But that doesn’t mean Killian and the Callahan clan plan to let up anytime soon. They fully intend on getting revenge.
At the studio, me and the boneman orbit each other like two planets caught in the same gravitational pull, close enough to feel the heat but careful not to collide.
He’s wrapped up in dealing with the fallout from the firebombing, which means meetings with the buttonmen, late-night phone calls, and other work that has him coming back with blood on his clothes.
I keep my head down and try to make myself useful. Helping clear rubble at the Banshee. Visiting Tom at thehospital. Watching old reruns on TV when stuck at Killian’s apartment to keep my mind off everything else.
But the tension goes nowhere.
The awareness hums under my skin whenever he’s in the room. Whenever his deep blue gaze meets mine, I’m left with a funny flutter in my stomach and a pulse that beats way too hard.
Sometimes I catch him watching me, expression unreadable, and I have to look away before we’re forced to address the matter.
I can’t be the only one who senses the tension. The only one who feels a jolt run through me when our arms accidentally brush in the kitchen or when we catch a glimpse of the other’s body.
His sleep schedule gets worse. He comes and goes at all hours, slipping out of the apartment in the middle of the night and returning at dawn only to change into gym clothes and leave again.
His training at the gym has suffered now that the war between the Callahan clan and the Bratva has picked up.
One evening I’m curled up on the bed pretending to read when I hear him on the phone with his manager.
“I told you, Dez, I don’t have time for this shit right now.”
He pauses long enough for Dez to answer him, then grows louder and angrier.
“I don’t give a fuck if the fight’s tomorrow. More important things’ve come up. Things more important than your fucking bottom line.”
He hangs up and then storms over to the dresser to grab clothes to change. He’s headed off to the gym again, this time for a late-evening session.
It’s minutes before midnight the next time he comes back. I’m only half asleep when I hear him moving in the dark.
He goes straight to the bathroom for a shower, and I assume it means he’ll crash on the rollaway bed next.
Instead, when he emerges minutes later, he’s dressed to head out again.
I sit up, blinking in the dark. “Where are you going?”
“Go back to sleep,” he answers cryptically.
“I wasn’t asleep.”
“Then pretend you were.” He’s slid his feet into his sneakers and shoved his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans.
I push the covers away and swing my legs to the side of the bed. “Are you conducting more mob business?”
“What have I told you about knowing your place, girl?” he rumbles moodily. Despite the heavy shadows filling up the studio, I can tell he’s scowling. His brow has furrowed and his jaw’s pulled tighter.
“I know my place,” I answer. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t get curious. That I don’t have a right to know things.”
His head snaps in my direction, gaze piercing me even in the dark. I hold my next breath as my shoulders stiffen and I prepare for his lecture.
Him telling me to pipe down and shut the fuck up.
Know your place.
“The movies,” he grunts instead. “Headed to go see one.”
I eye him skeptically. “I wasn’t born yesterday, Killer. You really expect me to believe you’re heading out at one in the morning on a Wednesday to go see a movie?”
