“I’ll pay for it,” Miles interjects. “I’ll give you everything for two years’ worth of schooling right now.”
His mother sits speechless, her lip quavering.
I don’t know much about private schools, but I know they ain’t cheap. If Miles intends to pay for two years, he’s basically giving up the last of his money I gave him for helping me with Malloy. He’d go right back to being broke.
Miles steps up to the island and hangs his head. “Please take him. He won’t listen to me and… I know he was upset when you left with only Lacy. I know he wants to live with you, even if he denies it.”
“He’s on drugs,” she replies. “I won’t have an addict near Lacy.”
“I’ll pay for rehab, then.”
She turns her crying glare toward him. “How do you have all this money? Are you cooking stuff up with your father now too? Is that it?”
“No, Mom. I’m not doing that. Dad kicked me and Jayden out. Does it matter where I got the money if it’s being used for good? Please just help Jayden.”
“I knew it. I knew you would turn to drugs to solve your problems. That’s just what your father would have done.”
“It’s not drugs. I promise.”
“How can I be sure with you?” she snaps, accusation in her voice like she’s talking to Miles’s father instead of her twenty-year-old son. Miles shifts back, wounded by the statement. It probably doesn’t help that earlier I didn’t trust him much either. His defeated posture grates on me.
“Ma’am,” I chime in, forcing the casual tone of my voice into that of an authoritative one. “Your son has been helping the detectives of the Noimore Police Department catch some unsavory criminals. We offer rewards to citizens with valuable information. I swear to you, as a detective on the force, he’s doing good work.”
Heh. It’s not entirely a lie. Malloy is off the streets, after all. And he was a dangerous criminal.
Miles stares at me with a look of confusion and regret. His mother, on the other hand, rubs at her eyes and stares at her son as though seeing him for the first time since we got here.
“You’re helping the police?” she whispers.
Miles doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need confirmation, though. She walks over and wraps her arms around his neck. For a moment they embrace before she breaks the connection.
“You look so good,” she says, holding him at arm’s length. “So manly. So professional. I should’ve seen it before. You’re really turning your life around.”
He nods. I can practically see the lump in his throat brought about by the lie. Does it matter if the lie is being used for good? Miles doesn’t say anything. His mother goes into another round of silent crying. She pulls him in for a second hug, and this time he returns it.
I turn away. For some reason this moment feels personal—like I’m sullying something special with my presence. I walk out of the kitchen and into the living room. Andrew and the little girl have gone to the back of the house. I’m alone and I stand awkwardly by the front door, on the verge of going back to the car.
Miles said his brother was hurt by their mother’s choice to take only their sister…. It’s clear to me that Miles felt betrayed as well. The look on his face when his mother hugged him…. This is the kind of life he wants. This is the kind of life he should have had if family circumstances had been different.
I chortle to myself, half lost in musings. My mother is seated firmly in prison and my father killed himself in a drunk driving “accident.” When I hit the streets, I never thought what if my parents had just stayed together. I imagine Miles must wonder what it would be like if his mother had just kept him. The thoughts get me feeling icy again.
“Pierce?”
“What?” I ask, turning around.
Miles, standing next to me with a melancholy expression, motions to the door.
I nod. We exit the house and wander back to the car.
“Let’s go home,” I say.
Miles perks up as he slides into the passenger seat and buckles himself in. “Home?”
“Yeah. You live at my flat now, right? Then we’re going home.”
He half smiles to himself. “Right. Home.”
I UNLOCK the front door and we enter in silence. My apartment is cool and still despite the life and activity outside, but I like it that way. I take off my coat and hang it on the hook by the door. Miles does the same, just as quiet as he has been the entire ride back.
I stop in the middle of the entrance hall and turn to him. “So you’re gonna pay for your brother’s school and rehab?”
“Yeah,” Miles intones, never glancing over to me. “With the money you gave me.”
“You should keep some of it for yourself.”
“Why? I’m working with you now, right? I’ll get paid from other jobs, and… and that’ll be enough.”
“Don’t you want a house or something? Or a car? Or college classes?”
“College?” he repeats, turning to me. “Why would I take college classes? We don’t have résumés, right? No retirement? What’s the point?”
“You should just keep some of the damn money for yourself,” I say, waving a hand in anger as I storm into the kitchen. “If you give and give and give, people will take and take and take. For fuck’s sake, kid, I thought you had learned that lesson already.”
Miles follows me into the kitchen, and I flip on the overhead light. My anger from the day’s activities is mounting. I felt a little better after my excursion with Miles, but that didn’t solve the underlying problem.
I hate my life.
I didn’t want to admit it, but the more I analyze, the more I realize I’m just tired. I’ve done the same thing for twenty years, and I know it’s going nowhere. Actually, I take that back. It’s going straight to the grave. What’s the point? The days are the same, the jobs are the same—or worse—and even if the money is good, what am I doing with it? I have no long-term plans or goals….
I feel empty.
Miles ambles over to my side. I pull myself out of my own thoughts and sigh.
“Just keep some money,” I say. “You should do something for yourself every once in a while. You deserve to be happy.”
