by S. M. West
“You fucking wanker—”
“Slaughter.” My voice is guttural and raw. “How this ends for her is up to you. You have the control. Whatever happens is on you.”
He mutters under his breath, curse words to be sure, but responds, “Yes.” He releases a long, jagged breath. “When will I see her?”
A car turns into the driveway, beams heading toward the cottage. I’d know that huge frame in the driver’s seat anywhere. Kit.
I end the call and watch as he parks the car and gets out. My fists want to smash his face, but another part of me is relieved to see him. Relieved he came back.
“We gotta talk.” He’s hard lines and tense muscles. “Are you sure you need Maggie?”
“I’m not talking about Maggie with you. She’s here, and that’s that. You fucking think I’d bring a woman into this if I didn’t have a choice?” Looks like I’m going with punching him in the face. His mouth opens, ready to rebut my claim when I barrel on, “I. Had. No. Choice.”
With each word, my anger ratchets higher and hotter at defending myself to my supposed friend. He should know what I am and am not capable of. Sensing the wild, violent energy vibrating within me, he backs up.
“You think I like seeing those fucking bruises on her?” I poke at his hard chest. I’m getting derailed by my fucking guilt. I don’t answer to him. “Let’s talk about your fat mouth squawking about my retirement.” At this point, I’m right in his face.
“What the hell are you talking about?” His brow wrinkles.
“Slaughter confirmed what we figured. The shipment the other night was Drago’s. We helped him steal it from under the psycho Russian’s nose, and that’s why he’s on my ass. And you wanna know why me?”
The corners of his mouth slide downward. I continue without giving him a chance to speak. “The Brit heard I was retiring. He figured he couldn’t hurt my business if I was leaving anyway.”
“Okay. And how do you figure it was me?”
“It’s you or Lo. And Lo’s been gone for six months.”
I’ve already figured the chances of it being Logan are slim to none. The guy no longer runs in my circles, hasn’t for years, and he’d have no reason to tell anyone back here. It has to be Kit.
“Nick, man, it wasn’t me…” The big guy rakes one of his large mitts through his shaggy brown hair and furrows his brow.
I wait him out as he racks his brain. He paces a few more times, and then it happens. His shoulders wilt, and he hangs his head, muttering, “Fuck me.” Snapping his gaze to mine, he straightens his spine. “Nick, I’m so fucking sorry.”
Grabbing his lapel, I push at him. “What did you do?”
“It was after you first told me you were getting out. It messed with my head. I got drunk at Rip’s and made some comment about you leaving the life.”
“Who’d you say it to?”
His healthy bronze complexion pales, and his face twists in self-disgust. I’m not going to like his answer.
“Jesse.”
Fuck my life. “Seriously?” Of all the goddamn people he could blab to, it had to be Slaughter’s newly appointed right-hand man.
“I’m sorry.” His body deflates.
His remorse and self-loathing drains any desire to pummel him. Whatever he did, it wasn’t deliberate. He lifts his head, eyes wild with an idea. “Punch me. I deserve it.”
That does it. My lips curve into a smile, and I bark out a crazy laugh, not sure if I’m laughing at him and his stupid idea, how fucking insane things are, or what I’ve been reduced to.
“I’m not going to punch you, you stupid ass.”
He grins, placing his palm on my shoulder, and squeezes. “I’m such a fucking idiot. I’m sorry.”
“Forget about it. Slaughter would’ve used me anyway.”
“How’d it go?”
I fill Kit in, deliberately leaving out the part where I threatened Maggie. We’re never going to agree on her, and he’s already having a hard time with this. I’m not going to add to it.
“I gotta figure out how to handle Drago.” I rake my hand through my hair. Kit opens his mouth to say something, but I continue, “And as far as Maggie, that’s none of your business. You’re a good friend, and you did me a solid getting us here, but you can leave if you want. I’m not going to mess you up even more.”
“I’m not leaving. I ran into Yegor.”
