled into a fist, and I forced my attention upward. “If he knocks on the door, don’t grab a knife and confront him. Run.”

  I swallowed. “Oh.”

  “I’m not kidding. Run like hell if your paths ever cross, and don’t look back.”

  “Okay, I get it.” I reached out and touched his knee, squeezing reassuringly. “What happened between you two?”

  “I went to jail.” He stared at my hand, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “He changed. And now everything is fucked-up.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He shook his head. “Enough about me.”

  Not even close. But I drew back, settling deeper into the cushions. “All right. What’s in the bag by the door?”

  He glanced at it dismissively. “A new lock. Tonight made me remember that too many people have keys to my place.”

  “Oh.” I frowned. “You don’t have to do that for me. I mean, I’ll only be here for a little while more. Right?”

  He grunted. “I’m changing them for me—not you.”

  “Why do you want to change them?”

  He stared back at me, not answering.

  It didn’t take long to figure out he wouldn’t.

  “Okay . . .” I said slowly. “So, you don’t want to talk about you. Tell me, then—what do you want to talk about?”

  “You.” He rested his arm across the back of the couch, and his fingertips brushed against my shoulder. “Are you from Boston originally?”

  “Not much to tell. I’m a system kid.” I fidgeted with the drawstring of my pants. “Born and raised.”

  “But no parents?”

  I shook my head once. “They’re dead. Have been since I was a baby.”

  “So that’s why there were foster homes all your life?”

  “Yeah.” I shifted away from him. “Until I was old enough to run. Then I took my chances on the streets, and did pretty good, too. I was always on the move. Always running from one place to another to avoid any trouble. The only place I ever went back to was that alley I took you down.”

  He cupped my cheek. “Did you ever have to . . . you know.”

  The fact that he couldn’t ask the question struck me harder than it should have. He didn’t need to finish the question for me to know what he asked, though. “No.”

  He sagged. “Thank fucking God.”

  “I could’ve. And probably should have.” I lifted a shoulder. “But I didn’t want to. I hung on to my pride a little tighter than most and refused to sell my body. Instead . . . I just kept going.”

  Tapping his fingers on his thigh, he nodded. “And you never stopped running, once you started?”

  “I stopped once I met the man who gave me the Patriot. Frankie. He found me sleeping under a ratty blanket behind his bar, woke me up, and told me to ‘Get the hell inside where it’s warm.’ ” I smiled at the memory of him. He’d been so openhearted and kind. And he’d always smelled like butterscotch candies. He’d been addicted to the things. He was too good for our neighborhood, but he’d refused to leave his bar behind. “Once he took me in, I finally fou
nd a home.”

  “Where is he now?” He dropped his hand. “Did he move down south to Florida like all the other old people seem to do once they hit eighty?”

  “No. He died.” I drew up my legs, resting my chin on my knees as I hugged myself. I felt a little cold now. “A little over a year ago.”

  “Oh.” Lucas lowered his chin, the planes of his face softening slightly. “I’m sorry.”

  I shrugged with a nonchalance I didn’t feel. “It’s okay. You live. You die. That’s life. What about you? Still have parents hanging around somewhere?”

  “Nah.” He rubbed circles on my back. Slow. Comforting. “I never knew my pa, so he’s never been alive, as far as I’m concerned. And like I said the other night, my ma died when I was in my upper teens. So I was in charge of making sure Scotty grew up to be a good man.” He paused. “I failed.”

  “No. That’s not on you. People make their own choices, and they don’t reflect on anyone else besides themselves.”

  His hand paused right above my ass. “Yeah, I don’t know that I believe that. I think Ma would be pissed at me for letting it get this far. For not keeping him outta trouble.”

  I hesitated. “Do you miss her?”

  “All the time,” he answered, his voice cracking and full of honesty. “You?”

  Not answering, I nodded once.

  I missed Frankie. A lot.

  I was alone now. Marco cared, but he wouldn’t be in my life much longer. He’d leave Steel Row in a few days and do better things with his life than live in the slums of Boston. He’d leave and never look back. I’d be sad to see him go, but I’d be oh so happy, too. He was doing the one thing I’d never do. Escaping.

  This hellhole owned me. I was stuck here, with my bar.

  “Ever think about running again?” he asked, his shoulders tense.

  Cocking my head, I bit down on my tongue. His thoughts were way too similar to mine for comfort. “Why would I want to run now? I told you, I found a home in the Patriot.”

  “But what if you could just leave Boston?” He caught my fingers. “What if you had enough money to leave this shit hole and the threat of Bitter Hill behind you? And you just . . . ran?”

  I shook my head, my heart skipping a beat. “I don’t. And I can’t. I’m not going to lie; I’ve dreamt about starting over a few times. But I can’t.”

  I couldn’t just abandon the bar. It held the only happy memories I’d ever known.

  “Even if you had enough money to start new? To buy a house, and get a job, and live in a quaint little suburb in the safest town you could find? Get a blank passport and the number of a guy who could put your photo on it? Then you could go wherever you wanted.”

  I let out a short laugh. He was living in dreamland, because I never had, and never would have, those things. “Where would that be?”

  “I have no fucking clue.”

  Shaking my head, I shot him a rueful smile. “Yeah, me, either. You know why?”

  “No.” He shoved a hand through his hair and stood, bringing both the empty glasses into the kitchen. “Why?”

  I followed him. “Because you and me weren’t meant for perfect lives in the perfect suburbs. We’re fighters. Survivors. Not gardeners.”

  “But you could be.” He gripped the edge of the counter so tight I could see the whites of his knuckles and the hardening of his muscles. “You could be normal.”

  I picked up the bottle of vodka. “But not you?”

  “Nah. I’ll be lucky if I survive the week.” His voice tried for casual but didn’t pull it off.

