by S. M. West
I don’t wait for his reply. Once outside, I dial the number on the burner, more than ready to talk to Slaughter, but it will be voicemail.
“Call me,” I bark once the automated voice prompts me to leave a message. “We need to talk. Now. And trust me, you’re gonna want to talk. And just in case you don’t think I’m worth your time, I’ve got one word for you. Maggie.”
I end the call, my blood heated and my gut churning at how that asshole used me and how I’m fucking stooping to his level. Up until now, he had no beef with me, so it’s got to be a case of I was in the right place at the right time.
Once I talk to the asshole and know what I’m dealing with, I’ll meet with Drago. I hate how much time this is taking. Maybe I should have called Slaughter the night of the fire, but at that point, I didn’t have any real intel and I was too easy to find. No, I had to do it this way.
Once inside, I find Maggie clothed on a stool and Kit’s got Mamie’s first aid kit on the counter. He stabs in the direction of her neck, frowning.
“This is not cool.” His frustrated growl devours the swollen silence. “I’m outta here.” He storms out and seconds later, burns rubber as the vehicle reverses along the driveway.
“Aren’t you going to go after him?” Her brow knits.
“Nah, let him cool off.”
Distance will be good for us. I’m tired of second-guessing my plan and resentful that Kit only makes it worse.
“Let’s put some salve on your bruises.” I sidle up to her and unzip the kit.
With two fingers coated in the clear, almost grease-like substance, I rub the column of her silky neck. Heat crackles down my spine. She feels it too. Our connection. I feel it in the delicious way her body quivers, so responsive, needy for my touch, and how she looks anywhere but at me.
My strokes are languid and measured along her petal-soft flesh. The bruising on her throat is still blue with hints of dark yellow, and I swear I feel the tenderness of those marks like kicks to my gut.
Regret coils low in my belly. Our eyes lock, hers a piercing midnight blue with what I think is a dose of dread? At what’s happening between us?
Her chest heaves, and she swallows thickly. The muscles and ligaments shift beneath her creamy skin, and my fingers linger on the tender spot at the base of her neck. My heart races in tandem with her rapidly fluttering pulse.
Panicked, she moves out of my reach, needing or wanting to sever where we’re joined. At the same time, she lifts the lid of the balm with shaky hands—she’s failed to hide her discomfort—and examines it as if the contents hold the meaning of life.
“What is this?” She holds the lid up.
My cock jerks at the sound of her husky voice, and I swear there’s a hint of lust in her tone. She clears her throat nervously, and her cheeks bloom a light pink.
“It’s arnica. Mamie swore by it for bruises, inflammation, sprains.”
She glances to her foot resting on the stool. “Mamie? Your mother or grandmother?”
Shit, I hadn’t realized I’d given her something I rarely share with anyone. “Grandmother,” I reluctantly reply, staring down at the counter.
Sensing my discomfort, she places her wrists in my line of sight, giving me something to do. Forgetting my reluctance to talk about myself, I’m overcome with the need to right a wrong as best as I can. The marks on her body are evidence of me. Of what I’ve done to her. What I’m still doing to her.
“Is this your grandmother’s place?”
I lather more cream on her scarlet wrists, refusing to respond. Fuck, will she have a permanent scar? Red bangles forever on her wrists? When she tried to break free from the cuffs, the metal tore into her flesh.
“How’d you meet Phoebe and Logan?” I ask, needing to move away from my family and the injuries I inflicted upon her.
Her shoulders deflate at my change of subject. “Phoebe’s my best friend. We’ve known each other since the first day of kindergarten, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. Well, until now. Logan’s now center stage.” She sounds almost jealous. “I don’t really know him, but she left everything behind for him.”
Another coincidence. What are the odds of her best friend shacking up with my best friend? I wonder if Phoebe helped her? Nah, that would mean this was a long game, and that doesn’t make sense. I think it was more one of opportunity. Again, I was just convenient to use; it isn’t personal.
“You don’t sound too happy about it,” I challenge.
