Fearless For Love (Lovelly #3)

by Clara Stone

  I look up when I hear the doors unlock, surprised. I didn’t even have time to get settled.

  “I have to say, Killshot,” Stamos says as the doors open wide and he walks in, “you most certainly have balls.”

  His band of goons follows him into the room, including Tony, looking a lot worse for wear, and his two pet henchmen. I feel a small flicker of satisfaction as I take in Tony’s bruised face and the fact he’s limping slightly. But he’s not the main thing that piques my interest. Standing among the usual crew is a guy with three teardrop tattoos on his cheek. Gomez. Neil had sent me his surveillance footage while I talked to him in Jess’s bathroom.

  I didn’t get the chance to tell Fisher about it though, for two reasons. One, he and Cat went missing as soon as Lincoln, John, and Tracy left with Krish and the paramedics the FBI sent. And two, I didn’t want him to lose his shit yet. Not until I had a plan of attack and the chance to apologize for grinding his face into the wall.

  However, facing Roberto like I am now, staring down the murderer of Fisher’s family and God only knows how many others, I find myself coming dangerously close to losing my cool. It takes everything in me to stop myself from putting a bullet between his eyes.

  Stamos takes out a cigar from the box resting on his desk and then slaps the lid closed. “Give me one good reason why I should let you live.”

  An image of Chavez comes to mind. I know exactly where this is heading.

  “Because you need me.”

  “Oh?” He quirks an eyebrow.

  “Yup.” I don’t offer any more details, because I’m honestly still trying to figure out just how I’m going to get myself out of this mess. I knew it would come to this, and I tried to come up with reasons for why I had to step in between Krish and Tony, but I’ve got nothing.

  I see the slight smirk on Tony’s face as he runs a thumb under his throat. He’s calling my bluff. Shit.

  Stamos snaps his fingers, and two clicks sound behind me. I look over my shoulder and right into the barrel of the snub-nosed shot gun pointed at my face. Guard #2 drew his pistol, but when compared to the weapon his buddy has trained on me, it just doesn’t quite have the same impact.

  “You have five seconds to convince me before my men waste you,” Stamos states as he takes a seat in his throne-chair.

  Roberto offers Stamos a cigar cutter, and then helps him light it up. This is such a piss-ass time to lose my shit. I know it. And yet I still can’t keep the words from spilling out my mouth.

  “Well, your arrogant shit-for-brains-son sure as hell won’t be winning any fights for you.”

  Tony’s eyes blaze with anger and . . . a little worry? Looks like I hit a nerve. Good. He glances to his father, then me. Then back to his father.

  “You little fucker. I’ll take you down right here, right now,” Tony says, walking toward me threateningly.

  “Back down, jackrabbit. I don’t think your face can take another readjustment,” I answer.

  He grabs the gun from the guy on his right and points it at my head. “Maybe I should just kill you now.”

  “And ruin Daddy’s persian rug? You don’t have the balls.” I get in his face, letting the cold metal barrel press against my forehead. I curl my fingers into tight fists. The tension in the room shoots up a dozen degrees. But even though I’m scared shitless, and my palms sweat, and my heart’s pounding against my ribs, I keep a steady face. Because if there’s anything that I can do right, it’s show that I’m fearless to any threat.

  “Stand down, Tony.” Stamos’s face is awfully calm. Impassive. I have no idea what that means. When no one moves, he adds, “Now.”

  Two more seconds pass before Tony drops his arm and backs away. So do the guys behind me.

  Fuck, that was close. “If there’s nothing else, I have things to do.”

  “One more thing . . .” Stamos snaps his fingers.

  I wait for whatever information he’s ready to throw at me.

  “The fight I talked to you about a few months back. It’ll take place January twenty-first. Roberto here will ensure that all the preparations are in place and all my fighters are ready. Check with him for the rest of the details.”

  I nod in acknowledgement. January 21. That’s when all of this can finally be put behind us, I realize.