“What?” My spine stiffens, my body now cold. Yegor’s one of Drago’s men, and if he’s close by, Drago means business. Yegor is his best.
“He almost didn’t let me leave. I went to the bakery.” His expression is sheepish. Of course, the guy is a sucker for maple sugar cookies famous around these parts and the bakery in the town of St. Donat have the best.
“I wasn’t thinking. Drago’s men were crawling around town. At first, when they spotted me, they wanted to rough me up, maybe even haul me in, but when I said I could get a message to you, they called Drago. They want a meet.”
“Shit. Did they follow you?” I start toward the cottage; they could be here any second, but he pulls me back.
“Nah. I drove to Montreal and back. I lost them in the city. That’s why I was gone so long.”
“You’re sure?” I press. Something twists in my chest at the thought of those thugs storming the cottage.
“I made sure of it. It took a damn long time to shake them. I fucked up, man.”
A wry grin creeps onto my face at how pure this guy is. He could kill someone with his bare hands without breaking a sweat, but he never would. He’s a gentle giant. “When do they want to meet?”
“Tomorrow. I told them Montreal, the docks.”
“Why?”
“They think you’re in Montreal. Although they found me at the bakery, I made it look like I let something slip, so they would think I was scouting the area for our next location.” He gives me another guilty grin, and I shrug. He’s right, it could go either way.
“Okay. What time?”
“Five thirty tomorrow afternoon.”
“Who picked the time?” I need every detail. It’s crucial to determining what we could be walking into.
“I did.” He continues before I can ask why, “I figured it’ll be getting dark and things will be winding down. It’s a safe enough spot to meet, yet it isn’t completely deserted.”
I nod, agreeing. We’re also familiar with the docks and have a spot for the meet in mind. “How’d you leave it?”
“I’m gonna text the location.”
We talk for a few more minutes, figuring out the place and other details before he texts Yegor. Then with one quick move, he destroys the phone, pocketing the pieces, and removes another brand-new burner from inside his coat.
My thoughts go to Maggie and the hairs on my arms rise when I glance through the window, already knowing what I’ll find. She isn’t there; I haven’t felt her eyes on me for a while.
From this vantage point, even in the fading light, the cottage is a fishbowl; I should be able to see her. No one is in the room.
“Fuck.” I sprint to the front door.
“What?” Kit’s on my heels.
“Maggie.”
I throw the door open, smacking the plaster with the knob as pieces fly outward. There’s no way she could have left. The front door is the only exit. I would have seen her. And the windows aren’t big enough for an adult to get through. Even someone slender like Maggie.
“I’ll check ‘round back,” Kit’s voice carries from outside.
With one sweep of the ground floor, I come up empty. She isn’t here. I take the narrow stairs two at a time. My heart galloping at full speed and my breath coming in short, quick bursts.
Maggie’s upright on the bed and everything slows. My heart calms and my breathing steadies. By the diffused light, I see her eyes widen with worry or surprise and her mouth opens in a small o.
“What’s wrong?” Her voice is husky, her dark hair mussed. “Did they find us?”
; “I told you to stay put.” My controlled tone belies my inner unrest.
The room is small. With the double bed, there’s only room for a side table and a chair in the corner. I inch toward her, slouching as the ceiling slopes downward to form garrets on either side of the bed.
“I wanted to rest,” she stutters.
Is she scared? Did she hear my conversation with John? I doubt it although I was loud and agitated. Fuck.
I sit on the bed, my thigh resting beside her calf; her foot is elevated on two pillows. The swelling is almost gone. I rest my hand on her ankle and she flinches but doesn’t move away.
“Does it feel any better?”
“A bit.” She nibbles on her bottom lip. “What are you going to do with me?”
Her tongue peeks out, and my gaze lands on her mouth. Her pink lips glisten, and the only thing I can think about is our kiss. Again. That’s what I want right now. But unlike last time, I won’t be able to stop myself.