I don’t know what it was I said, but Miles looks me in the eye like he’s realized something. I cock an eyebrow, but he doesn’t elaborate. He just stares.
Before I can ask what he’s doing, Miles closes the distance between us and wraps his arms around my torso. With gentle movements he brushes his lips against mine and kisses me. Not with lust or need or hunger—he’s not even hard. He kisses me like lovers kiss, taking his time and reaching a hand up to stroke the base of my hair.
I push him away. “Stop.”
Flushed and looking hurt, he shakes his head. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“You can’t do this. You can’t wear your heart on your sleeve. You can’t.”
“Why?” Miles asks, glancing around. “It’s not like anyone else is here. It’s just us.”
“They’ll use it against you.”
“They? Who’re they?”
I turn away and shake my head. “Everyone, all right? Everyone will use it against you. Don’t go around givin’ your affection away like you do your damn money. Keep it to yourself and you’ll be better for it.”
Miles grabs my arm and forces me back around. I jerk free from his grip and glare, but he meets me with a glare in kind. For a moment we say nothing. After a long minute, Miles relaxes and runs a hand up my chest.
“No one ever tells me to save my money,” he whispers. “No one ever tells me to do things for me. They always want me to do things for them.”
“What’s your point?” I ask, my tone more callous than I wanted.
“I feel like… you’re looking out for me. I trust you, Pierce. I want to stay with you.”
“Don’t say things like that. It’ll get you in trouble.”
; “You keep saying that, but we’re all alone.”
“If you let it start here, it’ll get out someday. It’ll come back to haunt us.”
Miles forces a laugh as he wraps his arms around my neck and pulls me close. I’m moments from pushing him away again, but he squeezes tight and keeps his face buried in my neck. “Nobody has to know,” he whispers. “Or at least… let me pretend when we’re alone.”
His last bit cuts me. I grit my teeth and wrap a single arm around to rub along his spine. I know, in my gut, this is wrong. It’s not wrong because I don’t feel anything—it’s wrong because I know how this plays out in the Vice family. Nick almost had me shoot Miles earlier today. The deeper we get into this, the more likely it is I’ll have conflicts in the future. It’s a slippery slope but….
Miles tightens his hold with each fleeting graze of my fingertips. I can tell he wants me to return his affection. I can feel it in his accelerated heart rate and the way he digs his nails into my skin.
Nobody in his life wants him. Not his mother or his father or his brother. Even the people on the streets want him dead. He’s so kindhearted and naïve, I suspect he thinks something is wrong with him rather than the other way around. He couldn’t be further from the truth.
“You don’t have to pretend,” I murmur, pulling him in with both arms.
Miles tenses for a second and holds his breath. After a moment he lifts his head and presses his mouth against mine, the resulting kiss one of emotional need rather than physical. Against my better judgment, I allow the scene to continue. When he strokes my bottom lip with his tongue, I shudder. I’m hot from pent-up emotions and anxious because of the situation.
I’ve never tried to make something like this work. I’ve never felt like I was simultaneously making a mistake while at the same time enjoying every second of it.
I’m sure I’ll regret everything in the morning, but for now I relax into the embrace and enjoy the way Miles tastes as he presses against me.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE DARKNESS blankets me and the cool night air is a comfort against my skin, but I can’t seem to sleep. Miles shivers and scoots deeper into my embrace. I tuck my nose into his short hair and inhale. I like his scent.
My phone beeps and I let out a low groan. Flipping over, I grab it off the nightstand and click on the screen. The brightness catches me off guard, and I squint past the light to read my messages.
I have thirty-two from Anita, three from Jeremy, two from an advertising number, and four from random associates looking for people who’ve gone missing. I blink twice and read a few.
Eh. Same thing. Different night.
Anita’s still upset I haven’t found Rodger. Jeremy’s asking about the explosives…. I guess that’s new. I’ve been gathering the shit he’s asked for, and I know the Nightquarter Café tunnel, but the stuff isn’t fit into place yet. I’ll contact him later. And the others can wait. I need to sleep.
I return my phone to the nightstand and roll back into my initial position, wrapping my arm over Miles. He stirs and lifts his head off the pillow. “Any word on my brother?” he asks through his grogginess.
“Not yet,” I reply.
Miles rests back into place.
It’s been three weeks since I asked my street guys to keep a lookout for a younger Asian kid looking for a hit. I thought they would see something by now, but clearly Jayden has skipped town, or else he’s gettin’ his fix somewhere else. A small piece of me worries he’s supplied by the Cobras directly.
A day hasn’t gone by that Miles didn’t ask about him.
Another beep from my phone, and I sigh. Turning over, I pick it up and glance at the screen. It’s another message, this one from Big Man Vice himself. I scroll through it.
The text reads: Where is Rodger? Why haven’t you found him yet? Get off your lazy ass and do something!
Nick doesn’t send texts. Anita must have used his phone, or else he gave her permission to send a message.
I sigh. Her persistence is enough to wear anyone down. If I can’t find Rodger, I doubt the Cobras can—he’s not in danger yet. The phone buzzes in my grasp, and I glare down at the screen.