  “Oh, and Killshot, I expect you to entertain my friends. Consider it your last chance to convince me. Now you’re dismissed.”

  I give a slight nod and get the hell out of there. Once I’m safely nestled inside my car, I send an encrypted email to Neil and Wilson with a single sentence: 3rd Saturday in January.

  That leaves us with a little over a month to prep before we take down one of the FBI’s most wanted men. What could be easier than that?

  I HEAR LAUGHTER and giggles coming from the living room. I duck my head under my pillow and pull the covers over my head. It’s been two days since Krish almost died on our living room floor. Two days since Harrington told me he was FBI.

  It’s also been two days since I’ve heard from him, and, awkwardly enough, it makes me sick with worry. Now that I know what he’s really doing with Stamos, I can’t help but feel anxious about his absence. I’ve even had nightmares of him lying in Krish’s place, bleeding out while I stand by and watch, helpless.

  The only thing that’s helped me cope is drumming.

  Which is why I crashed the moment I got home last night, after another tedious practice session with The Torque. My hands feel raw from the number of times Jarod had me rehearse my solo. He claimed that if I didn’t get it right, I might as well pack up and leave. And of course, being the stubborn person that I am, I stayed and practiced without complaint until he was completely satisfied.

  There’s something to be said for someone who’s as passionate about their work as he is. It makes me want to work harder, prove that I’m meant to be part of that greatness. The ability to forget everything and just immerse myself in music, feel the vibrations coursing through my veins, is one of the main reasons I drum. It’s where I feel most at home. I suppose, in that sense, Jarod and I are alike.

  The giggles in the living room have turned into full-on laughter. Irritated, I jerk the covers off and roll out of bed. I pull open the door, tempted to chuck something at Cat and retreat back into the cocoon of my sheets, but decide otherwise. Instead, I make my way down the short hallway and into the living room. Cat and John sit on the couch together, talking and laughing like nothing’s changed.

  They both pause when they see me standing there, staring at them, and something about the way they sit together makes me suddenly feel very alone. I miss Vincent.

  “Nice Tweety-birds.” John winks, pointing to my favorite pair of pajama shorts.

  I growl.

  “Coffee?” Cat asks, tipping her mug toward her nose. She takes a deep breath. “Mmm . . . so good.” Then she’s giggling again and I have no idea why. All I know is that I don’t feel anywhere near as light and carefree, standing so close to the area Krish had been. It’s like I can still feel the ghost of all that blood, all that violence.

  “Could you guys keep it down with . . .”—I wave my hand around—“all that peppiness?”

  “Somebody’s moody this morning,” Cat says in a sing-song voice.

  “Oh, stuff it,” I grunt, turning around and heading back to my room. I hear her say something about me needing time with everything that happened as I shuffle back into the safety of my room and close the door.

  I cross the small expanse of open space and lay back on my bed, staring at the stark white ceiling and chewing on my bottom lip.

  Cat’s not wrong. With everything that’s happened, I don’t know where I stand anymore. Especially when it comes to Harrington. I just need to talk to someone who understands me, who understands my past, my reservations.

  My phone buzzes on the bedside table and I pick it up. I smile when I see who’s calling. Perfect timing, as always.

  “Hey, Jessy-girl,” Vincent says when I
answer.

  “Hey, Vincent. How are you? How are things with your brothers?”

  He sighs heavily.

  I perk up, pulling myself into a sitting position, and drag the covers over my lap. “Uh-oh. What happened?”

  “I found out that my step-mom has a higher chance of getting custody than I do. Because technically, she’s still their mother, and apparently she’s going through rehab.”

  “I’m so sorry, Vince. I just don’t get it. The state has to see that you’re better for those boys than she is. She doesn’t love them, why can’t she just let them go?”

  There’s a long pause, and I can tell he’s struggling to find the words, to say them out loud. “She thinks I’m trying to steal her money.”

  I scoff. “How exactly?”

  “By trying to take them away from her. She knows that if she loses custody of my brothers, all that government support she currently gets will be cut off too.”

