Page 77 of Pretty Vengeance

“Do you think this is what I wanted? Fuck off. She’s not the girl I thought she was, and she’s not to be trusted. Not by me.”

At the sound of an alert and a main door opening, I glance over. War enters the house and stops at the kitchen island.

From the phone, Ash’s voice rises. “Are you saying she played us? That she got close to us with ill intent?” The precision and formality of Ash’s words are like a scalpel cutting through scar tissue to look inside at an old wound. One I don’t particularly want to open up for the world. Or even for a family member I consider a friend.

“No, I’m saying she’s not the girlfor me. I can’t say whether you’d give her a pass for… Listen, I don’t want to talk. Do whatever you want. Swing back for her if you like. I won’t be coming to Boston or Coynston anyway.” After swiping to end the call, I drop the phone and rise.

I join War who’s opened a cake holder. He cuts a slice of cinnamon cake and eats it over the sink.

“Thanks for dropping the girl off.”

War watches me with an assessing gaze.

Resting my hands on the counter, I lean forward. “How committed are you to having a proper holiday with your family?”

“Not very.” He waits a moment then adds, “Why?”

It’s as I thought. War would like an excuse to bail. That still doesn’t clear me to involve him in something that would be a danger to his freedom and his standing in the Crue.

I move to the opposite side of the kitchen counter and lower my voice. “I’ve a mind to step out of line. Could use help establishing an alibi.”

“Step out of line how?”

After a moment of trying to read his face, I give that up as futile. A wee voice in my head warns me I’ll regret talking about this while drunk. Blowing out a breath, I shake my head. “Never mind. I’m steamin’, mate. Let sunrise and sleep sort me before I go on too much.” I walk over to the couch that faces the window and drop onto it.

In a few minutes, War turns off the overheads and flicks on a single lamp. Then he joins me, sitting in a nearby chair and setting a bottle of vodka and a jar of olives in front of him.

Uncapping the bottle, he drinks like he’s got a mind to catch up to me.

When there’s half a liter of vodka gone, he pops a couple of olives in his mouth and swallows them whole. “Now,” he murmurs, leaning back and kicking his feet onto the coffee table so it shudders. “Let’s have it.”

I stare at the river and can practically feel waves rolling over me. “There’s something that needs doing. A marker I’ve been holding for too long.” I lick my lips and close my eyes. “One murder, at least. Perhaps, two.”

“The girl?”

That thought is like a blade driving straight through my heart till it nicks a shoulder blade on its way out the back. Pain snakes down my spine, and I shift in my seat, trying to shake it off.

“No.” My mouth has gone dry. “She may deserve it, but no. Never.” My lids open, and my gaze rises to the exposed beams.

War pops his knuckles absently. “Going against Crue law could get us ousted for good. Maybe worse. You all right with that?”

The wordyesemerges as I exhale. “Needs must.” I turn my head. “Listen, the drink’s got me boilin’ over.” I rise. “I’ll sleep off the Bushmills, and we’ll call this conversation nothing but a dream because I’ve got no right to drag you into it.”

War’s dark eyes rest on my face. “No one drags me anywhere. How could they?” He taps his torso in a gesture that encompasses a lot, including the fact that it would probably take three or four men to drag him somewhere he didn’t want to go. “By noon, we’ll be sober. We’ll circle back to this.”

“Thanks, mate.”

He nods, and I leave it at that.

When I’m face down on my bed, the regrets start in on me. I could’ve had a lovely holiday full of Sawyer’s soft skin pressed against my body and her ragged breaths in my ear.

If only…

If only she wasn’t the girl whose life I need to destroy.

34

SAWYER