by Jennifer Ann
“My friend met with him late yesterday afternoon.” I rise from the recliner and take Sasha’s place beside him on the couch. The reflex to take his hand is so overwhelming that I ball my hands together in my lap to avoid the temptation. “Liam…it isn’t good.”
“Give it to me straight.” His eye narrows, and the kind of dark, ominous glare he exhibited at our initial meeting returns. “Don’t sugar coat this shit.”
“He’s being charged with first degree murder.”
His uninjured eye blinks several times. “What the fuck?”
“The night before Trask was arrested, a guy by the name of Elvin Halverson was shot three times in the chest. They found a gun in the ditch just a few feet away. With Trask’s fingerprints.”
“That’s bullshit!” Liam shoots to his feet, face flushing dark red. He’s beautifully terrifying in this moment, looking ready to tear someone or something apart. “Trask wouldn’t kill that idiot! Elvin works for King Marty—this has his stench all over it!”
My heart aches, knowing how much Trask means to him. I reach for his hand and pull him back down, hushing him with a finger held to my lips. “I haven’t told Sasha any of this yet.” Against my better judgment, I don’t let go of his hand once he’s sitting back beside me. It somewhat helps to lessen the physical pain I endure whenever seeing his broken face. “I don’t think we need to scare her this early on.”
His fingers link through mine, causing bolts of pleasure to shoot through my core. “He’s all she fuckin’ has in this world.”
I nod knowingly. “Pete said the details of the case sound sketchy at best. He thinks there’s a fair chance of getting the charges dropped. Trask said he can round up several witnesses that saw him hanging around Slick Willie’s the night of the murder.” Although my insides are as unsteady as a Jell-O shot, I firmly squeeze his hand, wishing there was more I could do to console him. “Any theories on why King Marty would set him up?”
“No.” He glances down to where his thumb robotically rubs the back of my hand. “But I’m sure as shit going to find out.”
Quivering with his touch, I wet my lips. Everything about this situation is beyond dangerous. “If you go digging around in Trask’s business, King Marty will hear about it. I’ll have Pete delve into their relationship on Friday morning after his omnibus hearing. Trust me, Liam, it’s better this way.”
His beautiful eye darts back to me. “I’m going to that hearing.”
“Of course.” I squeeze his hand again, trying to ignore the fact that his touch turns me on more than shirtless pictures of Charlie Hunnam. “It’s best if you don’t say anything aside from offering words of support. King Marty could have spies everywhere.”
He nods along as I speak. Then he flashes a smile that catapults my heart into my throat. “Will you be there?”
“If you want me to be, yeah.”
Nodding again, his mesmerizing green eye swarms with appreciation. The potency of his stare sends shivers racing through every last inch of my body. “How’d I get so lucky to find you? What you’re doing for me and Sasha…Trask…I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”
My cheeks burn with embarrassment. “You didn’t find me. It’s my job to protect you.”
“A job you could lose for helping us. You’re a better person than I’ll ever be.”
“You don’t know that.” My free hand reaches for the end of my ponytail, smoothing it self-consciously.
A hand clamps around my wrist. “What did I say about doing that?” Teeth clenched, he leans in until the dark smell of teenage boy fills me. It’s a mystical scent that’s so heady my breaths come in short bursts. And I swear I can taste the smoke on his lips. His thumb begins a sensual assault on the inside of my wrist, stroking and kneading. “Do you want to see me lose control?”
Pleasure sticks to my throat like tar, rendering me unable to form a coherent answer. I imagine him touching me in other ways, playing me like the strings of his bass. Eyelids fluttering closed, my face warms with a flush that spreads down my neck and tightens my nipples.
I know I should say no. But my body won’t stay quiet. Yes, it begs, for the love of God and all that’s holy, let him lose control.
The palm of his other hand covers my knee, fingers dangle dangerously close to the hemline of my skirt. “Something tells me you do.” His words come out in a sexier than hell, throaty whisper as his hand creeps up a smidgen further. “I think you wore a skirt two days in a row because you regretted not wearing one the first time we met…when I offered to bend you over the table.”
