Page 5

Dude’s like four hundred pounds, got tats up his neck and onto his forehead, across his knuckles. Huge black sweatshirt and baseball cap, real take-no-shit kinda guy.

Doesn’t scare me, though, ’cause I’m always nice to Ricky. He has the kind of information I want—mostly illicit—and I pay him, so we get along just fine. I slip him a few extra bills here and there, and he doesn’t ask too many questions about what I do with the shit he gives me.

“Jax.” Ricky nudges his ball cap back an inch or two, revealing tattooed skin beneath a shaved hairline. “You look like you’re having a good time.”

His gaze angles toward the chicas at the bar, who yes, are stealing glances in my direction. What can I say? I’m cute. Mysterious. Good at cards. All the shit ladies love.

“You know me. Always having fun.” I cock a grin his way, but it’s not the dimpled one, the charming flirty innocent one. Nah, not for him. Ricky knows better than that—knows there’s a steel spine under this soft skin. A steel spine and a shadowed soul.

“I don’t know you.” Ricky shakes his head. “Nobody knows you.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” I lean back in my chair, extend my long legs out in front of me, careful to keep my Nikes away from Ricky’s battered combat boots. I’m a solid six-two, getting close to one-ninety these days . . . but Ricky’s got four inches on me in height alone. “But that’s what makes me interesting, eh?”

“You want the news or not, J?”

I sigh. All business, Ricky. Never wants to have any fun shooting the shit and fucking around, which are two of my favorite damned hobbies. “I’ll pay, but only for the good stuff.”

“Oh, I got good stuff.” The way he says it, an undercurrent of something to his voice, draws my attention. Snaps it in like a beacon to a homing pigeon. He does have something; it’s written all over his face—and Ricky’s a pretty decent poker player.

He’s got something, it’s fucking good, and he wants me to know it.

Damn.

“All right. Lay it on me.” I fold my hands atop the table, ’cause otherwise they’re liable to dance on back to the bar for my cards. “I can see you’re bursting to share.”

Ricky glares—he doesn’t like how easy I read him, not with how hard he tries to be unreadable. I mean, with most people, I’m sure it works like a damned charm. I smile innocently back. He wants to tell me even more than he wants me to pay him for it, ’cause whatever he’s got, it’s fucking good.

If I wasn’t the best mask wearer around, the excitement would have me bouncing like a bunny on a pogo stick. As it is, my fingertips turn white with the effort of holding in all of said excitement; if it has Ricky’s panties in a twist . . . oh boy.

“So, you know my man Derek out in Queens?” Ricky’s brows arch upward, all innocent, like he thinks that act’s gonna work on me.

“Yeah, I know Derek.” Inside, my blood’s already starting to froth and bubble, ’cause shit. There’s only a couple of ways this could go—only a couple of unfinished things I left back in the Big Apple—and I’m not eager to recall any of them.

I’ll let Rick play his little game of show and tell though. I like a good performance as much as the next guy.

“Well, he’s been keeping tabs on . . . what was your boy’s name there?”

Goosebumps lift up and down my arms as a cool shudder crawls down my spine. I shouldn’t know exactly who he means.

I do.

“Nick. Saborn,” I say, my voice barely a murmur over the low purr of background music. Hot damn, I haven’t thought about Nick in a minute. Or seven fucking years.

I don’t need to clock Ricky’s satisfied smirk to confirm that I’m right.

What I don’t know is how to feel about it.

Nick was the first guy I ever worked for, aside from my brother. The guy I ran petty break-ins with all those years ago when I first slunk across the border with my tail between my legs like a scared dog. The first one to betray me—on this side of the border anyway. You might even say it was that betrayal that made me the man I am today.

Shit, I haven’t thought about him in a long goddamn time. I’m not really a revenge kinda guy—a lot of people have hurt me a lot worse than Nick. Eventually, you learn to move the fuck on, because otherwise you’ll be running in circles, tripping over your own feet.

“So?” I shrug. “Why the hell we talking about him?”

Ricky’s mouth snaps into the cruel slice of a grin. “Because he’s here.”

My hands slap the table as they fall flat against the varnished wood. “What? Here? In Boston?”

“Here. In Boston.” Ricky nods. “And from what my sources say, he’s planning to make a move.”