Page 14

14

JAMIE

T he Porsche 718 Cayman handles well as I make my way out of the city toward campus. While my weekend purchase was available in a reddish purple color that reminded me of Sawyer’s hair, I bought the graphite grey instead. Didn’t help keep Cranberry Sauce off my mind, though. After all, wanting my own vehicle is mostly due to the fact that I didn’t want to use the Crue SUV when I needed a passenger seat to put her in.

After fighting through Boston traffic, I reach the house in Foxgrove at half-past six. Wind churns the Tyne River, and I stand in our lot and admire the white-caps.

When I finally jog up the metal stairs to the second-floor apartment, the door opens before I get my key out.

“A Porsche?” War shakes his head. “She really needs that much of a push to deep-throat your cock?”

Rolling my eyes, I walk inside and set my duffle on the kitchen table. “I didn’t buy it because of her.”

“Sure.” War throws a balled-up piece of paper at me.

I ignore what I assume is Sawyer’s note because there’s a thick cardboard envelope from Ireland at the table’s other end.

War gestures to the mail. “Yeah, that came, too. What’s up?”

“Divorce papers.” I shrug my brows and lift the envelope. “Gotta get rid of the wife before my cute American schoolgirl finds out about her.”

“Right.” War lowers himself onto a couch and puts his feet on the coffee table. “Did Trick go over tomorrow night’s operation?”

As I was in Coynston, home of all three of the C Crue founders, you’d have thought one of the bosses might have wanted to talk to me about work, but the weekend’s chaos prevented it. There was a party to celebrate my aunt’s birthday, and when you come from a popular Irish family, friends and relatives pour in from the surrounding area. Even Trick’s massive house overflowed.

For a moment, an image of his young sons yelling and racing through the house springs to mind and makes me smile. Only a year apart, the lads are best mates. The little one, Finn, looks so much like Jude did as a toddler that seeing the brothers together, thick as thieves, hit me in the chest more than once.

When my attention jerks back to the present, War’s scrutinizing me.

Running a hand through my hair, I clear my throat. What were we talking about? Oh, right. “No, tomorrow’s op didn’t come up. At first, the house was practically under construction. So many decorations going up, you’d have thought it was the Queen’s Jubilee.” I shake my head. “Honestly, my aunt seemed to think the light show was overkill, too. But when Trick and Ash throw a party for someone, a party is thrown .”

War exhales a mirthless laugh. “Apparently. Surprised no one’s roof caught fire. Those fireworks, definitely not street legal.”

“No.” I smirk. “C Crue’s got the Coynston town council in its pocket.”

War and I drove to Coynston together on Saturday, but he stayed at his uncle’s place. Didn’t even put in an appearance at the party. The guy can be pretty fucking antisocial sometimes. All three of our bosses, Trick, Connor—aka C—and Anvil were there. Anyone else would’ve at least shown his face for an hour, but War didn’t.

I lower myself onto a chair. “What happened to you? The steaks and Scotch alone were worth a drop-in.”

War’s expression remains unmoved. “Working.”

Cocking an eyebrow, I stare at him. We both know his excuse is about as true as me saying I have a wife. War could’ve made the time, but he seemed to want to make a statement, instead. And the statement was I’m not here to socialize.

Fair play. His choices are his business.

I turn my hand over in a gesture of acquiescence. “Right.”

C Crue has us scheduled to run a pop-up rave at a place called The Ruins, an abandoned mansion on the southwest edge of town not far from the house.

The event is actually the bait to draw out two students who work in the university’s IT department. Both guys are fans of Tronex, the celebrity DJ who’ll be spinning. C Crue apparently owns a piece of him. For a crime syndicate, their investments are surprisingly broad. This isn’t your grandfather’s Irish Mafia.

Once the IT guys arrive, we’ll make sure they’re well lit—whether that’s of their own accord or because we’ve had the bartender mickey their drinks. Then Killian will break into their townhouse to plant keystroke analyzers on their computers.

War stretches his arms overhead, and the pop of his shoulder joints is like walnut shells cracking. “Grab your laptop. I uploaded schematics.”

My brows rise. “You think we need floor plans?”