“Liam, please,” I whimper, peeking back at him through my heavy lids. My labored breaths are loud and brass to my own ears, and my hurried pulse shakes my entire body. Although I know I should tell him to stop, I can’t form the words. He’s made me impossibly wet just by touching my knee. I can’t imagine how divine it would be to experience his hands all over my body.
But I can’t allow it to happen.
“Please what? You want me to take you back in your room and bend you over, babydoll? Fuck you until we both pass out?”
Jesus Lord, yes.
Wait. No!
I shake my head, fighting past my disoriented thoughts. “Stop. This can’t happen. You’re too…young.”
“Bullshit. I’ll be eighteen in days.” His lips move in a fraction of an inch closer the same time his fingers climb farther up my thigh, pausing just inches from my throbbing warmth. “Is that close enough?”
Bolts of lighting electrify my skin with his taunting, feather-light touch until I’m sure I’ll implode. He’s no longer talking about his scandalous age. He’s asking for permission to reach farther up, to stroke the bundle of nerves dancing between my legs, and I can’t muster the willpower to say no.
My eyelids flutter back shut, although I continue to shake my head. “If I were to let this happen while you’re a minor, I could lose my license. They could send me to prison. We need to wait. It can’t be any other way.”
All at once, I sense him drawing back. His hands, his scent, everything is gone, replaced by a sudden chill. His dark, disembodied voice floats through the small space of my living room. “If that’s really what you believe, then I guess I have to respect that.”
By the time I’ve regained my senses and open my eyes again, my apartment door is already closing behind him.
Why did I tell him we have to wait? Why didn’t I slap him for touching me, and make him leave the second he came onto me?
What the hell is wrong with me?
5
LIAM
Friday morning, Brooke gets me out of classes for Trask’s hearing. I take the light rail to the courthouse with Stone and Ryker, none of us unloading what’s weighing heavily on our minds. The four of us have been thick as thieves for so many years that losing Trask would be as jarring as losing a limb.
Still, as much as it scares the shit out of me to think he could be sent away for life, I can’t stop obsessing over how close I was to burying my fingers inside Brooke the other night. She’s filled with so much goodness that I want to lick it right out of her.
It was bad enough I didn’t see her all day yesterday, only exchanged a few texts. Waiting another two days will be the worst kind of torture. Usually when I sleep with chicks, it’s about getting my rocks off and nothing more.
This is different.
She’s putting her career on the line to help keep a promise to someone she’s never met. All for a punk like me. It’s logical that I would want to do all kinds of things to her sweet little body to show my appreciation. There’s so much about her that fills the void in my chest—the way she actually gives a damn, and listens respectfully to everything I have to say. The way she took Sasha in without hesitation, and shows her nothing but kindness. The way she worries about my safety, and what would happen if King Marty came after me. The way I sense we share something more profound than the desire to bone each other like rabbits. The way she looks at me lik
e I’m a man worthy of her.
Of course there’s a possibility that she may only be an obsession at this point. A forbidden play thing. Not like someone as put-together as Brooke would actually consider a homeless punk with nothing to offer as her boyfriend anyway. It’s not like I’m in any position to make a commitment to anyone.
Stone elbows me as we’re crossing the street to the courthouse. In his Sunday best of a white t-shirt and jeans without holes, chin-length hair slicked back, pale blue eyes lit with vengeance for our brother, people on the street probably think he just escaped from prison. It would explain why many of them scurry when they see him passing them.
“What the fuck’s with you?” he asks. “Been too long since you got your dick wet?"
“Trask didn’t fuckin’ do it,” I snarl, cutting Ryker a weary glance. “We all know he’s not that stupid. No way he’d shoot one of your uncle’s henchmen. Even if he did it in self-defense, he’s too smart to simply toss the gun in a nearby ditch.”
