by Kate Kessler
“I’m not gonna puke,” the girl argued. A watery burp followed.
Killian raised a brow. “Mm.” She moved the can a little closer with her toe before grabbing a blanket for herself and heading to the living room. She curled up in the old recliner she’d picked up at the Goodwill. As soon as she closed her eyes she crashed, and she didn’t wake up until bright sunshine cracked her eyelids.
Her apartment wasn’t much, but it had large bow windows that she sometimes liked to sit in to read a book or listen to music. They let in a lot of light, something she’d appreciated since her release. She hadn’t gotten around to buying blinds for them. Maybe she never would. Windows were one of those things most people took for granted.
Shannon was still asleep—snoring softly in the other room—so Killian pulled her hair into a messy bun, shoved her feet into her old sneakers, grabbed her phone and earbuds, and went for a run. No one would know she’d slept in the clothes she wore. No one would care. It was a beautiful October Saturday and she still wasn’t used to being able to go outside whenever she wanted and feel the sun on her face. It was nice. And strange. And sometimes a little scary. Her nerves jangled as she warmed up. Her calves protested for a moment, then eased into the run as her muscles warmed. She picked up the pace.
There was a park not far from her apartment. She liked to work out on the playground equipment if there weren’t a lot of kids around, which there weren’t at eight o’clock in the morning. She hung by her knees from the monkey bars and did several sets of curl-ups before switching to pull-ups on the same structure. Sweat trickled down the side of her face as she worked her muscles until they burned and protested and her head buzzed with the high.
Killian had been fourteen when she discovered that strength made her feel safe. That it burned through the rage that so often filled her. She spent all of her free time going to martial arts classes and sparring with Jason and Dash. She’d met them in juvy when she was twelve and they were fifteen. It had been Dash who got her into MMA fighting, but it was Jason who gave her the confidence to chase being a champion. That dream died right around the same time he did. She still loved it, though. Took comfort in being capable of violence.
After her workout she ran back to the apartment. When she walked in the door, sated and damp, Shannon was sitting on the lumpy couch, drinking coffee and watching videos on her phone.
“It’s still hot,” she said, holding up her mug as she kept her eyes glued to the screen.
“Have you eaten?” Killian asked, swiping the back of her hand across her forehead.
“All you have in your fridge is yogurt, fruit, and some raw meat. No, I haven’t eaten.”
Killian rolled her eyes. “Let me shower, then we’ll get breakfast.”
Twenty minutes later they were at a local diner. Shannon had French toast and sausage while Killian had an omelet and two sides of bacon with a side of fruit. As soon as the plate was set in front of her, she began shoveling food into her mouth.
“You eat like a trucker,” Shannon commented with a slight edge of disgust.
“I eat like an ex-con.” Head down, food in mouth. “But I’m also starving.”
“I guess it takes a lot of protein or whatever to have arms like that.”
Killian glanced up at her. “It takes a lot of work to have arms like this.”
“How’d you get that scar?”
She didn’t have to look to know which one the kid meant. “Plastic spoon sharpened to a point.”
“Someone slashed you with a spoon? Why?”
Killian reached for her coffee. “Said she didn’t like my face. She was going for my eyes, but I got my arm up.” The woman had meant to kill her, but Shannon didn’t need to know that. As she took a sip from her cup, the girl’s phone chimed for the fourth time since they’d sat down. “That him again?”
Shannon turned the phone over so neither of them could see the screen. “He says he’s sorry.”
“Yeah, that’s what usually happens when they sober up. He’ll be sorry next time, too.”
“You don’t even know him,” the girl replied, unsurprisingly defensive. They always defended the guy.
“I’ve been hit by a lot of guys.” Killian crunched on a piece of bacon. “I never defended them. And none of them were really sorry.”
“Yeah?” Shannon’s jaw tightened. “Did you eat a lot of pussy while you were in prison?”