I lean in, fixed on her mouth. A flash of desire darkens her eyes, her mouth tempting, and I can almost taste her again. I crave her fire, and my balls tighten.
Kit’s voice severs the moment. “Nick, did you find her?” He climbs the final few stairs.
I nod, glancing over my shoulder at him. He smiles for Maggie before leaving, sensing he’s intruded on a moment.
“Is this you?” She points to a barely ten year old boy standing between two girls, one a couple years older and the other slightly younger than him.
It’s me with my sisters. The picture frame rests on the bed side table and my lips curve into a smile.
“Yeah.” I push to stand, not wanting to talk about my family.
“Your name is Nicolas?” She’s now holding the frame and reading the names and year scribbled in pen on the back of the white cardboard.
She’s said my name wrong, pronouncing the s, and I almost don’t bother to correct her.
“It’s Nicola. The s is silent in French.”
“What? Nicola is a girl’s name.” She wrinkles her nose and tilts her head to the side.
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Not in French.”
“And who’s Léa and Caro?”
Okay, time to shut this down. An animal-like rumble erupts from my belly and Maggie’s eyes widen. We both laugh.
“You hungry?” I ask. It’s been several hours since they ate, and I haven’t eaten since morning.
“I could eat, but let me guess, you’re starving.” Her tone is light, and I’m glad she’s forgotten her question.
Kit and I fix dinner, and Maggie stays in bed to eat and read. Once everything is cleaned up, I climb the stairs for the night. She’s nestled under the covers, reading while I kick off my boots and sweater. She rests the book on the table and stares.
“You done?” I pull back the sheet.
“Yes.” Her nervous gaze darts around the room. “You’re sleeping with me?”
“Yup.” I pull the blankets to my waist and lie back on the pillow. This bed is much smaller than I’m used to. We are touching with no room to spare.
“Are you going to cuff me or tie me?” she asks, now snuggling under the covers and turning to face me. She tucks her hands under her pillow.
I have more options here. Even with the meager amenities of the cottage, there is an alarm. All my homes have one. And if I don’t hear her leave the bed, Kit is asleep downstairs on the couch. It would be virtually impossible for her to escape. Not to mention, the front door is the only exit, and she can’t walk fast with her ankle. And there is the little fact that I don’t want to restrain her.
“Nah.” I slide down and turn to face her. “I trust you.” It’s not entirely true. I trust her not to leave.
“Thank you,” she rasps, and her cheeks flame as her dark eyelashes flutter closed for the briefest of moments before looking back to me. “Who were you talking to on the phone?”
I still, not liking this sudden turn in conversation. Is she playing me? Did she hear? Does she know?
I study her fine features—the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, her skin as pure as cream, and her hair as dark and thick as night. She’s exquisite.
She swallows with difficulty, understanding I’m not going to respond, and she tries again. “You were angry. Is it bad news for us? For me?”
I brush a stray strand behind her ear. Her eyes close, and she shivers.
“Everything is fine. I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Can I ask you another question?”
“Sure, but it doesn’t mean that I’ll answer.” My fingers linger at the edge of her arm, palm flat on the bed, itching to touch her more but not daring to.
“Tell me more about this place. About your family.”
Like a grenade exploding, my insides burst with dread and disquiet. The one topic that can turn my mood sour. My family.
She senses the switch, reaching out to touch my bare shoulder. Her warm, soft fingers sharpen the fuzzy edges of my vision, and my breathing slows.
Very few people know the details of my past, and for those that do—like Kit and Lo—they had a front row seat to the unraveling of my family. I didn’t have to share any of the ugly details.
“You don’t—” Maggie says at the same time I say, “This was my grandfather’s place. They were wealthy, but good people. He was a kind man who loved a modest life. He met my Mamie, my grandmother, in Quebec City when he went to Laval University. They lived here and had one child, my mother, Frannie.”
