by S. Massery
It’s impossible to change that much in three weeks. I’ve always been just outside of Dad’s reach, but he never realized it.
Freedom was so close I could taste it. As I slide the ring onto my finger, it flies farther away, until I can’t see it at all.
4
DALTON
“Colin,” I call.
He jerks his hand up, flashing me his middle finger as he talks to an older woman. She swats at his arm, and his chuckle floats back toward me.
I met a girl, I had told Hadley only a week ago. And I ruined her.
Why do I keep thinking about Grace? She’s been a fucking thorn in my side—irritating and unable to ignore. Hadley didn’t have too much sage advice, which I should’ve expected. Girl just got over cancer and then being abducted. And now her and Griff are figuring their shit out back in New York.
Griffin is lucky I’d do anything for him, but even I have to admit that it was fortunate timing to get me out of town. He’s one of my best friends, as close as a brother. We met six years ago, after we were put on the same crew for Scorpion Industries. Even after our contract with the military contracting giant was over, our crew of six stayed friends. When one calls for help, the rest of us go. No matter the distance.
Well, except for our fearless leader. Wyatt Pierce died a few years ago. Since then, it’s been the five of us, thick as thieves. Last year, we went to Salt Lake City and Vegas to rescue Jackson’s ass. Then Europe almost a year later for Griffin. Mason is slap-happy with his partner in Vegas, and I’m sure either Zach or I will need help eventually, but until then? I’ll enjoy my vacation.
Finally, Colin finishes with the woman and shows her to the door.
“What, you asshole?” Colin grumbles. He falls into the chair next to mine and grabs my water bottle.
“We should have a little competition,” I say.
He raises his eyebrow. He and I went through the Marines together—a lifetime ago—and went in completely different directions once we got out. First, he did another tour. Second, once he got stateside, he opened up a non-profit to teach kids self-defense. He’s a giant man with a thick beard. He loves flannel when Florida weather allows for it, and his favorite pair of shoes are snakeskin boots.
Straight country, the guys in our squad joked. How he ended up in Florida was anyone’s guess. But he bought the land, set up a shooting range and a self-defense classroom, and off he went. Now, he’s where people go for help, whether it be refuge or revenge.
In contrast, I followed the money. Scorpion paid pretty damn well, and my current line of business isn’t too shabby, either.
“Wrestling?”
I shrug. “I was thinking shooting.”
He barks out a laugh. “How about you tell me why you’re here? And more importantly—when you’re leaving?”
I grin. He doesn’t mean it… I think. I’m pretty sure he appreciates someone to order around. I showed up two days ago, and I told him I’d do whatever he needed help with as long as he didn’t kick me out. “I just need a little more time.”
“And the why?”
“We can solve that with a friendly competition, as I mentioned.”
“Ah, so you want to cheat me out of an answer.” He sighs. “I suppose I should be used to that from you.”
I look around his office. The self-defense lessons take place in the big room to the left. Out the window, there’s the mile-long shooting range. He’s set up bags of sand and boards to keep each shooter separate, and there’s a big red light that flashes when people are on the course. Walking out to place the paper targets and walking back alone takes a half hour, if not longer.
There’s another building connected to this one where he teaches firearm safety. The targets are metal and people-shaped, scattered around. There’s a small obstacle course to boot.
All in all, it’s paradise for guys like us.
Minus the kids—I could do without that mayhem.
The door swings open, revealing a slender woman. The way she clutches her purse and glances around the room puts me on edge, but Colin just exhales slowly.
“Raincheck on that, yeah?” Colin stands.
“Roger that.” I lift myself out of the chair and head to the back door, lifting my rifle as I go. I climb the steep path to Colin’s house. When I’d first arrived, he’d warned me that sometimes snakes liked to sunbath on the rocks.
So far, I haven’t seen one. But that doesn’t mean I don’t drag my heel every other step. The tiny stones to jump and roll ahead of me. I was trained to move silently: undoing that training grates on my nerves.
I crack open the door and snag Colin’s laptop, then make my way to the attic. Setting down my rifle, I decide whether or not to search the name Grace Jones. Maybe looking up her father would turn over more stones.
But after a solid two minutes of hitting keys and coming up with everything except what I want, I give in and call Mason. As the tech expert of our merry band of mercenaries, he probably gets the weirdest questions from us. I’m positive Zach calls him at least once a week to reset his email password.
And with that in mind, I smile as the phone rings.
Mason answers with, “Thought you’d be sick of hearing my voice by now, D.”
I chuckle. “I don’t suppose you could help me find someone?”
“What kind of someone?”
I scowl at the wall. If I name Grace, he’s going to pass it along to the other guys, which means I made a fucking mistake. So I say, “Sal Jones.”
“And who the hell is that?”
“Local mob enforcer,” I say. “Works for the Argento family.”
He hums. “Okay, I’ll see what I can find.”
“Javier Argento,” I add.
The name means nothing to Mason. He was all freaked out to learn that Delia came from a mafia family—ooh, the Moretti family—but he doesn’t blink an eye at the name Javier Argento?
Idiot.
I hang up on him.
