When she pulled back, she kept her fist in his shirt. “This does not mean I have forgiven you,” she warned.
“I know.” But he’d take it. He’d take her fury and her anger, so long as she didn’t send him away again.
“I am stillextremelyangry at you for keeping Rose’s secret, too.”
That was the one bit of all this that he felt bad about. “I know.”
“And if you ever keep something from me again?—”
“I won’t,” he vowed. “Trust me, after this, it’s not like any secret could be worse.”
The expression she gave him told him she did not appreciate his attempt at humor.
“Come on,” Poison said, releasing his shirt. Taking his hand, she started to lead him around the side of the clubhouse.
“Where are we going?” Not that he cared. She could lead him to Hell, and he’d happily follow.
“You said you’re going to spend the rest of your life making this up to me. Well, that starts now, buddy. All that talking better have gotten your tongue warmed up, because I plan on putting it to good use.”
CHAPTER 16
The bar was the kind of place that didn’t ask questions. It existed as an establishment that survived, not on quality or atmosphere, but on discretion. From the sticky floors and the dim lighting to the bartender with selective muteness, it was the sort of place where patrons understood the fastest way to find yourself in trouble was to take too much interest in the business of the person sitting next to you.
It was not the sort of place a disgraced U.S. Marshal, who had blackmailed himself out of prison and into Witness Protection, would generally find himself. He’d gone into the business of making extra money so he would never find himself in a seedy, disgusting place such as this ever again.
And yet…here he was. Why? Because his fuckingpartner, who felt more like his hangman tightening the noose these days, had told him to be. He did not have time for this, or the cloak and dagger vibe of this meeting. He needed to find his son.
Hisson. He had ason.
The report that had been flagged, matching Tyson paternally to the boy, did not have a name attached to it. John Doe Jr. It didn’t matter what that slut had named him. Once Tyson got ahold of him, he’d change it. His useless wife had never been able to give him a son. Daughters, an endless stream of daughters. Then acted like he should be offended when she took them away in the divorce. What the fuck use did Tyson have with daughters? The only reason he fought the custody claim during the proceedings was to make the bitch suffer and worry that he might retain his paternal rights even in prison.
But in the end, he lost those rights. Good riddance. He thought he was childless now, but it turned out the universe had one more trick up its sleeve.
He looked up, frowning at the figure that approached the table. “I’m meeting someone,” Tyson tried to tell them as they took the seat in the booth opposite him.
“I know. You’re meeting with me.”
Tyson did not blink or draw attention to himself. Not in a place like this. “Am I? Funny, you don’t look like my friend.”
“Supervisory Deputy United States Marshal Talbot Corrigan is in his office in Des Moines.” A phone with what appeared to be a live video feed was slid across the table by a gloved hand. Tyson looked down to see his former boss sitting at a very familiar desk. Despite the active timestamp in the corner of the video, Tyson did not know if this footage was current or old. “He’s nowhere in the state, nor does he even know about this meeting.”
Feeling the hackles on the back of his neck rise, Tyson fought to keep his composure. A trap? By whom? Not wanting to give anything away until he had some answers, Tyson slowly shook his head once in a silent signal before he slid the phone back across the table. “And yet I got a message from him to meet him here?”
“Funny thing about messages. They’re often misleading.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Kennedy studied the face across from him with methodical patience. He was good at reading people, had been good at it long before the Marshals Service had taught him to be better. It was how he knew whichwitness would bewillingand which would put up a fight. Rose had been so hard to read—and that fucking misjudgment had cost him everything.
He would not allow it to cost him his son.
What he saw across from him now was not fear or desperation. It was arrogance mixed with anger, and maybe even a bit of hatred.
Interesting.
“Well, the reason for your deception is clear. You wanted me here, and you got me here. Now, are you going to tell mewhywe’re here or how you found me?”
“You say that as if you were in hiding and not leaving little breadcrumbs spread all throughout the dark web.” The voice was even, not showing an ounce of the emotion those eyes did. “If Rose Benson was as good as she thinks she is, she would have discovered what I did and be the one sitting here instead of me. But thankfully, for you, she’s not.”
Tyson did not like knowing he’d been so easily found, nor did he like hearing Rose’s name from those arrogant lips. Not because he gave a shit what happened to Rose, but because Rose had his son.
