by Aubrey Irons
“No-”
“Keep looking,” Agent Marlow snarls.
I swallow back the horror as he shoved the folder back my way.
The body is face down in the photograph, blood soaked into the carpet around it and still leaking from the two huge holes in its back.
“Keep going,” Agent Marlow says darkly.
I choke on my breath as I flip to the next page, almost throwing up - charred bodies in a blackened room.
“You ever burned down a garage?”
“Two. And an apartment building, an underground gambling spot, and three cars.” He frowns. “Four cars.”
And very suddenly, I realize Agent Marlow is right: I don’t have any idea who Connor is.
“This is just his day-to-day shit, by the way. This folder is a snapshot. I got a whole fucking drawer on the guy back at the office. Trust me, it gets worse.”
I shake my head, looking away and trying to swallow back the nausea. “Why are you showing me this?”
“To show you what you’re dealing with. You think the Dark Saints are this fun little gang of rascals? Some punk kids who like to get in bar fights and spray paint walls?” Marlow sneers. “This ain’t a game, kid. These guys aren’t hosting illegal poker tournaments and betting on fucking horses, this is some real shit. The Saints are in it all - corruption, guns, murder, drugs, all of it.”
He slams the folder shut and steps towards me, making me shiver as I back into the side of the Charger.
“I’m showing you this because I’d like your help.”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t want any part of-”
“I don’t actually care what you want, Ms. Hammond.”
“Excuse me?”
“Arson is a serious fucking charge. Arson means no more graduate program, no law program, none of it.” He smiles wickedly. “Plus, a family like yours? With the prestige they hold over there in Shelter Harbor?” He shakes his head, making tsking noises. “Your dad’s a reverend, right?”
“What do you want,” I hiss through clenched teeth.
“Information.”
His hand goes to the pocket of his drab trench coat and comes back out. He places the flip-phone on the hood of Connor’s car.
“I want to know what’s going on up in that little bachelor pad of his. I want to know when he leaves, or when you do, or when you both decide you’re done playing house and decide to move locations.”
“I’m not going to spy-”
“You are, actually,” he hisses. “You’re painted into a corner, missy. Play nice, and you get to walk away from this. I don’t give a shit about your little lover’s quarrel and some shitty death trap of a practice space burning down. No one got hurt, and I fuckin’ hate modern rock music. What I do care about is nailing Roarke, because he’s the key to the rest of the Saints. Understand?”
Marlow’s jaw clenches as he stares me down, his hand still on the burner phone.
“You help out, I forget about your little stunt. Do we understand each other?”
I swallow. Slowly, I nod.
Marlow smiles thinly. “Have a good night with your friend, Ms. Hammond. Think about what I’m saying to you. Listen to what I’m saying to you. Whatever you think this is? Playing house with the mobster? Whatever little phase you think you’re going through?”
I can feel my teeth clench, something that feels like anger rising up inside.
Marlow laughs. “You think you’re the first girl who thinks he’s hot shit?” He grins. “Ask him about Sheila.”
There’s ice in my veins - a cold chill that sinks into me.
Agent Marlow smiles grimly. “Go ask him about the last girl who fell for his whole bad boy shtick, and we’ll see if you aren’t calling me the second you can ready to spill everything.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Connor
She’s quiet when she comes back up, only giving me the most vague and cursory of answers when I ask how it went. I could press, but I don’t.
Her family shit is her own thing, and that’s not what this is. What happened tonight was just…shit, I don’t even know.
It was an eventuality. It was something bound to happen - the final boiling point whistle of a kettle or something. It’s like me fucking her was always going to happen, since the moment she pulled me around in that bar and kissed me.
But the important thing to remind myself is that that is all it is. It’s what I remind myself ten more times that night, lying on my couch listening to her fall asleep later.
Listening to the pounding of my own heart.
I’ve been playing it cool after what happened earlier - crashing here on the couch even though all I want is to go to that bed, slip in behind her and pull her close.
Well, that and fuck her a third time, because I’ve still got that in me, and then pull her close.
But that’s off the table. I’ve crossed too many lines already here, what with fucking the witness. Actually sleeping together is a line I won’t go over.
And at some point, soon, I still need to figure out what the fuck I’m going to say to Liam and Aela about this. At some point, us pretending the rest of the world doesn’t exist while we play hide-out in my loft has to end.
This is going to come to a head at some point, one way or another. And when it does and everyone I know and care about - who I’ve been lying to - realizes I’ve got some college girl living with me who watched me shoot a guy, well…
Shit’s going to hit the fan in a big way.
In the meantime, here I am still wanting her. Here I am still wanting to cross the distance between this couch and that bed and make her mine entirely.
But I can’t, so I close my eyes and try and grab at sleep instead.
It’s a tough one to catch.
I wake up early.
Too early, actually, and I frown as I realize it’s still dark outside. My eyes dart around the loft, trying to figure out why I’m up as I slowly sit upright on the couch. And that’s when I glance down to see my phone - silent, but lighting up with a call from Liam.