My phone rings two seconds later, the caller ID flashing a familiar name. Luca wouldn’t call without good reason, and that alone spikes my apprehension.
“Yeah,” I answer.
“Kavanaugh,” Luca says. “You sitting down?”
“Sure.” I pull a joint and lighter out of my pocket, cracking the window and lighting it. These days, it’s the only way to loosen the knot in my chest. Thinking about Grace Jones does the trick, too. What kind of irony is that? The same woman who ties me up also gives me an odd sense of relief.
“They’ve lifted the hit.”
“No shit.”
He laughs. “Yeah, that’s what I said. It’s been, what, four weeks?”
“Barely,” I say. “Damn. Wonder who they turned their attention on?”
“Well, apparently, all was made right in their world. They know you’re not going to be a problem anymore.”
I take a hit, holding it before I blow out a slow breath. “Why’s that?” I’m always a fucking problem—it’s part of my reputation. That, and being an asshole whenever possible. The few people who manage not to piss me off by existing—Luca, Colin, and my old Scorpion crew—take my words with a grain of salt. The rest of the population can go fuck themselves.
“I dunno. Guess they took care of the issue.”
I sit up. “The issue was me. They didn’t take care of me. Hell, I’m living the life.”
“Where’d you go?”
I narrow my eyes, even though Luca can’t see me. “Who’s asking?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Luca the security specialist who’s collecting a paycheck from Javier, or my friend?”
He sighs. “You know what? I’m not even going to answer that fucking question.”
“I’m hanging up,” I announce.
“Dalton—”
I hit the end button and throw my phone onto the table, tipping back in my chair. Fucking Luca. His brother, Caden, was my business partner before things took a no
sedive—literally—and he died.
Caden’s will left everything to Luca. I shouldn’t have been surprised by it, but I was. I trusted Luca only because his brother had such faith in him. And over the course of a year, we became half-assed friends and business partners.
It was Caden who went through the Marines with Colin and I, and Caden who ended up dead in a freak plane crash. The guilt weighs on me a little too heavily at times for that one.
I can also thank him for the healthy dose of fear I get every time I step foot on a plane.
I finish the joint and stub it out, then lean over and grab my cleaning supplies. Cleaning my rifle is more religion than habit. Nothing can scrub away my dark thoughts more than a rag and some solvent. The high crawls over me, relaxing my muscles and my mind.
Eventually, Colin will find me and drag me out of here. He’ll make sure I eat, because he’s got a mother’s instinct—more than my own mother ever had. And after that, he might repeatedly ask when I plan on leaving. He doesn’t mean it to be an asshole, not like me. He’d ask so he can prepare.
Freaking Boy Scout.
They took care of the issue.
I mull that over while I disassemble the rifle. Maybe I was never the issue… Maybe Grace was.
I throw the rag down. If that’s the case—
“Goddamn it,” I mutter.
5
GRACE
One month later
The Nest is a maze. I’ve been working here for almost two months and I still find myself walking into a coat closet instead of a bathroom or finding the stairs when I meant to find one of the many private rooms.
My manager, Amy, catches my arm as I pass. My shift just started, and business is booming. I had to walk past a line that curled around the building to come in, and my co-workers have been abuzz with the talk of good tippers.
“You know where the VIP lounge is?” she asks over the music. Even with her mouth near my ear, it’s almost impossible to hear.
She pulls back to look at me, and I nod.
“Great. Come with me.”
I follow her down the hall, into the back room. It’s soundproofed in here, and my ears ring in the sudden silence. She runs her fingers along the bottles of wine, down the row toward the hard liquor. She once told me they made it soundproof so the bartenders and managers didn’t get a headache while counting inventory.
She plucks out a dark bottle and shoves it at me. “Bring this up to the VIP lounge,” she says. “Third floor.” She fiddles with my uniform: a cropped black shirt with the Nest’s logo on the breast pocket, and jean shorts. There isn’t much there to fix, but she ducks her head and makes herself busy.
She smooths my hair and I almost slap her away.
The first floor is open, with a dance pit in the center. There’s a bar in the corner that’s regularly mobbed. The second floor is half the size of the first, with glass walls and comfortable chairs. They pay extra for their own bartender and servers—and the elbow room. The third floor is private rooms. Some look down over the crowd, and others are completely private.
I shiver to think what happens in those dark rooms.
But the Nest is famous for letting anything happen—anything in your wildest dreams—as long as you follow the rules. Rules that made me want to work here in the first place.
One, no touching the staff.
Two, consent, always, at all times.
Beyond that, anything goes. And I mean… anything.
Those two rules are scrawled across the walls, in the bathroom, over the bar. We have security that won’t hesitate to throw someone out. And that’s what makes me feel safe.
Sure, I get groped as I walk through the first floor. I smile at men that lean into my bubble and bite my cheek when they ask for something I don’t want to give. But the satisfaction of their removal comes when they brush their hand across my cheek or try to snag my arm.
There’s no such thing as three strikes—it’s a one-and-done type of place.
“Who’s the VIP?” I ask Amy before she shoves me out the door.
