Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
“Are you done?” Charlie glares.
Beckett laughs with hurt, breath visible in the cold. “Get me out of here, Charlie.”
“No.”
Fight 3 is on my ten. Behind the gurgling exhaust pipes of a blue car, O’Malley confronts Donnelly.
“Hey, I heard your dad is being let of prison this week.”
I’ve seen this happen before. With Farrow not in earshot or view, O’Malley is less afraid to go for Donnelly’s jugular. Fight 3 is about to be a knockout bloodbath.
Alarm triggers my instincts, and I reach for my mic to alert Akara, but I realize that the cord is yanked from the radio.
Shit. I scan the gravel parking lot for the Omega lead.
“Banks,” Tony snaps. “You’re not riding home with my client.”
Fuck off. I spot Akara at the furthest car, popping the hood. “Akara!” I yell and point in the direction of Fight 3.
He might hate me right now, but we’re still teammates and willing to die for the same cause.
“Yeah, he’s getting let out,” Donnelly answers O’Malley.
Akara sees and sprints after them.
“Yeah? Looks like you’re missing your meth-head family reunio—” He grunts as Donnelly tackles him, and Akara wrenches him off O’Malley before either guy can throw a punch.
“Jane is drunk,” Tony snaps at me. “Incapacitated. She can’t consent to jack shit right now, which is why protocol dictates that her bodyguard take care of her—you aren’t her bodyguard, Moretti.”
I’m about to ignite Fight 4.
My nose flares, rage a flaming ball in my lungs. “I’m not just a fucking bodyguard to Jane.”
I’m her boyfriend.
Tony laughs. “Right, you’re her boyfriend’s brother. Great.” He claps mockingly. “Just because there are two of you doesn’t mean you get double-dibs on the same girl. Unless you two are with her in some kind of weird twincest threesome thing. Which, really, isn’t that shocking considering you both stuck it in the same chick in high school.”
Fucking lies.
“Shut…up,” Jane says drunkenly and tries to swat him but she pats the air, and then whacks my cheek. I clasp her hand, almost smiling.
In a split-second, she somehow just smothered a raging fire in my body.
I don’t lay into him.
He hates that.
Tony rubs the corner of his lip. “Let me give you some advice, Moretti. You should never let girls speak for you and definitely not fight your battles for you. Man the fuck up.”
Anger. I’m burning alive in pure fury. “Women are better than men. Better fighters, better lovers—and the fact that you come from where I do and can say and believe shit that demeans women makes me sick.” I know his grandma.
I know his aunts.
I think of my mom, my mom’s wife, my aunts, my grandma, and I wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for a twelve-year-old girl who left Italy with no one and came to America with nothing.
Brave. Bold. Strong women rule my world, and I love them.
Tony cringes, hurt flaring. “Don’t turn this into some sexist shit. You know that’s not what I meant.” His voice is softer.
“Hey.” Maximoff strides over with knotted brows. “Is there a problem?”
Tony repeats the same shit about needing to “take care” of his client, and I realize the best route for Jane is her best friend.
Family outranks bodyguards, and if Maximoff wants to carry her, protocol says, don’t get in his fucking way. After a short conversation, Tony follows protocol and lets her cousin help.
I hate passing my drunk girlfriend over to anyone, but she won’t be afraid in his arms.
Maximoff cradles Jane while he climbs into the van, and she hangs onto his shoulders and murmurs, “Thatcher?”
“It’s me, Janie,” he whispers.
Tony tries to shove in front of me to claim the last open seat, and I block him from entering, about to take that one.
“Banks.” O’Malley wipes dirt off his forearms. “One of the cars won’t start up. We need your help.”
Fuck.
My brother is a mechanic.
While he tinkered under cars, I was a thirteen-year-old busboy and line cook. I lied about my age to land a job, and making chicken parm isn’t a skill my brother will need in Philly.
I know basics for car repairs, and I can feel my way through this. But I hate that I have to ease out of the van and drop my boot to the ground.
Leaving Jane.
Two words I hate thinking. Two words I never want to hear.
21
THATCHER MORETTI
Jane clings to the toilet bowl, and I press a cold washcloth to her clammy forehead. She hasn’t puked yet, but she’s been toying with the idea for fifteen minutes. Quiet in a mental battle.
Everyone else must be asleep after the pub clusterfuck, chatter nonexistent, but I hear the loud wind skating across the Scottish Highlands and slapping against the stone house. Floorboards and walls creak around me, and my ears pick up the tiniest of noises in vigilance that I don’t need tonight.
Zero threats.
Zero targets.