It wasn’t one of Frankie’s men, but Westley.
My feet, once frozen, picked up, and I charged into Frankie’s—and now my—living room. I didn’t expect the two men in my life to become best friends, but they needed to at least stop threatening to kill one another. They lived far enough away that a little friendliness wouldn’t kill them. They might at least pretend not to hate each other… for me.
I followed the voices down a tall flight of stairs into Frankie’s basement, which was actually a nicely decorated place without a dungeon or any cells. He didn’t even have a torture chamber down there. The entire space was one big entertainment area. A bar and a large TV took up one side with a gigantic pool table on the other. That’s where I found the two men, both of them leaning over the green felt of the pool table snarling at one another.
I thought they had at least settled a few of their differences. And what the hell was Westley doing in Pelican Bay in the first place?
I burst into the room so hard the sprint stole the breath from my lungs. I stopped at the end of the table with my hands on my knees and bent over trying to catch my breath before I gathered enough strength to tell both men off for their ridiculousness. First, I had to make sure I didn’t die. Then join a gym. At least stop eating so many cupcakes.
“Shiloh,” Frankie said in shock, as if he didn’t expect me to be home. He flicked his wrist to check the time on his watch. His scowl deepened as he turned back to Westley. “Is everything okay?”
I gulped in a few more breaths of air, and even as my back ached, I straightened it to meet them head on. When dealing with either of these two men, you didn’t show an ounce of fear.
“What are you doing here?” I asked Westley who was supposed to be in Chicago running his criminal empire.
He didn’t seem a bit fazed by my question. “You didn’t answer your phone two nights ago, so I came to check on you.”
I almost stomped my foot but held myself together. I was an adult now with a boyfriend and a job. Throwing a tantrum to Westley wouldn’t do me any good. I did, however, cross my arms and leer at my cousin, who was still trying to act like my father.
“I sent you back a text.”
His eyes widened as if he’d never heard a more moronic answer in his life.
“You know a text doesn’t count. Anyone who had control of your phone could send a text. I expect to see your face or hear your voice.”
What did he think? Frankie was going to kill me after all the effort he put into winning me over? “Westley, I am not a child.”
Ugh. He needed somebody to occupy his time in Chicago—a woman or a new arch villain. Things were obviously running too smoothly.
He tossed a pool cue on the table and threw out his hands to encompass the room. “This is really where you want to live? In the woods? This is the man you want to shackle yourself to?”
I expected Frankie to retaliate in some way. Throw a pool cue at Westley or at least throw a swearword, but all he did was tilt his head to the side, shaking it lightly and rolling his eyes. He’d had enough of Westley’s behavior as well. Frankie was the most concerning when quiet.
I walked to the man who owned my heart and looped my arm through his, tugging him close. “Yes,” I said, leaving no room for question.
Westley opened his mouth as if he planned to retaliate, but I pinched my lips together and pointed a finger at him. He stared at me for a beat before moving his attention to Frankie. “And you plan to keep her safe? Forever.”
I waited as Frankie stared at my cousin, deciding if he owed him an answer. His normal response in these situations included reminding my cousin how he hadn’t kept me safe when I been kidnapped twice in Chicago, but that time he didn’t resort to the petty answer.
He only leaned over, placed a soft kiss in the corner of my head right in my hairline, and then answered in a clear, sure way. “Until my dying day and more.”
Westley reached forward and picked up his pool stick again, using the small cube at the corner to chalk the end. “Fine, but if you hurt her, that day will come a lot sooner than you plan.”
He stepped to the side and squared up his shots, hitting the yellow ball into the hole. The tension in the room dissipated. Men.
I let go of Frankie’s arms to let him move to his position and line up a shot for himself as I mentally counted the balls on the table. My man was winning, which would not make Westley happy.
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll burn for a thousand days, you’ll shoot me between the eyes, blah, blah, blah. Yes, I’ve heard your sweet talk before, Grandmaster.”
I rolled my eyes and moved to the end of the table, giving them room to finish the game.
The only person who’d probably end up dead would be me and I’d die from annoyance at their overreaching, archaic behavior. Frankie and I visited Chicago for the holidays, and I’d barely survived. The room was constantly thick with brittle tension whenever they were together, and it gave me anxiety. I just wanted them to get along.
Westley lined up another shot and winced when he sent the black eight ball into the corner pocket, scratching the game. “Fine, you have my permission,” he said, tossing the stick back on the table.
At that, I stomped my foot. Did he think he gave me or Frankie permission to do anything? I’d been having the feminist talk with him since Mrs. Peterson’s class in fifth grade, but it never seemed to take hold.
“First off, Westley. It is not 1920…” My sentence trailed off as I considered his words. “Wait, permission for what?” I asked him and then turned my attention to Frankie.