Ryker grunts in agreement. “Fingerprints don’t prove jack-shit.”
I quietly climb the courthouse steps at his side, somehow resisting the urge to remind him when someone as rich and powerful as his uncle is involved, arranging for prints to be planted would be a piece of cake. Until I possess solid evidence to prove that King Marty is somehow behind this, it’s not worth risking our friendship. Besides, I still don’t have any theories on why the old man would be doing this to Trask in the first place. I simply know all this is somehow related to whatever Terrance was doing at the school.
With the discovery of Brooke waiting outside the courtroom, black-rimmed glasses and tight ponytail, I almost forget why we’re here. My mouth tilts with a grin as I imagine what it will be like when I finally get to kiss the shit out of those pouty lips. She grins back at me for only a fleeting second, tearing her gaze away the second it turns into something more than friendly.
There was a flash of desire in those honied hazel eyes, pure and simple.
Don’t think I didn’t catch that, babydoll.
She greets my friends with a lone eyebrow lifted high above her glasses. It’s cute as shit. “You guys must be Ryker and Stone. I’m Rook’s social worker. You can call me Brooke.”
I’m thrown off my game hearing her casually addressing my friends, and calling me by my South Side nickname. How the fuck did she know that’s what the guys call me? I don’t remember it coming up in conversation. And I don’t like how it sounds on her lips given “Rook and Brooke” sounds like some kind of a lame ass joke, or a kid’s rhyme. The things I want to do to her body are no laughing matter.
“How ‘bout I call you sweetheart instead?” Stone bites out in the kind of dark, intimidating tone that usually scares women shitless.
My girl pushes her glasses up her nose, smiling brightly. “I’d prefer Brooke.”
Stone’s head jerks back with her response. I bite back a chuckle, damned if her confidence doesn’t make me hard as concrete. How the hell am I supposed to sit through a hearing at her side without hauling her off to the nearest janitor’s closet?
She spins around to the massive courthouse doors, pulling one open, and my eyes land on her perky ass. As if taunting me after what I said to her in the apartment, she’s wearing another skirt. This one is tight on her thighs and goes all the way down to her shins. The strappy heels she’s wearing makes my cock swell more until it’s downright painful. One hand clenched into a fist at my side, I quietly growl as I hold the door for her to pass through.
“That is one tight ass,” Stone comments behind me.
I jerk around, wanting to throttle him for looking at her in that way. Vibrating with anger, I shake my head. “Don’t fuckin’ think about it.”
He erases the distance between us, brows pulled together. “Or what? You gonna put me in the hospital next to your old man?”
Dickhead only wants to get a rise out of me, so I walk away. His deep chuckle follows me all the way into the courtroom. I catch up to Brooke, filing into a bench at her side. “Nice skirt,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “You’re really testing my limits.”
Her lips part slightly, and her eyes widen with a deer-caught-in-the-headlights look. She doesn’t have a chance to respond before the doors beside the judge’s bench swing open to Trask being escorted by two large guards. The bright orange jumper looks ridiculously stupid on him, clashing with his rusted carrot hair. Eyes puffed, greenish hue of a bruise forming beneath one, it doesn’t appear he’s been sleeping much, and has already started a fight. Dumbass probably tried to prove himself to someone twice his size.
As Stone and Ryker settle in at the end of the bench, Trask takes a seat by his attorney. At first he catches my gaze, and I see a flash of gratitude in his almost-there smile. Then his eyes dart to something in the back of the courtroom, and his face pales to a sickly white. Whatever he saw, there’s no missing the fear settling in his clenched jaw, or the way his throat bobs with a hard swallow. Can’t say the last time I’ve seen him afraid of anything, unless it involved Sasha’s well-being.
An older judge with a shiny bald head settles behind the bench as a clerk rattles off the title of the case. Brooke’s attorney friend says something that makes Trask turn to the front of the courtroom. Uneasiness sloshes through my gut. Something’s off.
