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CHAPTER TWENTY

ST. CLARE

It’s hard to get out of bed. It’s hard to do much of anything except lie here, naked, with a huge fucking smile on my face, remembering last night.

Perry was as enthusiastic under me as he is with everything else he does.

I have absolutely no clue what his reaction is going to be this morning. Given that he wasn’t in a huge hurry to leave after he got off gives me hope he’s not one of those guys who wants to use me for a quick come before going back to his normal life. That’s not something I’m interested in entertaining, and it’s happened more times than I want to admit.

The problem boils down to the fact that Perry insisted, barely days ago, that he’s straight, and I know last night only happened because he started worrying he might die today. And yeah, that doesn’t feel the best.

Sex, great.

Being a bucket list item, almost insulting.

I’m sure Perry didn’t mean for it to come across that way because he isn’t the kind of person to intentionally hurt someone—gunshot aside—but he’s one hundred percent the type of person to unintentionally hurt someone. It’s one of the reasons I can’t bring myself to get out of bed .

The other reasons are that I’m enjoying reliving the sex, I can smell him on my sheets, and I’m also low-key worried about what he’s walking into today.

Plus, my underwear is hanging over the arm of a chair, still drying from last night.

Lars took the clothes I was wearing yesterday and said he was putting them in for a wash with his, so I really hope he managed to do it because otherwise, I’m going to be disgusting.

An email beeps on my phone, and I reach over, unplug it from where it’s charging, and open my inbox, expecting to find spam.

It’s an email from Livy Sullivan, the bookkeeper I hired for Saint Clare’s, who’s been a fucking godsend so far.

Hey Reilly,

When you have a chance, I’ve attached a list of transactions I wasn’t sure about that need allocating. If you can let me know what they’re for, I’ll make sure they’re coded right for tax purposes.

I skim the rest of the email, which goes into more detail than my brain can probably handle, and then click on the link. There are about two pages of transactions dating back to when Saint Clare’s was opened. It doesn’t look too difficult, so I figure I can knock it out over coffee, and then hopefully, that will mean that we’re all caught up.

It hurts that Colin isn’t the one here doing it, and every day without him is another day of fear for where he is and relief that his body hasn’t been pulled from the Sound.

Yet.

I scroll down to his number and click on it, mostly habit, only a little bit hoping, and get the deadline straight away. There are so many things we need to talk about and didn’t get the time to. I’m almost mad at the way he’s abandoned me. Almost, but not actually, because I know something’s happened.

I’ve moved past hoping that he’ll show up after some extended vacation, and I know Dad and my stepmom are worried as well. All I can do is keep taking it one day at a time and maybe stop getting so fucking distracted by sweet eyes and what felt like a magnificent cock. I have to believe that somehow he’ll get us a name today and that the name is Yanni’s.

Then … well, fuck. I don’t know.

Lars made a great point that we could go to Yanni to trade him for Colin, but what then? And how do we trust that he’d keep his word anyway? I’m not exactly his favorite person.

The other alternative is to go to the police. Tell them about Perry. Tell them about Yanni hiring him, and then they can be the ones who get Colin back.

Both options throw Perry under the bus though, and I think, maybe, that Perry trusts me. He shouldn’t. He has to know that finding my brother comes first, but maybe that’s the reason he slept with me to begin with.

Maybe he’s trying to get under my skin. Trying to make me forget.

If he was even the slightest bit more calculating than he is, I might believe it.

I sigh and grab my mostly dry underwear, pull on my Seattle tourist T-shirt, and then finally leave my room. Voices are coming from down the hall, and when I get to the kitchen, Perry and Lars have beaten me. Perry’s sitting on a stool with an overfull bowl of overnight oats in front of him and my suit pants hung over the stool to his left.

“Morning,” I say, trying to ignore the way I want to look at him, to drink in every stretch of muscle under that too-small T-shirt.

Lars answers me first. “Morning. I called Brom and told him you’re working from home.”

Well, that’s one less thing for me to worry about. “Thanks.”

“I also think we should talk about what’s going to happen today.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we need some kind of plan.”

Perry stops shoveling food into his face. “A plan?”

“Yeah, you can’t exactly walk in there and ask for names.”

“Why not? ”

Lars stares at him. “Wait. You were planning to just walk in there and ask him?”

“Well, yeah. No point in overcomplicating things.”

“Except if you fuck this up, you might end up with a bullet in your head, and then we’re back to square one.”

Perry slowly sets down his spoon. “And you’ll miss me too. Right?”

“Yes, that whole one day since you’ve been in my life has made you irreplaceable.”

And while I appreciate Lars’s sarcasm, I sort of think I would miss Perry. He’s ridiculous, but he’s the kind of guy you want around. “I’d miss you,” I assure him, and I’m unprepared for the way he lights up.

“Good thing you don’t have anything to worry about. Luther’s a good guy?—”

“Because he has a labradoodle,” Lars adds, and I have no idea where he’s getting that reasoning from.

“Exactly.” Perry shoves another spoonful of overnight oats into his mouth, then talks around it. “The less we stress about it, the easier it will be. I’ll head in there, have a drink or two with the gang, explain to Luther that his little side hustle has potentially put my life at risk and I need to know by who, and then I’ll be right back.”

“The … gang?”

“Yeah, my baddie bunch. They’re total badasses—Arlie’s the one who trained me, actually—and I’ve known them for years. We’re tight.”

“Thank fuck for Arlie being a terrible trainer,” I mutter.

Lars is shaking his head at Perry. “Isn’t the first rule of fight club that you don’t talk about fight club?”

Perry stares at him for a second. “Who’s in fight club?”

“I mean that I’m pretty confident you’re not supposed to give us the names of your accomplices.”

“Oohhh … no, it’s fine. Arlie is an alias.”

“And I’m almost totally confident you’re not supposed to tell us that either! ”

Perry throws up his hands. “Why are you so stressed about this? It’s not like they can hear us.”

“No, but you’re about to walk into a bar where there are people who are after my best friend when you know his exact location and everything we know so far.”

“Which isn’t much,” I add.

“But that’s still information. They don’t need to know how much or little we know. And, no offense, Perry, but you’re exactly the type of guy who’d squeal under torture.”

I can confirm that, considering the torture I put him through last night.

“Hell, they could probably skip the torture, considering how easily you gave all that up on them,” Lars continues, like he’s determined to drive the point home.

“You think I’m going to give you guys up?” he asks, sounding hurt.

“Probably not on purpose, but yes.”

His frown deepens, and he goes back to eating.

Lars and I share a look. As offended as Perry is, Lars has a point. We can’t risk Perry accidentally letting slip where we’re staying and having more contract killers at the door. Even though I know that, it doesn’t stop me from wanting to make him feel better.

“Lars is only saying that we need you to be careful.”

Lars grunts.

“ Very careful,” I add. “We’re trusting you.”

His sunshiny smile comes out. “I told you: I’ve got this!”

It takes everything in me to almost believe him. “Yeah. So. Good luck.”

“Don’t need it.” Perry gets up to rinse out his bowl before he stacks it in the dishwasher. “By tonight, we’ll know where to start. I hope you guys are ready to be blown away by my skill.”

Hell, if he wants to be this confident, who am I to bring him down?

Even if I know it will never, ever happen.