Anita writes: If you don’t find him soon I’ll be sending men over to knock your priorities into line.
With gritted teeth I chuck my phone across the room and it hits the far wall. Fuck her. I haven’t worked for two decades to be threatened into compliance. I’ve done everything she wants—where does she get off?
“What’s wrong?” Miles asks, propping himself up on an elbow.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”
“Did you just throw your phone?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, really sounds like nothing,” he quips.
I snort. “Anita’s ridin’ my ass to find her son.”
“She’s been doing that forever. Why throw your phone now?”
“She’s got no respect. She thinks she can intimidate me into working hard—like I’m not working hard already—it fuckin’ pisses me off.”
Miles lets out a sigh and relaxes back onto the bed. I pull him close and enjoy his warmth. His presence calms my anger. He must know it because he lets me hold him like a friggin’ teddy bear. I laugh to myself at the thought, but I don’t voice it. I doubt he wants to hear my sleep-deprived musings.
“You okay?” he asks in a low and quiet voice.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Why?”
“You seem like you’re in an odd mood.”
“I’m done with this job,” I say, more earnest than I want.
“Whadda ya mean?”
“Forget it.”
Miles goes silent. I don’t want to say anything, but I’ve made up my mind. I’m not some punk lackey who needs permission to leave. After I kill Harlan, I’m going to take everything I have and skip town. Permanently. Two decades of my life is worth everything I’ve been given—at least I think so. Maybe Nick will disagree, but he doesn’t think of me as an equal.
“Are you thinking about working somewhere else?” Miles asks.
“I don’t know.”
That’s not true. I know what I want. I’ve been saving my money for years now. I have a small fortune, and I think Miles can do more good with it than I can. I’ll give him half, take the rest for myself, and disappear into a small town out West, in North Dakota. I know Miles wants to repay me for my “kindness,” but I’d rather him not live like me—his life circumstances mirror mine to an unsettling degree, and if I hate my life now, how will Miles feel twenty years in?
He thinks he owes me a debt, but I’ll release him from his obligations and we’ll go our separate ways, just as it should be. Miles’s pride won’t allow him to agree with the plan, which is why I’ll keep it to myself.
“Well, hypothetically speaking, maybe you could become a detective with some police department,” he says.
“Hypothetically speaking, I’m too old. Most cops don’t start their career after the age of thirty-five. Besides, it’d be a little hypocritical.”
“You could be a private investigator, then.”
I catch my breath in realization. I had never considered that idea before. Private investigators are self-made men in a lot of ways. They use their streetwise in exchange for money—either trailing unfaithful spouses or helping attorneys gather evidence for their trials. It might actually be a legitimate occupation I could handle.
“Your suggestions are inspired sometimes,” I say, honest in my comment.
Miles chuckles. “Should I call you gumshoe from now on?”
“It was a hypothetical situation. Don’t get married to the idea.”
He continues to chuckle as he slips closer to sleep.
RUMRUNNER TUNNELS are narrow as fuck. It’s a good thing I’m not claustrophobic.
The brick and wood all around me reeks of rot and decay. I fit the last of the explosives into place and wipe sweat from my face. The tunnel has the airflow of a coffin. I exhale and crawl out bac
kward, relishing the freedom.
Jeremy thought of everything. The rumrunner tunnel ends at the Nightquarter Café, but it begins in an old run-down laundromat. Jeremy purchased the property months ago and closed it down for “renovations.” I’m the only one in the building, ensuring no one sees me work, and I mill about the storage room in an undershirt and old slacks. The false door that hides the tunnel amuses me, simply because I haven’t seen one so well hidden before.
I dust myself off and stretch. The explosives line the end of the tunnel near the café, but I had to run the triggering wires from one end to the other. The prep and work took longer than I expected—we only have a week and half before the main event—but at least it wasn’t rats in a goddamn basement. I turn and stare at the door to the tunnel. I still need to mount the wires to the wall and string them to the other side of the room—anything to distance the person triggering the bombs from the explosion.
The front door rings as it opens. I tense but continue with my work, grabbing a spool of wire and unraveling an arm’s length worth.
“Pierce?” Miles calls out.
I relax. I figured it was it him—since he’s the only other man with a key—but you never know. Maybe it was a mugger looking for an easy target.
“In here,” I reply.
I affix the wire to the trigger and walk it up the wall near the door, mounting the wire with curved tacks. Miles walks in and examines my work. He tucks his hands into his pockets and leans against the far wall, his shoulders slumped.
“Didn’t see him?” I ask.
“No. I didn’t.”
“Maybe he left town.”
“I doubt it. Where would he go?”
I keep quiet. I don’t know Miles’s brother. He could be anywhere, which is why I think it’s foolish that Miles wants to drive around looking for him. I know he’s desperate at this point, but some things in life just aren’t worth worrying about.
“What’re you doing?” he asks.
I reach up and secure the wire to the top of the tunnel door. “I’m finishing this up. I’ll be done shortly.”
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