I pause, gathering the courage to go on and wondering how much I want to share. Being here has unearthed many ghosts, and maybe if I talk about them, they’ll go back to their graves.
“My mother’s nothing like Mamie. She isn’t happy with simple things.” My bitterness burns my tongue, and she squeezes my shoulder briefly. “My father is dead, and my mother… she’s living her life. I have no clue where.”
“What do you mean?”
My gut clenches. “I’ll back up. My dad, Giles, adored my mother. That man would have done anything for her. They met when Mom came to Toronto with dreams of a dancing career. She wanted to be a ballerina, but as much as she’d deny it to this day, it was never to be. They married and had three kids.”
“Three? Do you have brothers, sisters, both?”
“Sisters. Anyway, we weren’t wealthy; the only luxuries we ever had were given by our grandparents on my mom’s side. My dad’s parents were dead. The properties in Quebec were theirs first.” I shift in the bed, my fingers now brushing her forearm. “Dad worked his ass off, and Mom stayed at home. Then there was an accident at the railyard where Dad worked.
“Two men were killed, and my dad got badly hurt. Some say he was lucky, but I’m not so sure. He had a long and hard recovery and was never the same again. He’d been hit in the head and couldn’t go back to work. Mom had to work, and she was miserable. It was hell. She was unhappy, and he was depressed. Then one day, she just up and left.”
“What?” Maggie pushes onto her elbow, her eyes wide.
“Yeah.”
“Oh my God,” she gasps, horrified. “How old were you?”
“Thirteen.” I’m losing the battle and the past is sucking me into all the shit that comes with these memories. The ghosts are storming my mind and chilling my insides.
“Nick, I can’t even…” She cups my jaw, no longer as puffy, and her soft eyes say all that I need.
Closing my eyes, her touch is comforting and just what I need to finish this conversation. I won’t tell her all. This is enough ugliness for one night.
“After she left, the very little health Dad had left went into the toilet. He’d loved her like no one else, and after his accident, she treated him differently. As if he was no longer capable of taking care of her. That slowly killed him and when she left, she might as well have dug his grave. Within a year, he was gone.”
“Nick.”
The soft, sweet tone of her voice brings a smile to my face.
&nbs
p; “It’s cool. That was a long time ago. Let’s not talk about this shit.”
She nods, and we slip into a comfortable silence, staring at each other until I can’t take it any longer. Not wanting to cross that line but needing to break this spell, I grin and wink. She giggles, rolling her eyes.
“Who is Nick Prophet?” she whispers with a shy smile.
“What you see is what you get.” I hitch a shoulder and smirk, uncomfortable with this kind of introspection.
“Well, if that isn’t a lie, I don’t know what is.” She raises an eyebrow with a challenging smile, and I chuckle. “I’m guessing Prophet isn’t the name you were born with.”
“And neither was Hill for you.” I push lightly at her shoulder and stare solemnly into her electric-blue eyes. “Prophet is who I am.”
“Why Prophet? Can you see the future?”
“You want the truth?” I lean in close, her breath warm and sweet on my flesh.
“No, lie to me,” she mocks, a lightness to her tone that isn’t usually there.
“I got into the business for profit. You know, to make some serious coin. I needed to. It’d be easier to say it was youth and greed, but it was necessity. Survival for my family. Prophet, like the seer, is a play on words. I thought it was fucking cool and prophetic.”
“How so?” She’s riveted by my raw and rare truth.
“I do make a lot of money.” My reply is matter-of-fact.
I won’t apologize or sugarcoat how money is the only thing that gives me control. Helps me take care of mine and my responsibilities, and it makes sure no one else can fuck with me.
“Is money what’s most important to you?”
Now isn’t that the million-dollar question. Truth be told, I don’t care about money. I care about what it gives me. The reality is it’s what I need, almost more than my next breath. I fucking wish money wasn’t so important to my life, to fulfilling my obligations, to bringing me the tiniest bit of peace in this goddamn world.
15