  “Money that she’ll just use to buy more drugs, instead of feeding her children.” I don’t get how horrible some parents are, putting themselves and their pleasures before the children that depend on them.

  “She pleaded to have her kids back, saying that she’ll change her ways and the judge bought it. But I’m not giving up yet. The court said she can have her kids back once she’s proven that she’s drug free.” He makes a pained noise, almost like a desperate groan. “Am I a horrible person for hoping she fails and overdoses one of these days?”

  “No!” I tighten my grip on my comforter. “You’re the last person who should feel that way, Vince. Hell, all you want is a better life for your brothers.”

  “One I doubt I can give them.” His voice is low.

  “It’ll be a helluva lot better than what they’re getting now. You’ll love them, and put their needs before yours.”

  “Come on, Jessy-girl. I know you think I can move mountains, but raising three boys while working as a mechanic isn’t exactly a charmed life. I barely get home on time as it is, and when I do, I’m so tired, I can barely keep my eyes open.”

  “Oh, Vince.” My heart hurts, and my throat feels like someone jabbed a hand into it. “You don’t know how much those boys love you, do you? You could raise them on stale bread and send them to school every day in torn clothes and they’d still think you’re their world. They know you love them more than anything. They know you’ll do everything you can to keep them safe.”

  “That’s all great, but I can’t fight the government.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” I promise him. I don’t know how, but we will. He will.

  “Anyway, tell me about your practices. You excited about this gig in Miami?” he asks, quickly changing the subject.

  I sigh. Where do I even start? “Yeah. Preparing for this one’s been really different though. Usually, we just practice a couple times right before a gig and it’s all pretty laid back. But this one, man. Jarod’s been riding us all really hard. Especially this last week. He’s been demanding that if we aren’t sleeping, we should be practicing.”

  “Man, that’s gotta be tough,” Vincent replies. “How are you dealing with work?”

  I shrug, even though he can’t see me. “I had to tell him that I can’t just up and quit working at Blue Tango. He got pissed and threatened to kick me out. But I was done being pushed around, so I pushed back. I was really hoping it was just a bluff and he would back down, and damn was I glad when he did.” I laugh nervously.

  “Really?” His tone is surprised. After another moment of silence, he says, “You’ve changed since you moved away.”

  “What do you mean . . . ?”

  “Like, I don’t know, there’s something a bit more . . . confident or something. You’ve always been tough, but not like this. It’s nice to see you taking control of what you want. . . . You even sound happy.”

  I frown, thinking that he couldn’t be more wrong. “I don’t know about that, Vince. I can’t seem to make up my mind lately, and things have gotten a bit . . . complicated when it comes to my life.”

  “Well, I beg to differ. And trust me, I know you better than you know yourself. Whatever it is, I’m sure you’ve got it handled.”

  Could he be right? I mean, I don’t feel any different. Could moving to a new place and playing drums really have affected me that much? I guess so. But I also know there’s more to it than that. Maybe it has less to do with something and more to do with someone. I take a deep breath and decide that now’s the perfect opportunity to tell him about Harrington, the man who came into my life as a surprise and who’s slowly inched his way into my heart, even when I tried so desperately to fight it. I tell him everything—the cage fights, the moments by the river, the run-ins with him at Blue Tango, all of it except the fact he’s FBI and how he’s working undercover for Stamos. I lay it all on the table, every conflicting thought, every half-formed hope, every reservation and fear.

  “What does your gut tell you?” he asks once I’m done.

  “That I should be with him. But I don’t know if it’s because I’m lusting after him, or if it’s because I know, deep down, that he’s not as bad as I want to think he is. That it’s my past getting in the way again.”

  “Hmm . . .” I hear the creak of a chair and imagine Vincent leaning back as he thinks. “Why do you think that?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, how can I be attracted to someone who beats people up? I mean, what’s the likelihood of him not hurting me?” As soon as I say it out loud, I realize how foolish it sounds. Because, even after everything I’ve seen, I know Harrington would never hurt me like that. That’s not who he is.

