“Jack and Coke, Trick?”
“Yeah.”
“Anyone else?”
Everyone shakes their heads except Laurelyn.
“I wouldn’t mind a vodka martini,” she says.
All grown up and elegant enough to be playing the trophy wife or spoiled mistress apparently. Who bought her those shoes? And what does she let him do to her in exchange? My cock’s at half-mast, and I’m ready to offer her a closet full of designer shoes to play out fantasies that have gone unfulfilled for way too long.
Enzo, not to be outdone by me or a woman, takes a whiskey. For him it’s a mistake. Even three or four drinks in, I can roll this table my way. Everyone else should stay sober if they want to stay in the game. Even so, I really need to change lanes too. Murphy’s looking at my throat like he wants to cut it, and he’s a distant second to my real problem at the table. Enzo’s men outside aren’t drinking, and they’ll be there waiting when I leave.
“Martini. Here you go.” Mo’s lips draw back to show his overbite and cigarette-stained teeth, which for him is what passes for a smile. Mo’s in his forties, but he looks older.
I realize that at twenty-seven, I’m the youngest person in the room. Enzo’s got me beat by a decade at thirty-seven. Jack Murphy’s around forty-five. And Miss Reilly’s twenty-eight. Older girls were the only ones I played with in high school, by design. Older girls were more likely to be experienced enough to experiment with wilder sex, which is all I crave. Also, they were less likely to be trouble for me than a younger girl if they talked about the things I did to them. When the girl’s older than the guy and the hookup is consensual, the world sees the dynamic differently. Not that it really should. As a clean-shaven eighteen-year-old, I may have looked like an angel, but in reality, I was already fallen.
For an instant I’m reminded of my dad’s observation of me as a little kid courting trouble. “Look at you. Born on the road to hell and sticking your thumb out for a faster ride. What’s your rush, lad?”
From ages five to nine, I’d only shrugged, not sure how to answer or even what he was really asking. Now when I remember those words, I’ve got a better answer. I’m in a hurry, Dad, because I miss you.
“Jack and Coke is easier to get than Irish punch, but does it taste as good?” Laurel asks.
Glancing her way, I only cock a brow before looking back at my chips. This is strategy on my part. I want her attention, so I’m ignoring her because I know she hates that. Or at least she did.
“What’s whiskey called in Irish?” She’s determined to remind me of a night I don’t need help remembering.
“I already told you,” I murmur without making eye contact. From the corner of my eye, I watch her smile. She’s got a pretty mouth. And I’m the one who taught her how to wrap her lips around a man’s cock. That lesson was on the same night I gave her whiskey punch from my old man’s flask.
“Uisce beatha,” Murphy says. “Water of life.”
Her gaze flits to him, and her smile widens. “That’s right.”
Murphy wouldn’t have a shot with her on his best day. He’s twice her age with a comb-over that makes his head look like a cue ball with some string taped on. But if Laurel plays us against each other by paying attention to him? Yeah, no, I’m not going to let him or anyone draw her focus away from me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slide it out. There’s a text from C. He’s the head of our crue. Three of us sit atop our syndicate’s unwritten org chart. Connor ‘C’ McCann, Sasha ‘Anvil’ Stroviak, and me. C wants to know if I’m back from Boston. Among other things, I was here to supervise the sale of some guns. That went off flawlessly, unlike this game is going to.
My thumb slides over the screen of my burner phone, texting back.I’m in Az.
It’s code. Az is short for Tombstone, Arizona. It means I expect a gunfight to erupt.
My phone lights in an instant.Send pictures.
That’s his way of telling me to turn on tracking, so they can find me and roll in like the cavalry. I think about the fact that the FBI’s watching me. This phone’s a burner, as is the one C’s texting from, but there’s no guarantee the feds don’t know these numbers. Even when you pay cash, the feds sometimes uncover the purchase. That’s why we text in code and why I periodically turn off the phone. If things go sideways in this basement, but I manage to get away, I want to be able to deny ever being here during the time in question.
My crue’s in Coynston, about an hour out. I don’t expect anything to go down immediately, so I respond with,When I get a minute. Coffee first.
Coffee’s short for coffee beans, which is a reference to Beantown.
No response and I don’t expect one. C and Anvil will be on the road in five minutes heading to Boston.
The burner phones change. The code phrases change. But the crue doesn’t change. All for one, and one for all. My smartest play is to draw the night out until I’ve got some backup on hand.
“We gonna play cards or what?” Enzo asks, clearly pissed at all the Ireland Forever talk that Laurel’s peddling and Murphy’s eating up.
I pick up my drink, which Mo’s just set in a cup holder.
The girl who looks like a slutty angel sips from a martini glass Mo dug up for her. She licks her lips, and Enzo’s eyes lock on her mouth. So do Murphy’s.