He shrugs. “C gave me a mechanical pencil and fucking graph paper. Said Anvil wanted to know how I would stage things if I were planning it.”

By his appearance and manner, you wouldn’t guess War’s potential as a strategist. He looks like a guy who only steps out of the gym long enough to kick people’s asses on enforcing gigs. But Connor, C Crue’s leader, has been grooming him for bigger things, and C doesn’t waste time on lost causes.

After grabbing my computer, I drop onto the couch next to him.

War pops his knuckles. “Frats have used the Ruins for parties they don’t want associated with their own houses. And yet, they still get raided. I looked into why that happened so it won’t when we’re there.”

My eyes skim over the marked-up floor plans and photos in our shared, encrypted folder. “Noise?”

“You’d think, but it’s set pretty far back on the property. Well away from surrounding houses. Still, we’ll cover the walls with packing foam to muffle the noise.” He taps the screen, indicating areas for sound-proofing. “I checked last year’s newspapers. Turns out online chatter and light pollution were the key tip-offs. People posted photos of themselves, and police started combing the area until they spotted signs of life where there shouldn't have been.”

“Typical,” I scoff. Choosing a clandestine location and then fucking things up by outing themselves digitally.

War makes a dismissive hand gesture. “Last night, Killian and I covered the street-facing windows with blackout film. And we’re gonna have jammers to keep people from fucking live-streaming themselves.”

“How is the DJ gonna spin? His equipment is wireless.”

“Not tomorrow night.” War smiles. “We’re using cable fibers. Killian said you guys could hijack a feed.”

I nod, thinking through what that will require. “Yeah, we can do it. Power?”

“Portable generators.” He taps the screen again. “Already on site.”

I point at one of the skull-and-crossbones symbols marking different points on the schematics. “What are these?”

“Muscle.” War makes a dismissive hand gesture. “C’s sending two truckloads of Crue to help keep the peace in case we need it. Seven guys, not counting us. But those hardcore Crue guys are used to pulling their weapons immediately when there’s trouble, and we can’t have gunfire flying inside the mansion. If some rich college kid catches a bullet, all hell will break loose.”

Smothering a smile over the fact that War’s implying that anyone other than a rich college kid getting shot wouldn’t cause problems the Crue couldn’t handle. It’s also funny that War talks about students like they’re another species, when in fact, we’re GU students ourselves.

War flicks a finger at a skull marker. “I’m putting them outside on the perimeter to stop any local bangers with thoughts of crashing. You and I will handle anything that goes down in the house.”

“Sounds right.” My eyes rove over the screen.

War rises, stretching. The stitches in his thigh must pull because he scowls down at his leg.

Taking his standing as a signal the conversation’s over, I close my laptop. “By the way, Sawyer’s gonna be here tonight.” I nod toward the stairs. “I’ll use the first floor bedroom in case things get noisy.”

He shrugs. “Like I give a fuck about that kind of noise. You do need to lock her down when you go to sleep, though. ‘Cause if she snoops where she shouldn’t, I’ll kill her rather than report to the bosses that we’ve had another pussy breach of our pad’s secrets.”

I scowl. The thought of anyone hurting Sawyer causes adrenaline and testosterone to pour into my blood. My muscles contract reflexively. Yeah, no one’s touching her. Which isn’t to say I don’t understand War’s concerns. Pressing my lips into a thin line, I frown more deeply. This time I’m angry at myself. Cranberry Sauce isn’t my girlfriend. If she doesn’t behave herself, by rights, she should be subject to the consequences.

My pulse, however, registers a sustained objection. “She won’t get into trouble, War. Everything’s under lock. Same as when we’ve had girls here in the past.”

“Whatever. My warning’s on record.” He walks away but pauses halfway to the hall. “Speaking of that, neither she or your cousin are welcome at the rave. No distractions while we’re working.”

“Agreed. Killian’s girlfriend should stay home, too.”

“Killian’s preoccupied with her whether she’s in the fucking room or not. I’ll let him make up his own mind where he wants her.” War inclines his head to emphasize what he says next. “Besides, Killian’s girl knows better than to misbehave. Being chained up makes an impression.”