Of course, this is me we’re talking about. And I’m pretty fucking great. I know how into me she was. And still is.
Hate me all you want, but you’re gonna still lust after me.
The only reason why I didn’t screw her in the club that one time years ago was because I knew she wasn’t experienced. But now that I’m thinking about fucking her as my fake wife, my cock jerks. Shit. I push those images to the far corners of my mind. I don’t want to go on another long-ass run. I pushed myself enough already.
I pick up my phone when it buzzes with a New York area code.
“Declan?” Roark says. “What the fuck are you involved in?”
This is tricky because Cal doesn’t know everything, but to get what I need, I want the best. And that’s Roark.
I outline it all. From the ill-judged drug deal to the Queens truck graveyard and the shoot-out. The dead cop. Heston Briggs’s disappearance. The Cinco Cartel. Someone named Leon.
He listens. Then says one word. “Callahan?”
“Knows some, not all.”
“He doesn’t know about the graveyard, does he? You stupideejit. Not a place for a Murphy.” Like I don’t know that. “But I’ll check it out. And the gun?—”
“I’ll get rid of it.”
“Not yet.” And he laughs. “I might want to check it out.”
“The guy was a cop, the gun was police-issue, and I saw a badge?—”
“A cop. By himself. In that shithole?”
Fair question. “You think he might have been something else?”
“I don’t know, Dec. Hold on to the gun. I’ll call you back tomorrow.”
I frown. He’s in town. My brothers will want to see him. And Cal, if he doesn’t know already, definitely will want to know—I stop, and what he’s saying hits me. “You can’t go there.”
“I’m a Murphy,” he says, “but I’m not one oftheMurphys. Besides, no one will ever know I was there. I’m sure the body’ll be gone, but I’m still intrigued.”
“Tomorrow.” Suddenly I grin. “Hey, Roark, want to come to a fake wedding?”
Lola’s wild yowls wake me from a restless sleep on the sofa in the living room. I almost fall ass first onto the floor, and Bruiser and Clawzilla both hiss as they leap off me.
Lola sits in the doorway, evil yellow eyes blinking. He looks at me, yawns, then turns and stalks off with a swish of his tail.
Christ, I need a drink.
As I head to the kitchen, I almost run into Seamus, who has a bottle of whiskey and two glasses in his hand. His pants are unbuttoned and slung low on his hips.
“My innocent eyes are being burned out by you,” I say. I go to swipe the whiskey but he moves it, and himself, out of my way. “Fine.”
I stomp over to the bottles in the pantry. I don’t know if someone’s cooking with Red Brest, or this is where extra bottles are now being kept, but I grab one, pull off the lid, and take a swallow.
“Why do we have a menagerie in this house?”Seamus asks, leaning on the island. “And unless your fucking little plaything likes to talk like a filthy sailor, why do we have a fucking bird?”
“She’s not—” I glare at my brother. “It’s a job, she’s nothing but a job, and her mother sent all the pets here. We’ll find somewhere to go, okay?”
“We?”
“Marlowe? My job? So yes, we.” He just looks at me, an amused twinkle in his eyes. “As in her and me.”
“I see.”