“It isn’t for me to judge.”
I laugh. “Not for you to judge? Are you serious?”
“Excuse me?” She’s indignant. “What does that mean?”
I finish with her wrists and move onto her ankle. “You’re judgmental. Just own it, Claws.”
“Stop calling me that, and it’s no judgment on my part, I just call it like I see it. You’re a criminal, wanted for something, and you’ve got me mixed up in it.” She juts out her chin and pushes back her shoulders. She’s just mounted that high horse of hers.
“Easy.” My tone is relaxed and my smile just as chill. I don’t need her going all badass on me. I need a break. She can be exhausting.
“How do you know Logan?” She shifts on the stool, giving me access to the other side of her foot.
“I met Lo in elementary.” If anyone knows where all the bodies are hidden, it’s Logan. Feeling the need to lump him in with me, I add, “He worked with me for a while.”
“I’m not surprised.” She’s condescending, and it irks me. “What kind of work do you do?”
I smirk and shake my head. I’m not letting her off the hook that easy. “Why aren’t you surprised?”
“Phoebe loves the bad boys. And if you’re friends with Logan, that says it all.”
Ignoring her jab, I ask, “What about you?”
“What about me?”
I run my hands under the warm water and add soap to wash the greasy substance off my fingers. “You like the pretty boys.” I land my own jab. “Boring and predictable.” I yawn for good measure.
She narrows her eyes. “Pardon?”
“The blond guy at your garage the other day. You go for that type? He’s your boyfriend?”
Why am I wasting my time? What am I, in high school, scoping out the competition? Like I care. I never did this shit then, why the fuck am I doing it now?
“Dan?” She eyes me skeptically, surprised.
“Ah, Dapper Dan. Dashing Dan.” Dickwad Dan. Dickhead Dan. “Suits him. How long you been together?”
She tilts her head to the side and her nose crinkles. “How do you know Dan?”
“You guys together?” I stick to my question, now smirking at her awkwardness.
“We’re not.”
“He’d like to be.” I rest my hip on the counter beside her. “You guys fucked yet?”
Her gaze snaps to mine, fire flickering in its depth, and she kicks her leg at me. I jump back just in time. If we’d connected, it would have hurt her more than me.
“You’re a jerk. It’s none of your business. You disgust me.” Her face twists sullenly.
“Do I?” I taunt, wrapping my hand gently around her bruised ankle, my thumb rubbing slow circles into her tender flesh. “I think it’s the opposite, Claws.”
My eyes are drawn to her now-thrumming pulse point. Something has her excited. Perhaps I do turn her off, but something tells me that’s not the case. Her dilated pupils and flushed cheeks tell a different story.
“Please stop calling me that,” she demands, wriggling her ankle in my hold.
She doesn’t really want me to let her go because she’s not forceful. Her attempt is half-hearted, and she quickly stops trying to break my grasp.
“Where’s your Mamie now?” She lashes out, knowingly rubbing salt in a wound.
“Dead,” I fire back, keeping my gaze on her but releasing her foot.
She frowns. “Who lives in the mansion?”
“No one.”
“
Are we going to get arrested for trespassing?”
With a grin, I shake my head. “Nope. No worries about that.”
“You seem pretty sure of yourself.”
“I own the house.”
“You do? Then why aren’t we in there? It’s a lot bigger than the cottage.”
The place is mine, but I hate it. We inherited the cottage and land, and the first thing I did was to register ownership under an alias. It’s ironic since the cottage is our family legacy.
Later, much later, when I was struggling with my failure to fix things for my family and suffering the devastating loss of Léa, I had the larger house built. “The monstrosity” as Caro likes to call it.
Why? Who the fuck knows? I could have sold this place, walked away from a life of crime, and used the proceeds to build an honest life. Instead? I grabbed crime by the balls. Got off on the control it gave me and never looked back.
“Nick?” Maggie’s voice rips me from the past. I shake my head and stare at her. Her gaze is intense and searching. “Are we safe here?”