“How’s he holding up?” The slightest hint of a German accent curls around the words from the bench behind us, blending with the heavy odor of a cigar. Chills spill down my neck.
King Marty.
His presence never fails to suck the energy from a room like a black hole, striking fear in everyone daring to breathe the same air.
Ryker twists in his seat. “Uncle Marty? What are you doing here?”
“One of my boys is in trouble,” he answers with a condescending air. “I came to offer my support.”
Support? I want to scream at the fucker. No way I’m falling for his charm, or trusting that his intentions are anything other than sinister. It makes my insides crawl to hear he still considers us to be “his boys,” although I don’t fall under that category as much as the others.
The fact that Trask is suddenly afraid of a man he once considered to be an honorary uncle only confirms my suspicion. King Marty is as dirty as the neighborhood he rules over.
The exact same moment rage spikes through my veins, Brooke’s warm little fingers dig into my bicep as a silent warning not to react. I cross my other arm over my chest, looping the tips of our fingers together in a way that no one else could possibly see unless they purposely looked real fuckin’ hard.
Warmth flows through me with her touch, delivering the kind of comfort I haven’t experienced since I was a tiny snot-nosed brat with parents who gave a shit. In this moment I need her more than ever, and she somehow senses it.
As the judge spews an ass-load of legal jargon, Trask leans in to whisper something to his attorney. Can’t help but notice his fingers grip his chair so hard that his fingers are white. Whatever Trask has to say makes Brooke’s attorney-friend furious. So furious that he yells a little too loudly at Trask, “What? Are you kidding me? No!”
The judge stops his train of thought, scowling at the attorney. “Counsel, approach the bench.”
Both Trask’s attorney and the county’s attorney rise, shuffling over to the judge. Trask sits with his face in his hands, back hunched like he’s about to receive a life sentence.
“What’s goin’ on?” I whisper to Brooke.
“I don’t know,” she whispers back, squeezing my fingers.
As the three men continue a hushed conversation in the front of the courtroom, King Marty leans between me and Stone, the metallic odor of his breath as vile as blood. “I was pleased to hear you finally stood up to your old man, Rook. He always was a spineless bastard. Be sure to let me know if there’s anything I can do to ensure you aren’t returned to his care.”
I release Brooke’s hand and spin around on the bench, lifting an eyebrow. “Yo
u mean like pull the plug?”
The old man’s long, wrinkled face draws tight with a guttural laugh. If he wasn’t wearing a thousand-dollar suit with an even more valuable watch, and didn’t have the utmost respect of everyone in the city, he could be one of those old white-haired greeters at some shitty discount store. The urge to knock his perfectly symmetrical dentures into his throat spreads across my chest.
“Wasn’t fuckin’ joking,” I mutter through clenched teeth as I’m turning back around.
Trask’s attorney and the other guy with the complexion and hairline of a vampire return to their tables as the judge pulls his thin microphone closer. “This hearing is delayed until further notice. Court administration will send a new notice to all parties involved. We’re adjourned.” When the judge strikes the gavel on the bench-top, the crowd immediately begins to dissipate as they set up for the next case.
I shoot to my feet. “What’s going on?” I demand of no one in particular.
They escort Trask back out of the courtroom. A boulder crashes in my gut when he doesn’t bother glancing back my way. The sense that he’s terrified by whatever King Marty has over him lodges in my chest as he disappears behind the secure door.
When I turn, King Marty’s shaking the hand of some guy in a suit beside him, carrying on a conversation with a bright-ass smile like he just won the fucking election for president.
Before I lose my shit on the man I suspect to be behind all of this, I dart from the room.
I WAKE on my eighteenth birthday with the sound of some asshole pounding on the bedroom door. “The fuck,” I mutter into the feather pillow.
I push myself upright, head exploding with pain. Stone came over the night before. We got stupid on corn whiskey that tasted like shit while listening to music and musing over Trask’s doomed future. I didn’t get Stone involved in my King Marty theory, but I sensed he’s catching on when he started asking some of the same questions I’ve had.