Killian laughed at her choice of deflection. That was the number one question she got asked—in one form or another—when anyone found out she’d done time. “If the idea of me being gay for the stay is worse to you than getting beaten up by your boyfriend, you are one seriously fucked-up kid.”
The guy in the booth next to them turned his head. He smelled like beer and vomit, and it was obvious from his unfocused, bloodshot eyes that he was still drunk. “Did you eat a lot of pussy in prison?” he asked. He had egg yolk stuck to his lip.
She smirked at him, leaning in as though she was going to share a secret. “No, but I got mine licked whenever I wanted. Now go back to your sad hash browns and mind your own fucking business.”
“Oh my God,” Shannon lamented, hiding her face. “Can we go now?”
“I’m not done with my breakfast,” Killian replied. She arched a brow at their eavesdropper until he did indeed close his mouth and go back to his own plate before she returned her attention to her food.
Maybe she ought to apologize to the kid, but Shannon needed a gentle reminder which one of them was dominant in their relationship. In prison you either ran the pack or were possibly prey for it. Killian had not spent nine years fighting to be the former to give it up to a fifteen-year-old, no matter how much she loved her. And she wasn’t ashamed of getting much-needed human connection from other women.
She didn’t make Shannon suffer for long. Killian ate a bit more, then paid the bill and they left. Shannon didn’t speak to her for the entire drive home, which was fine by her. Sometimes the kid talked too much. She filled the air with chatter until it hung there like perfume, leaving Killian unable to recall most of it. Maybe she’d been like that at one time, but she couldn’t remember.
Her sister, Megan, and her husband lived in a decent neighborhood in Plainville—nothing fancy, but the yards were clean and looked after, and the houses were in good repair. It was the sort of neighborhood where maybe people didn’t have a lot of money, but they had pride and took care of what was theirs. Killian respected that. They’d lived in that kind of neighborhood with Aunt Kathleen when she and Killian’s mother, both freshly divorced, decided to rent a house together. Megan had already gone away to college at that point, but Killian was glad to be rid of her stepfather. Glad to have a bedroom door that locked. She’d had the best sleep of her life in that house.
“You’re welcome,” she said—pointedly—as the girl opened the Impala door.
Shannon stopped, turned, and kissed Killian on the cheek. Killian melted inside. “Thank you. You better come in. Mom will freak if you don’t.”
“What do you want me to tell her?”
“I guess I called you this morning and you offered to pick me up? It’s kinda the truth.”
“Close enough.”
Killian followed her into the house, watched as she greeted her mother, who was rolling out piecrust, then spun her tale and bounded up the stairs to get a shower. Killian’s younger niece, Willow, was playing Barbies in the living room, and Shannon said hello to her as she hurried past. The little girl didn’t look up from her play but called out hi.
Cameron, Megan’s husband, walked into the room. He was tall and lean, with a shaved head and blue eyes that stood out against his dark skin. He was in the military and was due to ship out that week. Megan looked at him like she missed him already.
“Hey, Kiki,” he said, coming up to give her a kiss on the cheek. “How’s my second-favorite Delaney sister?”
Killian smiled. “Doing all right. You?”
“Gettin�
�� in my quota of tea parties and Barbie dolls before I ship out.” He held up a hand to reveal nails painted a very bright, very messy pink. “I’m in touch with my feminine side.”
“Mm,” Megan commented as she placed the sheet of dough over a pie plate full of apples covered in cinnamon and sugar. “Now I know why I never seem to have clean underwear—my husband’s wearin’ them.”
He grinned at her and smacked her on the ass as he went to the refrigerator. “You don’t have any underwear ’cause I like you better out of ’em.”
“Okay.” Killian held up her hands. “TMI.”
Cameron grabbed a can of Coke and turned to her, still smiling. “Guess who I saw yesterday?” He didn’t make her actually guess. “Dash Clark.”
Killian’s stomach tightened at the sound of his name. Dash. Her Dash? She hadn’t seen him in years. He had visited her in prison a couple of times but she told him to never come back—he listened. “How’s he doing?”
“Good.” He popped the tab. “Running his own business now.”