Shit. Forgot I turned the ringer off.
I shake away the last of sleep and snatch the phone up, swiping it open.
“Jesus, man, it’s fucking four in the morn-”
“Conner!”
My brother roars my name, instantly grabbing my full attention. I’m up instantly.
“What’s going on.”
“Dude answer your fucking phone!”
“Sorry,” I hiss. “Had it on silent. “What’s-”
“You need to get the fuck out of there; now!”
I freeze. “My place?”
“Yes!” Liam bellows. I hear him starting the engine of a car, his voice harried. “Ukrainians were just spotted in huge numbers rolling through Southie.”
“Oh fuck.”
“Yeah, no shit,” he spits. “Aela’s calling a meeting right now. Looks like a war’s brewing.”
I jump from the couch, glancing around for my pants. “Okay, sit tight, I’m on my-”
“No, Con, you’re not listening!” Liam’s voice twists with emotion. “Dude, you’ve been made. They’re heading right for you.”
Something cold slices through me as I yank my pants on. I stride to one of the big factory windows, and pull back the corner of the heavy shade, glancing out at the barely cresting light on the broken parking lot outside.
“No other spot they could be headed for, man,” Liam says tightly, on speakerphone now with the sound of an engine roaring in the background. “They’re gunning right fucking for you. I’m on the way and I’ve got people getting their asses to you right now, but you need to get the fuck out of there.”
My younger brother’s voice cracks a little.
“Get the fuck out of there, brother.”
I’m already moving to my bookshelf, pulling it back from the wall on the hidden hinge and grabbing the array of guns off the wall behind it. Three Beretta pistols, a shotgun, my Colt .45 and a
shitload of ammunition get dumped into the duffel bag in my hands in a matter of seconds.
“I’m gone. I’ll be out of here in two minutes.”
“Good,” Liam says darkly, a horn blaring in the background as I’m sure he blows past someone or through a light.
“You know where-”
“I’m going to the beach house.”
“Yeah, good thought.”
And I’m about to tell him. In all honesty, I’m about to just tell him about Sierra, because at this point, why am I not telling my brother about her?
But he swears at something on the road, there’s another horn blast, and I’m right back in the moment.
And the moment screams for me to fucking act right now. Talking can come later after I get us the fuck out of here and hopefully before the Ukrainian mob comes crashing through my fucking door.
“I’ll call you from the road.”
“Get going man,” Liam says tightly.
I nod, and I’m pulling the phone away from my ear to hang up when I hear his voice again.
“Hey, and Con?”
“Yeah?”
“Be safe, man.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sierra
I wake up with the gasp frozen in my throat and my heart jumping out of my mouth. My senses scream at the sudden switch to “on”, and I bolt up in bed to see Connor looming over me.
“Get up, now,” he hisses, pushing clothes into my stunned hands.
I frown at the semi-light coming in around the curtains over the windows. “What time is it?”
“Ukrainians,” he says tightly, already whirling and shoving things into the bag slung over one shoulder.
“What?”
Connor whirls, his eyes blazing at me. “The big scary guys from the bar who saw you? They’re coming here. Right now.”
My gut drops.
“Here?”
Fear lances through me, and I can feel my heart start to pound inside my chest as it starts to take over.
“I don’t know how, but we need to leave, now.”
“Okay, okay,” I say numbly, fumbling out of bed. “Hang on-”
“Now, princess!” he barks, sending me jumping out of bed and yanking my old clothes on.
“Okay! I’m sorry I’m not a fucking expert at getting out of places because the mob is coming to kill me.”
“I know you’re not.”
I jump at the sound of his voice in my ear, his hand on my hip.
“Look at me.”
I swallow, taking a breath before I turn and glance up into his eyes.
“We’re going to get out of here, I just need you to do exactly what I say, understand?”
I nod.
“Do you trust me?”
I’m not sure.
Especially after the things I saw last night in Agent Marlow’s file, but there’s no time for thinking right now, so I nod instead.
“Good. Let’s move, now.”
He turns, grabbing a jacket and his car keys. It’s all the time I need to make sure the burner phone the FBI agent gave me is tucked into the bottom of my bag before I shoulder it and follow Connor across the loft.
In the elevator, my eyes drop to the gun in his hand, clicking menacingly as he snaps a clip full of bullets into the handle.
Guns.
I don’t think I’ve ever even seen one for real before - well, before that night at the bar.
Part of me suddenly wonders if it’s the same one he put against my head that night.
The elevator drops down into the garage, and I can feel my pulse beating faster with every second. I’m in over my head here, in a very big way. This isn’t the sexy outlaw fantasy. This isn’t the thrill of something dangerous with the dark stranger at the bar.
This is actual danger. This is a real threat, and suddenly, I’m so scared I can barely breathe.
The elevator opens, and he hustles me out by the arm. “This way,” he growls. It’s not the same growl as the night before - the sort of growl that made me moan for him and shiver in ecstasy.
It’s weird that I notice that in this moment, but I do.
