“I’m only asking what this would look like if it came apart. We need to be prepared.”
“And you think it looks likethis?” Liam lifted his glass to the table behind them. “Some back-talk over your new girlfriend? Our men wanting to avenge Gio’s death? Their blood is up.Emotions are running high. That’s nothing, a blip. What are you afraid of, Emory?”
The question caught him off guard. Emory’s instinct was to claim fearlessness. Perhaps that would fly when he needed to be their brave leader. In reality, the past few nights, fear got into him like a fever, burning him up as he laid awake while Amelia slept in his arms.
“I’m beginning to think someone else inside our organization is telegraphing our moves to Ivan. He knew Amelia was with me in Vegas. He knows she’s here now. He knows…”
Emory was content to let the rest go unsaid, but Liam continued where he couldn’t.
“He knows how much she means to you. Your brother will come out of the woodwork eventually. When he does, you have this whole organization to back you. And there’s always a disgruntled street soldier somewhere willing to turn rat. That doesn’t mean our world is falling apart. We’ve dealt with it before and will again. Your instincts are your strength. Don’t dilute them by overthinking.”
Get outta your head, son.The echo of his father hit Emory hard with a wave of grief he hadn’t felt in years. Liam downed his drink and slid from the stool.
“My show’s coming on.” He squeezed Emory’s shoulder and let his hand remain there for a fraught moment until he frowned and said, “I wonder sometimes if you regret choosing this life, if you wish you could leave it behind.”
Liam stared at Emory in earnest. It wasn’t a curiosity to ponder, but a call for reassurance.
Emory patted Liam’s hand. “Don’t ask me that question tonight.”
“Fair enough. Get some sleep. No burning the midnight oil. You need a break.”
Alone at the bar, Emory sipped his drink, but it soured his stomach and turned bitter on his tongue. The release he needed rested upstairs, and long ago he might’ve hated how much hecraved her. It wasn’t just sinking between Amelia’s thighs and dissolving his worries in the pleasure she’d bring.
Amelia beckoned with far-off nostalgia, some golden memory that came like a dream. The sound of her buttercream voice, the way her mouth moved, the stories she told, the dreams they both shared. Where she spoke of wants, he suffered from need. Yes, he needed her; needed her in a way that promised pain, needed her even if it meant his undoing. Glory to the victor, she had him on his knees.
“What the fuck am I doing?” Emory muttered to himself.
He hopped from the stool and tossed out his drink in the sink. With his heart in his throat, he raced up the stairs and ignored the throng of people crowding the foyer. They said goodbye and hugged one another, exchanged clammy handshakes with insincere smiles.
Mirabelle hurried toward him and snatched him by the forearm. “Em, honey, you did the right thing. I know it hurts, but you gotta let her go.”
“No.” Emory yanked his arm free and rushed up the stairs.
Resolve weakened his knees but set his heart ablaze. Heroes always ran. No one ever said,“The fireman strolled into the burning building”or“The soldier moseyed into battle.”Cowards ran too; from broken homes, busted hearts, the messes they made. The only thing separating the craven from the brave was the direction they ran. When it mattered most, Emory ran to her.
Down the hall, he nearly barreled into her room but stopped outside her bedroom door. Words would surely fail him, but his touch had a language all its own. It’d speak his desire not just for her body, but her heart.
He knocked with no answer then twisted the knob. Locked. She’d locked him out, and he couldn’t have predicted the way it hurt. Heart heavy, he knocked again.
“Amelia, it’s me. Open up.”
Emory listened for sounds of her stirring. Nothing came, and no light spilled from beneath the frame. With the crowd gone, the house was at rest, and so was she.
Defeated and wholly dejected, Emory settled in across the hall for uneasy sleep. He’d see her tomorrow and tell her then what rested behind his palisade of the unspoken, the words he couldn’t manage until then.
Every moment with her was making up for lost time. A comedy and tragedy of wasted years, it enthralled and gutted. Though the past couldn’t be undone and his future was a tangle of uncertainty, he’d carve out his own fate and a place for just them two; side by side and free from this hell.
He’d tell her tomorrow.
THIRTY-THREE
AMELIA
In Mirabelle’s passenger seat, Amelia eyed the clock. Twenty-five minutes ago, Mirabelle claimed their jaunt would take them down the road. She measured distance like Amelia’s mom, though. “Down the road” could mean the next street over or halfway across town. For Mirabelle, it meant just outside Las Vegas where her friend owned a boutique.
Ten miles back, a detour led them off the highway and onto a back road. Mirabelle almost missed it and would’ve blithely blown past the end of the world, but Amelia had pointed out the signs and hollered that they better heed the warning. Mirabelle had laughed like a bell and took the detour as if she knew all along.
“You alright?” she asked Amelia. “You’ve been quiet.”
