“Two weeks.” Gage’s sharp gaze shoots to my feet. “Damn it, E. I said no shoes in the house. And definitely no shoes on my grandma’s couch!”
Because it also holds sentimental value to him. I can imagine grumpy Gage snuggling up to his grandma’s dogs on this couch.
“You didn’t give me a chance to take them off.”
Before I can do it, he grabs my ankles and tugs until I’m flat on my back with my shoes pressing on his thigh. He yanks off my Chucks and tosses them near the front door.
“What other emergencies are there?” I slide back up and rest my back on the arm.
“Lucas Harrington is working with the city to add an elementary school with a preschool a block from Ty’s studio and José’s nightclub.”
“That’s an emergency how?”
“Zoning rules, E. A school, an elementary school, will be the death of Red Dahlia.”
“But Red Dahlia is Carlos’s and his family’s legacy. They built that club from the ground up. Changed it from a dance school to a club. Continued to give dance lessons there. Doesn’t Mr. Harrington realize how important the club is to the people who grew up there?”
“He doesn’t give a shit. He has the politicians in his deep pockets, and those dirtbags want to change the landscape of our neighborhood. Less thugs and gangbangers and more families with young kids.”
“Not true. The International District is diverse. Why can’t they see that?”
“They don’t want to.”
“What can we do?”
“For now, the crew is lying low. No large gatherings. No revving their crotch rockets or the engines on their DSMs and JDMs. Quiet as a mouse. We are epitomizing the saying ‘See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.’”
“Until when?” The crew won’t stand down to the local politicians for long. They’ll make their unhappiness known, worsening the situation for all businesses in the International District, not just for my brother and José.
“Give it two weeks. Something is brewing between Asher and Lucas’s son, Zeke. She’ll have an in and can hopefully defuse the situation. They’re keeping close tabs on her in case the situation goes sideways.”
Asher is in a complicated relationship with Ty and Carlos, but not in a romantic or threesome sense. If she has something going on with Zeke Harrington, #OneandDone, expect me to be on the sidelines, cheering her on. I have a feeling Asher will bring him to his knees with her smarts, beauty, and attitude.
“Does that mean I’m on my own for two weeks?”
“I’d say so, kid.”
23
BOBBY
I stare at the two-story, three-bedroom, two-bath house from the sidewalk, where I’m safe from what could be hidden in the overgrown lawn and the junk littering it. Slate stands next to me, rubbing his chin with his steely gaze directed at the boarded-up front door.
I point at the house, not being shy with my middle finger. “You seriously think this shithole is the answer to my survivor’s guilt?” I’ve never told anyone how the day Carlos lost his life fucked with my already fucked-up head. Slate guessed on his own.
After I didn’t confirm or deny his guess, the motherfucker handed me a card for his therapist. Unapologetically, I handed it back, telling him I wasn’t going there. Not ever. My mind is strong, and I can handle my shit. He brought up patient confidentiality laws.
Fuck the law. I’m already on the wrong side of it from when Carlos ate that bullet for me and I did the unthinkable, which earned me a special spot in hell. I’ve stayed silent rather than speak up.
Now, I’m paying for it.
I’ve heard the whispers circling me like smoke after the fire’s extinguished. That I lured Carlos to the kill shot point. Time is closing in on me, and according to Slate, I have two weeks to get Ever to open up about Carlos before Gage takes up residence as her shadow again.
I’ll make things right, even if it’s the last thing I do on this earth. I owe Carlos that. Justice is long past due. I should’ve been focusing my energy on finding the motherfucker who wanted me dead, rather than using sex and work to assuage my guilt that I lived while Carlos was buried six feet underground. I should be the one inside that casket.
It should be me who died on the battlefield rather than the soldiers who had wives and kids waiting for them. I have half-brothers who hate my guts, an absent father who sees me as a mistake, and a mother who’s long gone. Ten years now. Has it been that long since I said goodbye to her?
Rather than being grateful that I lived another day, and another, I hung on for dear life to what I thought would jumpstart my interest in living again—parties, women, and alcohol. Instead, the partying, drinking, and womanizing left me emptier than before.