She rolls her eyes. “Out, Jones. So fucking nosy.”
I make my way to the third floor, along the dark hallway, until I find the right door. I knock twice, then push it open.
A man stands at the window, looking down at the dancers. I try not to stare at him and examine the space. Instead of the packed room I was expecting, filled with rich men and scantily dressed women… it’s just him. Maybe my imagination blew up a bit on the way here, or maybe this is an unusual situation for this place.
I step farther into the room, clearing my throat. “Your…” I look down at the bottle. It’s expensive whiskey. Top-shelf stuff. “I have your whiskey.”
He turns, and my heart lurches.
“You,” I say.
Morning Star.
The man who tangled me in a mess I still haven’t figured out how to get out of glares at me.
“Grace.”
I stiffen. “You remember me?”
“You’re hard to forget,” he says. He leaves the window and approaches.
I force myself to remain still as he passes by me, closing the door. The sound of the deadbolt sliding closed burns in my ears.
“Grace Jones. My, my, you’ve been busy.” His voice is dark.
He comes up behind me, sliding his hand down my arm. He takes the bottle and uncaps it, staring at me. He raises it to his lips. Something hot pools in my stomach, and I give in to the urge to shift away from him.
“Scared?”
I shake my head. “You’re not worth it.”
He raises his eyebrows. The room is dim, colored lights flashing through the window. The music is muted now that the door is closed. His face is painted by the lights, first purple, then a stroke of green, then red.
“Stop looking at me like that,” I say. I’m half-tempted to grab the bottle and take a swig for myself—anything to lessen the vinegar in my blood. It’s such a bitter flavor—hatred, annoyance, disgust—that my skin crawls with the need to get rid of it.
“Who’s the lucky guy?”
“What?”
He tips the bottom of the bottle toward my left hand.
I laugh. “There’s no such thing as luck in this city.” I take back the bottle, twisting off the top and swallowing a mouthful. It burns on its way down. “And there’s definitely no such thing as luck when it comes to my family.”
The last few weeks have been stressful. The only solace I get is at work, and here he is—the devil himself is ruining even this for me. For some reason, the Argento family won’t step foot in here. I’d imagine it has something to do with the rules… they couldn’t be bothered to respect the staff or get consent from their dance partners.
That doesn’t mean Marco or his goony friend hasn’t waited for me outside after every shift, or a car waits in their absence. It doesn’t mean I haven’t had to try on dresses with Marco’s cousin. Eyes follow me around, even if I don’t see the person they’re attached to.
Or maybe I’m fucking paranoid.
“The son, then?”
I flinch.
He steps closer. “What do they have over you, Grace? To make you say yes to a man who would’ve sold you to the highest bidder?”
I drop the bottle of whiskey.
It explodes on the cement floor. Pieces of the glass cut into my leg, and the liquid splashes everywhere. I watch the devil’s face, but he only keeps looking at me. He didn’t even blink.
Instead, he puts his hands on my waist—when did he get so close?—and lifts me easily, up and over the wreckage. I grab on to his forearms as he walks back toward the window, and then he sets me down.
“I didn’t say yes,” I admit. The lights strobe over us. “My father said yes.”
“Then he should be the one wearing the ring.”
I glance over at him, and he’s scowling at the crowd below. It’s ridiculous enough—the image of this ring on my father’s finger—that I snort. A
nd once that happens, the dam breaks. The laughter builds in my chest until I can’t contain it anymore, and it overflows. I lean back, pressing my knuckles to my mouth, laughing until my abs hurt.
All the while, he watches me. It takes a minute for the giggles to subside, and then I remember who I’m standing next to. I take a step back, the smile sliding off my face. An invisible wall goes back up between us. He ruined my life.
I touch the ring on my finger. It’s his fault that it’s there.
“I’ll get a broom.” My shoes crunch over the glass, and I unlock the door with wooden fingers. Once I’m in the hallway, the vise grip on my chest releases. I suck in a deep breath, then shake my head. There’s no way I’m getting a broom and going back into that room.
Instead, I rush down the stairs, shoving through a side door that exits into the alley behind the club.
A man leans against the brick wall, smoking a cigarette. “Done already, love?”
My eyebrows scrunch together. “And you are?”
“Luca Perry.” He tosses his cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it under his boot before he steps toward me. “Nice rock you got there.”
I look down at the ring. The damn thing weighs on my finger constantly, never letting me forget what I’m about to lose.
“You the Argento girl?”
My head jerks back up toward him, but he just smirks.
“Someone pulled a lot of strings to let you in those doors.”
“Great.” I edge backward. “I need to go back to work.”
He raises his eyebrow but says nothing. I grab the door and yank it open, almost sprinting down the dark hallway and back into the kitchen.
It wasn’t even that creepy of an interaction. And yet: I almost just walked out of my job. That would be automatic dismissal, I’d bet.
I burst into the quiet room, leaning back on the door, and find Amy crouched on a bottom shelf with a clipboard. “Who was that?” I demand.
She glances over at me and winces. “You look like a wreck, Jones.”
“Amy! Who was that?” I realize there’s hysteria in my voice, but I can’t tame it.