We stop behind a pillar about thirty feet from where his car is parked near the loading dock along one wall. Connor glances around, his eyes darting wildly and the gun tight in his hand.
“We’re gonna run for the car.”
“Run?”
The word sounds like cement coming out of my mouth.
“On three.”
I can feel my pulse thudding in my ears.
I’m not ready for this.
“One.”
His hand grips my arm, and I can feel my knees start to shake.
“Two.”
The brick wall behind us suddenly shatters into dust, and I scream at the peppered popping sound of guns firing that immediately follows.
“Now!”
Connor roars as he yanks me after him, pulling me as he bolts for his car. I scream as he pulls me down behind it, my hands clutching my head as I hear the sound of metal whizzing overhead.
He yanks the passenger side door open, climbing in and pulling me in after him. I’m barely out of the way of closing the door before Connor guns the engine and takes us peeling out of the parking garage.
We go tearing up the ramp and screeching out into the outside parking lot. My eyes go wide at the men who come running out from behind a burned out old car, but Connor suddenly cranks the window down and levels the gun out of it. We peel out, and I’m still screaming as the thing roars in his hand.
We swerve again wildly, the car jerking dangerously from side to side, and suddenly, I snap out of my daze.
“I’ve got the wheel!”
What?
I have no idea why I say it, or how I even know to lunge across the shifter and grab the wheel out of Connor’s hands. He barely nods before he yanks his arm around, both hands now training the gun at men running towards us and dropping them with three thundering shots.
He lurches back in and grabs the wheel in an iron grip. His face is hard and his eyes flash as he peels us out, whipping the Charger past a car-full of more guys with guns and roaring towards the far end of the lot.
“Nice work,” he says curtly.
I’m just nodding, half frozen in shock again and starting to shake, when the back windshield shatters. I scream as Connor suddenly shoves my head down, slamming on the gas. We tear out of the old factory parking lot, tires squealing on the sudden change from gravel to pavement as we roar towards the I-90 interstate entrance.
“Where are we going?” I say it quietly, hugging the oversized shirt around myself. After twenty minutes of me shivering in my “going out” clothes on the highway with the wind from the shattered back windshield whipping through the car, Connor ignored my protests and shrugged off his plaid shirt and passed it to me.
The same plaid shirt that smells like him that I’m currently wearing, feeling more and more like this is some sort of high school romance movie cliché - the girl that’s way out of her league wearing the big quarterback’s shirt to keep warm.
Only, you know, less quarterback, more scary mobster.
Same out-of-her-league girl though.
“A safe place.”
“Oh, okay.”
I’m barely hanging on and barely keeping it together. I’m in a daze, shaking even with the warmer shirt on.
“Why were those guys-”
“Jesus Christ,” he growls. “What’s not to understand?”
I break, and suddenly despite every single piece of me telling me not to, I’m sobbing.
Connor swears under his breath, and suddenly we’re pulling off the highway, roaring down the exit ramp, blowing through a stop sign and coming to a screeching stop at a gravelly rest area.
“I can’t- I mean, I can’t-”
I’m hyperventilating, my vision blurring as I suddenly just kick open the door and jump out of the car. I can feel the adrenaline roaring through me, and I’m unstea
dy on my feet as I go stumbling away from the car, to where I don’t even know, I just know I have to get away from it all.
“Sierra-”
“No, just-” I’m shaking my head, waving him off behind me as I stumble on. “I won’t tell anyone, I won’t- I mean-”
I shriek as he grabs me, whirling with every intention of fighting to the death to get away from him. But when he hauls me against his chest, I break, and instead of fighting, I grab his t-shirt tightly in my hands and sob into his chest.
“I gotcha, sweetheart.” His voice rumbles through me, his arm going around me as he strokes my back. “Let it out, I’ve got you.”
He holds me like that for how long I don’t know as my breath hitches and the tears bleed hot into the cotton of his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “Look, I act, and I forget that not everyone knows how to act the same way. I don’t - I mean it just doesn’t shake me anymore. I just react when I have to.”
His arms tighten around me, my breathing slows, and the dark spots swimming in front of my face begin to fade.
Panic attack over.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
I pull away from his soaked shirt, my brow furrowed as I look up at him.
“How is this normal to you?”
“It just is.”
“How?” I slowly shake my head, biting my lip. “I’ve watched you shoot people, and get shot at and-”
“Because it’s me, sweetheart,” he growls. “Because when I was ten, both my parents were gone and I spent most of my time trying to figure out how to lie to teachers and neighbors about where our folks were so CPS wouldn’t break up me and my brothers. Because when I was twelve, I got jumped by three older kids in a bad neighborhood and almost bled out from the knife they stuck in my side when I wouldn’t give them my lunch money.”
His face hardens, his eyes flashing this intense fire.
“Because when I was seventeen, I shot a guy before he could do the same to my brother. Because by the time I was twenty-one, I’d done more shit that you’ve ever seen in all the mob movies in the world. That’s why it doesn’t faze me.”
His voice is hoarse, his face hard lines and shadows. His hand comes up to cup my jaw possessively.