I grab my hairbrush and drag it through my hair and then snag my toothbrush and bag of toiletries. After shooting her a quick text that I’m coming, I launch myself out into the hall.
14
JAMIE
The 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 isthrown.”
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 wasI’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?”
