Taking the metal stairs two at a time, I hit the main floor. I’m not taking anything from the head of the Boston mob home with me, so I lock the gift bag in a downstairs closet before I walk out.
C Crue Range Rover Two takes me past the Palermo mansion, and it’s lit up like Christmas. Crime scene tape encompasses a large area. Was this something other than a C Crue operation? Or did my crue trick me into being safe from the blowback and from unknowingly bringing my FBI tail with me? I suspect it was C Crue because I’ve heard nothing from C in hours.
Swinging by the donut place where the off-going FBI team stops for coffee and crullers, I roll down my window, rest my elbow on the frame, and lift my middle finger to salute their van.
If the Rover had its way, I would drive to the castle to be with my crue. If my heart and dick had their way, I’d drive to Boston. But tonight I’m in need of invitations I don’t have, so I head home to quench my thirst.
At the apartment building, Rover Two goes in its caged spot. My new place is one floor down from the old one. It’s smaller, but decent. It’s not permanent, but I had to get out of Anvil’s studio, which had too little oxygen for me.
Inside the apartment, I leave the lights off, drinking alone in the dark. At least if Enzo’s dead, Coins is safer for Laurel. Scrolling through messages and call logs, I find one from C suggesting I come by. So he did reach out. There’s no hint of what’s happened. Of course there isn’t, but it still puts an exclamation point on the fact that I’m out of the loop.
Chugging straight Jack will get the job done faster than if I mix it with Coke, so I leave the Coke can unopened on the edge of my desk and drink from the whiskey bottle, guzzling like it’s water.
I text C back, saying I’m home, but I’ll come by in the morning to go over the numbers from the warehouse party and Tronex.
There’s a message from the treatment center. I talk to Monet Reilly a couple of times a week. She’s finally told a counselor about being raped at fourteen, which she confided to me the day before I sent her to rehab. I guessed there was something bad driving her to use, because that was the odds-on favorite. It took me exactly three questions to get her to spill. A counselor should’ve gotten there long before me.
I think about Kathleen, who was slated for a rape at fourteen, and about the ultrasound picture of my baby who’s got a fifty-fifty shot at being a little girl and will be fourteen one day. I think about the track marks on Monet Reilly’s arms and the way she sobbed when she told me what happened. My thirteen-year-old self struggled over the Hugh Murphy sniper shot. Thirteen years later, there’s no struggle. That asshole got lucky with the shot he never saw coming. To protect the Kathleen Patricks and Monet Reillys of the world, I could kill a thousand more Hugh Murphys, one every night, and eat blueberry waffles every morning without a wrinkled brow.
Playing Monet’s voicemail, it’s good to hear her voice sound lighter and more hopeful.
“Hey, Trick. It’s Monie. Sorry I missed you. I’m doing good this week. Went to therapy on Wednesday and group every day. Even talked a little in group. I’ve also got some big news… Ready? You were right. The lawyer you sent thought it was entrapment. And he, um, I guess talked to someone from the FBI about that and about what happened after, about how they got Laurel to help them and then botched the operation and lost her for almost twelve hours. Guess what? They dropped my charges! And guess what else? They want to talk to me about Milt. I think he’s in trouble. I, um, told Laurel. She was so happy about the charges. And super pissed about Milt. You were right. She had no idea about him planning it so I’d get busted. I know you said I shouldn’t mention your help, but if you hadn’t gotten me a new lawyer I’d still be in trouble. I wouldn’t even know what entrapment is. Hope you’re not too mad at me for telling Laurel the truth. Hey, speaking of sisters. I found your sister Ash’s Insta. She’s crazy pretty. And I saw that picture of you and them at the play thing. That’s super cool. I wonder why no one knows how close you are with your family? Is that cuz you have to always look tough for C Crue? Or to, like, keep your sisters safe? Just wondering. Anyways, hope you’re having a really good week. K, bye.”
Hearing from Laurel’s little sister is a double-edged sword. Monet staying in long-term recovery is good for all of them. But there are eighty-six thousand seconds in a day, and I already spend about half of them thinking about Laurelyn Reilly. More reminders are about as useful as a sprinkler system in a thunderstorm.
Swiping through pictures of her pushes me to open my contacts list. My finger hits the button to call her before my brain can veto the impulse.
And just like that, she picks up and the sound of her voice is in my ear again.
“Hey. I was just about to call you.” When I don’t speak Laurel says, “Scott?”
“Yeah, I’m here. How are you feeling?”
“Good. Hungry a lot, which is better than before. I made French toast with powdered sugar twice this week. You should’ve been here.” There’s a pause. “I’d like to see you. Would that be all right?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Tonight?”
“I was at a party. Been drinking, so I can’t drive there. But I’ll come tomorrow. Right after a business meeting in the morning. Should get there by noon.”
“If you’ll be up, tonight could work. I have a bodyguard. He hasn’t been to a party. Are you at Connor’s? Or at home?”
“Home, but I don’t want you in Coynston tonight.”
“Oh—a party—right. No, I shouldn’t assume anything. You’ve probably had enough women around you.”
My mind’s hazy from the booze and from how glad I am to hear her voice. It takes a few seconds to process her words. “What? No other women are around me. I’m not cheating on you, Laurelyn. I wouldn’t.”
“We’re not exactly together.”
Exhaling, I lean forward. “Yes,weare.” I suck down the last of my drink, my head buzzing plenty hard.
“All right then. I’ll delete all the flirty texts I sent to my new Pilates instructor.”
A low whistle escapes my lips. “Only seven weeks pregnant. Still safe for Daddy to spank Mommy long and hard. Want a date with the wooden paddle?”
She chuckles. “No more dates with the wooden paddle.”