“He left the Crows?” She couldn’t believe it. Dash had thought of the motorcycle club the same way Jason had—as family. He’d been a legacy. His father had been part of the MC until he got shot when Dash was a kid. The Crows took care of him, his siblings, and his mother. Yeah, they’d been into some sketchy stuff, but they took care of their own.
“Far as I know they’re still friendly. I imagine they got fingers in his setup.”
“What’s he doing?” Not that she was interested or anything.
“Custom cars—real sick ones. Had a couple of celebrity sales and now he can’t keep up.” Cam shook his head. “Sure wish I could afford him. The man puts together some sweet rides.”
He sure as shit did. One of them was parked in the drive right now. That car had been one of the few things that kept her going after Jason’s death. Dash had made sure she’d been involved in the process—made her work on it with him even though she had no idea what she was doing.
And now Dash was legit. Huh. Well, if any of them was going to come out of life with something to show for it, it was him. He’d always looked beyond the club—which was the preferred term over gang—beyond what other people saw. He’d seen more in her than anyone else ever had, Jason included. That was why she got to a point where she couldn’t stand to sit across a table from him. “Good for him.”
Cam’s expression became more guarded. He glanced down at the can in his hand, then back to her. “He asked me to tell you that he’s usually around if you ever want to swing by.”
“What’s the name of his place?” Not so she could stop by, but so she could avoid it. Dash was one of the last people she wanted to see. Too much history. Too much resentment. Too much everything. She liked to keep her emotions muted these days, and Dash knew her too well for that to happen.
“Black Crow Builds in Newington.”
She’d noticed the place before. It wasn’t far from her apartment. Nice setup. And a quaint little shout-out to his roots. “Thanks.”
Her brother-in-law touched the soda can to his forehead in a salute and sauntered back into the living room just as Willow yelled for his return. The sisters watched him leave before slowly turning their attention back to one another.
“Does that girl honestly think I wouldn’t smell beer and weed on her? Jesus, she smells like a trap house. Where was she?” Megan asked in a quiet voice. Killian’s older sister favored their father’s Irish coloring, with auburn hair and green eyes, while Killian had dark eyes and hair like their mother. However, Megan had their mother’s intuition when it came to her kids. If Shannon thought she was pulling anything over on her, she was in for a big surprise.
Killian handed her a towel to wipe her flour-dusted hands with. “Party. You know this Cody guy she’s seeing?”
“The little douche who looks like he’s trying to be K-Fed?”
She laughed at the apt comparison. “He probably doesn’t know who Kevin Federline is.” That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.
Her sister shrugged. “True. Yeah, I saw him once when he picked her up. He sat in the car and honked the damn horn.”
Killian wasn’t going to tell Shannon’s business, but if the boyfriend was involved with Wex in any way…“She needs to stay away from him.”
“Might as well tell the sun not to shine. I do that and she’ll run away with him to New York.” She gave her younger sister a pointed look.
Sigh. “Jason and I didn’t run away. We went to a concert and Mom flipped out.”
“Because you were fifteen and he was what? Eighteen?”
What did that matter? She’d been an old fifteen. “We were with friends.” Dash had been there, and Danny and the girls they’d been dating at the time.
“They were a gang, Kill.”
“I was safer with them than I ever was when Bruce was around.” Bruce was their stepfather. “K-Fed’s not safe.”
Megan nodded, her expression turning grave. “I’ll talk to her.”
Killian hoped she would, and if that didn’t work she would have a talk with Shannon.
“Can you still pick her up after school on Thursday?”
Thursday? Right, Meg and Cam were having an all-encompassing date night before he shipped out, and Shannon needed to stay late to work on a project and then bring a bunch of stuff home. “Yeah. I’ll grab some dinner, too.” She checked her watch. “I’d better get going.” It wasn’t like she had anywhere else to be, but sometimes being around Megan and Cam and the girls overwhelmed her. It was too much emotional stimulation.