  “Wait, what?” I set it back down. “What do you mean?”

  “Fuck. Forget I said that.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a fat envelope. He handed it to me, and I took it out of reflex. “Run, sweetheart. Take this and go.”

  I closed my eyes and bit down hard on my tongue. Something twisted in my chest, and it hurt more than any blow I’d ever gotten. “Tell me you didn’t just hand me an envelope full of cash.”

  He flexed his jaw. “And if I did?”

  How many times had I dreamt of this? Of finding a butt-load of cash and running? God, I didn’t even know. But I didn’t want it from him. Not like this. I shoved it back, hitting him square in the chest with a whack. “Take it back. I don’t want it. And I’m not running away.”

  He didn’t take the money. Instead, he leaned down till we were nose to nose and whispered, “I dare you, Heidi. I dare you to run.”

  “No.” I slammed the envelope on the counter. “I’m not leaving my bar. Why are you asking me to? What’s going on?”

  He stepped back and covered his face before dragging his hands down and letting out an exasperated sound. “You need to go, okay? Right now. Take the money and get out of here.”

  Suddenly it made sense. He was trying to get rid of me without feeling guilty. So he threw money at me like I was some hooker from a corner. “Oh. So that’s what this is about? You want me gone?”

  He nodded once. “Yes. You need to go.”

  “Okay.” I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, tamping down any feelings of hurt. He’d warned me he was an asshole countless times, but I really hadn’t believed all his talk about keeping me safe was just bullshit. Guess I was wrong. “But you don’t have to throw money at me to get me to leave. I can take care of myself. Don’t worry—I won’t even ask for your help lugging my bags back to my apartment.”

  I walked past him, but he caught my arm. His touch burned my skin, searing some deep part of me that would never recover. “That’s not what I meant, damn it. You don’t need to go home; you need to leave.”

  “Okay, God, I am.” I jerked free. “I’m going.”

  “No.” He gripped my shoulders and shook me slightly. “You’re not listening to me.”

  I pushed his chest, and he stumbled backward. I’d obviously caught him off guard. “No, you’re not listening to me. I’m going. Right now. And where I go, and what I do, is none of your business anymore. You saved me, so thank you for that. But now I’ll take care of myself, like I always do. I happen to be quite good at it.”

  “The hell you are.” He stepped in my path, towering over me. A muscle ticked in his jaw, and an angry vein pulsated in his neck. “The only way you’re walking out that door is if you’re leaving Boston.”

  “I’m not leaving my bar,” I gritted out through my teeth. “So screw off, Lucky.”

  The muscle ticked again. “Then you’re not going anywhere.”

  “Oh. My. God.” I threw my hands up, and they trembled with rage and something else I didn’t want to name. “What is happening right now? You’re making absolutely no sense.”

  He gripped my arms again, resting his fingers on my back. I felt tiny with his big hands wrapped around me like that. Vulnerable, too. And I didn’t like it. “You need to leave town because it’s not safe here. You’re not safe with me anymore.”

  I tipped my head back and met those blazing eyes of his I loved so much, fighting back the nerves bundling in knots in my stomach. “Why not? What’s changed all of a sudden?”

  “I thought I could be selfish for a little while longer and keep you around, but it’s starting to feel like I’m playing Russian roulette with your life. My brother is trying to kill me, and you could end up as collateral damage in a war that has nothing to do with you,” he admitted in a rush, his jaw hard and straight and tough. “So you need to leave town.”

  I swallowed hard. “Wait. He’s trying to kill you?”

  “Yes.” He pointed to the door. “Ready to stop being stubborn and start being sensible?”

  “I . . .” And leave him alone, with only one man to watch his back? Hell no. I wasn’t about to abandon him in his hour of need, when he’d been there for me in mine. My fight hadn’t been his. He could have left me in that alley and done nothing. But he hadn’t, and I wouldn’t, either. “Scotty?”

  He flinched and pressed his lips into a tight line. “Yes. Scotty.”

 
“But . . .” I’d been alone my entire life until Frankie, and it sucked, but it also meant there was no one who could hurt me. I couldn’t imagine what Lucas was going through. “But he’s your brother.”

  His hand flexed on me. He didn’t let go, though. “Yes, I know. I had an emergency escape plan in place, just in case, but then I found out about Scotty, and then I saw—” He cut off. “And then everything changed. So now I want you to take the escape route. Take the money and the passport and run.”

  “Why don’t you come, too?” I asked, holding my breath.

  He stepped back. “I can’t. There’s only one passport.”

  “So we won’t leave the country.” It was crazy and stupid, but if he went with me . . . I’d go. If it meant saving him from the impossible choices he was facing, I’d go. “We’ll find you that quiet house in the suburbs that we talked about, with the garden and the fence, and never look back.”

  His gaze darkened. “I can’t. There’s nowhere in the country that I could hide where they wouldn’t find me. It’s not that easy for me.”

  “What makes you think it’s any easier for me?”

  “Because it is,” he snapped. “You don’t have any real ties here at all, so nobody will come chasing after you. You don’t have a gang at your back, a homicidal brother, or a parole officer hanging over your head. I can’t just leave, Heidi.”

  “The hell you can’t,” I said, jerking free again, his words slicing through me. “You just put one foot in front of the other, and keep on walking till you get to your car. You get in and take the first left. Then you just keep driving.”

  “So do it.” He threw the envelope at me. I refused to catch it, so it hit the floor between my feet. “If it’s so fucking easy, then take the first left and don’t come back.”

  “No.” I lifted my chin and glared at him. “The only way I’m walking out that door is if you leave Boston with me.”

  It was a good thing he’d reassured me that violence against women was a line he wouldn’t cross, because right now, he looked murderous. “I told you—there’s only an escape there for one.”