This time, her voice wavers. Is it at something she sees in my face? Is she worried? Or is it regret for poking at me?
“Yeah, we’re safe. No one can tie me to either the cottage or the house.” My soft tone seems to diminish her angst, the small lines around her mouth lessening.
“What is this place?” She motions around the room, to the building we’re currently in.
“The carriage house.”
“Okay. And?”
“My mother was born here, and her father.” I push from the counter to peer out the window, hoping for Kit’s car. Where the fuck is he?
“Your mother is French-Canadian?” She sounds like she’s right behind me, but she’s still on the stool. I nod, turning to face her.
“Where is she now?” She’s just getting started with her intrusive questions.
I don’t want to talk about my mother. That woman is dead to me. I still can’t believe Mamie is her mother. Those two women couldn’t be any more different. My mother didn’t have a maternal bone in her body, whereas Mamie was everyone’s mother.
“Stop with all the questions,” I clip, sick at the thought of all the women in my life—and how every single one of them has brought some kind of fucking heartache. Even Caro, who I am closest to but can’t spend time with openly for fear of putting her in danger.
“Sorry.” Pushing off the stool, she hobbles to the couch. I try to help, but she waves me off. “What’s your plan? How long are we going to be here?”
“No more questions,” I snap, and she rears back, eyes wide, swimming with hurt.
Before I can make amends, my phone vibrates, and I smile at the text from my answering service flashing across the screen. Slaughter’s returned my message with a number and time to call him. Now.
14
Friday 5:03 PM
Nick
“Don’t move.” I point at her on the sofa.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll be right there.” I point to outside the window.
Her eyes track my every move from the cottage to outside. I stand staring at her through the window before pulling out the phone.
Her inquisitive gaze burns while I punch in Slaughter’s number. She can’t hear me, but it doesn’t stop the unease from churning in the pit of my belly.
“You bloody fucking wanker! I’m going to slit you balls to throat and scatter your innards all over the earth,” John Slaughter threatens, answering even before the first ring is complete.
I smile wickedly. “John, good to hear your voice.” I’m casual and sarcastic.
The wind whips around me, causing me to shiver at the same time Slaughter releases a string of expletives before getting a hold of himself.
“Listen, you twat, you fucking harm a hair on her head, and I swear to Christ—”
He cares for her. I had gambled on that. I’m not surprised since I’ve gotten to know Maggie. The asshole has a heart, who knew?
“Listen, fucker, you brought this on yourself.” I tear my gaze away from Maggie. She’s staring as if watching a silent movie. Fuck, I hope she can’t read lips.
“Maggie has nothing to do with this.” His voice is tight and barely contained. Is he choking up? “I need proof you’ve got her.”
With her observing me keenly, I push past the cold, heavy knot in my gut. “Why is Drago gunning for me?”
He clears his throat. “Nick, that was bloody business. Maggie’s my flesh and blood. Leave her out of this. Let me talk to her. Prove to me you’ve got her and she’s alive.”
Maggie is John Slaughter’s half-sister. This is the dynamite Paddy had uncovered with his background check on her.
I’ve had several checks done on John, but she never came up for a couple reasons. His parents are deceased, and we never pursued that, and for all the years I was doing business with John, Maggie’s last name wasn’t the same.
John’s parents divorced when he was barely four and his mother took him back to the UK, where he lived for most of his life. John came to Canada a grown man and sixteen years older than Maggie. It wasn’t until Paddy did his search on Maggie Hill and her father came up as Percy Slaughter that he discovered the relation.
“Slaughter, answer my fucking question or else.” I’ve got his sister, and I’m playing on his fear.
“The bloody Russian’s been creeping into my territory, undercutting my price to win my long-time clients. I needed to teach the cunt a lesson. Caught word that one of his shipments was ripe for the taking. Just sitting in the yard for a day or two before it was to be moved.”
Joe, the night watchman at the railyard, must have been his source. He snitched for money, and now the greedy doughboy is dead.