“Hey,” her sister said, stopping her at the door. When she turned, Megan wrapped her arms around her in a fierce hug. “Thanks for being there for her.”
“Always,” she replied, clearing her throat as she pulled back. “I’ll call you about lunch later this week.” Then she yanked open the door, jogged down the steps, and jumped into her car.
She was halfway home before she felt like she could breathe.
Two
Tuesday was parole day. Woo-fucking-hoo.
Every week since getting out, Killian had gone to see Donna Grant. She didn’t resent Donna for her job. What Killian resented was the inane conversation—the repetitiveness of it. The same questions over and over. Sometimes she wondered if Donna kept doing it just to see if she’d break. Other times she thought maybe Donna hated it just as much.
She’d been sentenced to ten years in prison for what she’d done to Rank. Had it been worth it? At the time, hell yeah. She ended up serving nine, and had another nine months of parole to look forward to before she could finally consider herself a free woman. Rank Cirello might have suffered, but he’d been allowed to do whatever he wanted. Killian had learned of Willow’s birth from a phone call. She’d only seen Shannon on special occasions and Skype conversations. She’d given up almost a decade of her own life for ruining Rank’s, and while sometimes she could call it a fair exchange, she knew full well it really wasn’t.
And she’d be lying if she said there wasn’t a part of her that wanted to level those scales, even after all these years.
She didn’t have to check in with parole until eleven o’clock. That gave her plenty of time to work out, shower, do some snooping, and nap before she had to go to work that night. She worked at a popular club tending bar and acting as occasional bouncer. Basically she filled in if one of the guys was off, or she dealt with the female patrons. Her boss had told her she’d be surprised by how the clientele could get when drinking, but drunks were drunks regardless of how much money they made. Some got happy, some got yappy, and others just needed to be knocked the fuck out.
Opening the old laptop Megan had given her, she sat down at the battered table with a post-workout smoothie and began her snooping. First she went to Shannon’s Facebook page and went through her photos. The kid had a shit-ton of them—mostly selfies. Who liked looking at their own face this much? She didn’t get it. Lots of photos of the kid trying to look
older and sexier than she was, and lots of comments saying she succeeded. Most of the comments were from friends and family, but there were enough from grown-ass men that Killian made note. There were also photos of Shannon and her friends, and that’s what she wanted. She scrolled through the incredibly long list of thumbnails until she found what she was looking for.
Shannon had written “Bae’s 19th bday” as the caption. The age difference made him a rapist by law. It was a photo of her and Cody. She was perched on the greaseball’s lap and he had one hand on her ass while giving the finger with the other. He looked like a twat. Killian didn’t care about his photographic prowess, though. What she’d hoped to find was exactly what Shannon had given her—she had tagged Cody in the photo. Even up-and-coming felons needed a Facebook account.
Cody Charles. Did his friends call him CC? Maybe Co-D? She clicked on the name and waited for her slow Wi-Fi to load his page. His profile didn’t have a lot of information. That was okay. She didn’t need much more than his name, age, and hometown.
She opened a new tab for a Google search and typed “Cody Charles, arrests.” With a few moments—and some refining of the search—she had three hits detailing different arrests. Mostly misdemeanors—some larceny and drug charges. He had a couple of “Failure to Appears” as well. Still, it was enough. A lot for a kid just barely old enough to be considered an adult by law. And this was just the shit he’d gotten caught doing. If he was hanging with Wex—or someone who knew Wex—then he was on his way to more serious crimes.
It wasn’t that he had done bad things; she wasn’t a hypocrite. Lots of good people did bad things. Lots of good people were in situations where crime was the only option, or the only option they could see as a way out. That was fine; they still had limits and a moral code. Wex had no sense of honor, though, and that made him the worst of the worst. Worse than a liar or a snitch. He’d pulled the trigger for Rank—he and two others. She remembered them, clear as day. She remembered the looks on their faces as they slowly drove by—as Wex and Brand took aim at Jason and put a total of eight holes in him. She reached him as he bled out on the lawn.