  There’s a long pause where Vincent says nothing, and I almost wonder if the call dropped. I check, just to be sure. “Vincent?”

  “Yeah. I’m here. I was just thinking . . . this guy . . . I mean, I get what you’re saying. But I guess it’s just that you have no guarantee in life, Jess. You’ve seen me get in fights, you’ve seen me hit the crap out of people, do you ever think I’d hurt you?”

  “No.” The answer is quick and short. There’s no doubt in my mind that Vincent would never hurt me in a million years. Even if someone put a gun to his head, he wouldn’t.

  “But a lot of other people might not think that.”

  “Well, then they’re idiots.”

  I picture him smiling my favorite smile as I defend him.

  “Okay. So what if you’re making the same kind of snap judgment with Harrington that many people might make of me? Yeah, I have piercings and tattoos, and I get into fights, but that doesn’t make me a bad guy, does it?”

  He has a point.

  “Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying this guy is all fun and roses and you don’t have a reason to be cautious, but maybe if you give him a chance, you might be surprised. I’ve known you a long time, Jess, and you’re family. I know your fears; heck, I’ve experienced them for years myself. So I know how your mind works, and trust me when I say that you like this guy, whoever he is. And if he’s made this kind of impression on you in just a few short meetings, imagine how you’ll feel once he’s really in your life.”

  “So what should I do next?” I ask. That totally sounded lame, but I don’t care.

  “Do what your heart and head tell you. And know that love isn’t without risk.”

  “I’m not in love with him.”

  “I know that,” he says gently. “But whatever you’re feeling for him, if you let it grow, give it a chance, it has the potential to become something.”

  My pulse kicks up a notch. I hadn’t thought about it that way. Sure, I’ve seen the movies, how boy meets girl and how that eventually turns into love. But is that something I could potentially have?

  “There’s a cost to happiness, Jessy-girl. The question you need to ask is, are you willing to gamble with your heart, knowing full well you might have it broken into thousands of pieces?”

  “Honestly?” I say. “I don’t know.”

  “Hey,
I didn’t catch Harrington’s last name,” Vincent says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  I chuckle. “Why? You planning to do some cyber-stalking?”

  “Maybe. I have to make sure he’s not a serial killer or something.” He laughs, but I know he’s only half kidding.

  “It’s Lovelly. Harrignton Lovelly.”

  “No way,” Vincent replies. “It can’t be.”

  “What?”

  “Are you serious? Remember Ace? Well, the boy she was madly in love with . . . his name is Heath Lovelly.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “What? No. It must be a coincidence.” I’m grasping at thin straws and I know it. Lovelly isn’t a common last name . . .

  “I doubt it. It’s Lovelly with a double L, right? He has to be Heath’s brother. They’re one of the most elite families in Georgia.”

  “HEY, MAN,” I say as Fisher walks toward me, pushing off the pillar I was leaning against and stepping forward to meet him. The sound of the cars on the overpass above us creates an ambient roar in the background that’s oddly kind of soothing. It’ll also let us talk freely, on the offhand chance that Stamos is having us followed.

  “Hey,” Fisher says casually.

  “So, first of all, I wanted to apologize for the other night—”

  Fisher puts up his hands. “Whoa. Let me stop you right there. If you called me here to apologize, I’m going to punch you in the throat. Because I don’t want your apology.”

  Okay, maybe he’s more pissed off than I thought.

  “You shouldn’t be apologizing, man. I should be.”

  “What?” I blurt. “Dude, I’m the one who nearly broke your arm.”

  He laughs. “You did no such thing. Besides, I shouldn’t have goaded you on like that. You were right. I just lost it there for a minute, and I’m sorry. I know you weren’t trying to blow up our op. You’re my best friend, man. I know there isn’t a thing in the world you wouldn’t do for me. Hell, you came looking for me, putting your fucking life in danger just to help me out. So, we’re good?”

  Fisher holds his hand out in truce and I clasp it with a grin “Yeah, we’re good”