“Ah, and let me guess, you called me with your bullshit story about your transpo’ falling through. It was Drago’s cargo, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. Nick, let her go or I’ll kill everyone you love.” His threat is a loaded gun—too bad he doesn’t have any targets.
“Well, that’s a short list, old boy, because there isn’t anyone.” I laugh like a cocky bastard, denying the truth. If he knew where to look for my loved ones, he would have me by the balls.
“Now, back to your theft and how you left me holding the bag. Here’s what you’re gonna do. Call the Russian and tell him that I’ve got no beef with him or skin in this game.”
John now has skin in this game—Maggie—thanks to me.
“Drago needs to back the fuck off. Before you answer, think long and hard. This is where we could make a deal.” My tone is casual, almost friendly, but the threat’s clear. If he wants his sister, he needs to fix this. Fast.
“Fuuuck,” he growls as if gravel’s stuck in his throat. “I already told him you had nothing to do with this. I called him when I heard you had my sister. But the tosser doesn’t give a fuck. He thinks you were in on it.”
“Motherfucker.” My fist punches at the twilight sky, sunlight fading fast.
Movement inside the darkening cottage catches my eye as Maggie jumps, sitting upright. Her face is shadowed, but her eyes are huge and set on me. Can she hear me?
“I’ll call him again.” Slaughter’s offer is futile, and we both know it.
The Russian is one paranoid asshole. I’m not surprised he doesn’t believe Slaughter. Over the years, there have been times when he wanted my loyalty and insisted I sever ties with my other clients. I said no, prepared to walk away. Drago is always more trouble than he’s worth. He’d refuse to do business with me, but usually by the time he needed a fixer, he’d have forgotten our talk, or at least pretended it never happened.
When I don’t respond, the Brit demands, “Let me talk to Maggie.”
It’s time for Plan B. It isn’t my first choice nor my second, if I’m being honest, but Slaughter put me in this position and keeps forcing my hand. Maggie’s still watching me, ramrod straight. Swinging around so my back is to her, I clench my fists a
nd focus.
“Well, you’ve just lost that privilege. There were a million ways you could’ve played this, but you had to involve me. Why?”
The silence is deafening on the other end of the line. And what the hell am I doing? His response isn’t going to change anything. Am I looking to justify my plans for Maggie?
The sad fact is there isn’t a reason for using me. That’s the thing about life. Most of the time, the reasons for bad shit happening are never satisfying or even logical. Bad shit happens. That’s the truth.
“It was business. Nothing personal.” His contrite tone isn’t helping. “The opportunity presented itself, and I called in the best to get it done.” Any other time, his flattery might work—I am the best there is, and go figure, excelling at my job put me in the middle of this mayhem—but not this time. “Word was out you were retiring, so I figured no harm, no foul to your future business.”
Air catches in my lungs. Fuck, I’ve only told two people I was retiring: Kit and Logan. Who talked? And why? My chest constricts at the thought that one of my closest friends might have betrayed me.
Both know retirement in this business comes in one of two ways: death or a clean getaway. It’s no corporate affair with announcements, presents, and celebrations with your colleagues. When you decide to retire, if you’re lucky enough to get that option, you do it ASAP. Walk. The. Fuck. Away. Fast.
I can’t believe either Lo or Kit told people I was stepping down, but there’s no one else. Rage sparks low in my belly. My demons stir at this betrayal.
“Listen to me.” I pace in front of the house, my strides erratic, fists curling into balls. “You’re going to step off and let me handle it from here on out.”
“What about Maggie?” His strangled voice tugs at my chest.
“Do you hear me?” I won’t let his turmoil deter me. It’s my life on the line.
“Yeah. But—”
“But nothing.” My tone is terse. “You understand?”
“Yeah, I get it. But I need to hear her voice. Know she’s okay.”
“Fuck you, asswipe. You can kiss that chance goodbye. As far as she’s concerned—and let me make this clear so there’s no misunderstanding—if you come after me or interfere in shit with Drago, you’ll regret it. Maggie will be dead to you.”