Five Miles (Gypsy Brothers, #3)

by Lili Saint Germain

  “Sure you can,” he says reluctantly, letting go of my arm.

  He walks towards the door as if to leave.

  “Wait,” I say mid brush stroke. “What’d you come here in the first place for?”

  “You were screaming,” he throws over his shoulder. “Again. I was just checking to see if you’d been stabbed or something.” His hand reaches for the doorknob, at the precise moment that the door explodes open, Dornan standing on the threshold with his cellphone in hand.

  “Police raid,” he says, storming into the room.

  I drop my brush on the ground in shock.

  Jase moves into action immediately. “How long?” he barks, hovering in the doorway as people run past behind him.

  “An hour, tops,” Dornan says, fishing several packets of white powder from his nightstand and stalking into the bathroom.

  “Did they say why?” Jase asks, while I stand rooted to the spot, panic whirling through me.

  Dornan stands on the bed, unscrewing the brass light fitting from the ceiling and tipping something out in his hand.

  “Two of your brothers are dead in less than a month?” he guesses. “The fucking Colombians probably gave them a bogus tipoff.”

  “You don’t think it was those girls, do you?” Jase asks, panic evident on his face.

  “No, son,” Dornan says, stepping off the bed, his boots making a loud noise as they hit the polished concrete floor. “The police chief and I have an agreement, but he wouldn’t extend that to something like that.”

  “Did something happen to those girls?” I whisper, looking between Dornan and Jase.

  “What, you mean other than them almost being shot? Or them being drugged? Or them being underage?”

  “I have a warrant out for my arrest,” I blurt out. “I have to get out of here before the cops arrive.”

  I don’t really have a warrant out for my arrest because I don’t really exist. But my fingerprints do, and they match the fingerprints of a dead girl.

  “Of course you do,” Jase sneers, his eyes narrowing at me. “How convenient.”

  “What’s it for?” Dornan barks. “They won’t touch you for a misdemeanor—”

  “Armed robbery,” I say, throwing out the first serious crime that pops into my head.

  “Jesus!” Jase says. “Did you kill anyone?”

  “No,” I reply. “It’s still life in jail, though.”

  “Right,” Dornan says. “Get out of here. Fire exit down the back will take you out to the back alley. Get out before anyone sees you.”

  The fire exit. Ha. He obviously doesn’t realize I’ve been using it for weeks already.

  I grab my purse and look longingly at my suitcase. It’d look much too suspicious if I hauled that out behind me, but it’s got my spare hair dye and my colored contact lenses stashed in the bottom. Thankfully, there are no longer any drugs in there, but still—I’m more worried about Dornan or the police rummaging through it and getting suspicious.

  At least I’ll only be gone a few hours. I mean, it’s not like he’ll even have time to look through my suitcase, right? But I don’t have spare contact lenses and my stomach drops a little, reluctant to leave without a back-up pair.

  “Go,” Dornan barks, and I finally obey. I fly out of the room and jog down the hallway, passing several club members as I go. Most of them look concerned but not panicked, as if this is just a regular part of life, and part of the club culture.

  I run blindly to the fire escape and hit the bar across the middle of the door, bright sunlight hitting my eyes as I burst outside. I slow to a brisk walk, in case anyone is already watching the place.

  And just like that, I’m gone.

  For a few precious hours, I’m more than gone—I’m free.

  I hail a cab a few blocks away and direct the driver to West Hollywood. I’ve always wanted to stay at the Chateau Marmont, and I figure I might be dead soon, so there’s no time like the present to be crossing shit off my bucket list.

  It’s three in the afternoon and I haven’t slept in so long, I feel like I’m going insane. I’m still cramping and I need some really good oxy tablets or a fifth of vodka to ease the agony tearing at my insides. The traffic at this time of day is horrendous, and it takes forty minutes to get across town. I text Elliot and ask him to meet me there when he can get away.

  When I get to the hotel, I pay in cash, not game to use a credit card in case someone decides to come looking at an inopportune time. I slide the porter an extra hundred bucks to make sure nobody disturbs me except Elliot, who has a key of his own waiting behind the desk.

  The room is on the fourth floor and tastefully furnished in whites and mint greens, with gold touches here and there. It sounds gaudy, but the way they have matched everything is actually quite pretty. I’ve requested a suite with an adjoining living room, which is where I throw my handbag. It lands on the glass coffee table with a heavy thump and I drag my tired ass over to one of the twin double beds that sit against the wall, collapsing on top of the covers.

  I don’t fall asleep so much as pass-the-fuck out, and when I awaken, it’s to darkness. It takes me a few moments to realize where I am; I’d expected to wake up in Dornan’s bed, probably with a possessive arm slung over me like always. Instead, someone’s covered me in one of those thin blankets that are full of tiny holes, and the sun has abandoned my world for the moment.

  I sit up slowly and remember where I am; in a fancy hotel room with an empty stomach, and a solitary male figure leaning against the balcony railing. I step out of bed, my toes sinking into the plush carpet underfoot. It feels divine. Rubbing my bleary eyes, I approach the balcony, shivering in the evening breeze, which makes the sheer, gauzy curtains dance crazily in its wake. I put one foot onto the balcony, knocking lightly against the open sliding door to make sure I don’t startle him.

  He turns and smiles, a gentle smile that makes my heart contract.

  “Evening,” Elliot says softly. “Or should I say morning?”

  I scoop my messy brown hair off my face, looping it into a haphazard bun and securing it with the elastic band I’ve got on my wrist.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say. “I know it’s out of your way.”

  “Julz,” Elliot says. “It’s not out of the way. You’re not out of the way.”

  I smile sheepishly, wrapping my arms around me to protect myself from the dropping temperature.

  “You want a blanket or something?” he asks, pointing inside.

  I shake my head. “I like the cold. It feels like forever since I got to feel just a little bit cold.”

  “I ordered food,” he says. “Don’t have a freak out when the room service guy knocks on the door.”

  I nod, shivering as I peer over the high balcony edge. This one comes up to chest-height and makes me feel a lot safer than the flimsy little lip of a wall on the rooftop of the Gypsy Brothers clubhouse.

  “It took me a little while to get here,” Elliot says. “Looks like you were comatose, anyway.”

  “Busy day at the studio?” I guess.

  Elliot shakes his head. “We were closed today. It was Kayla and dad day. Ice cream at the pier and a swim at the beach.”

  I smile, a faint memory of my own father stabbing at my insides.

  He took me for ice cream, too. This funky retro-decorated place that overlooked the pier at Santa Monica. One time, he got a call while we were sitting inside the store, eating our banana splits.

  He told me to stay put and left me alone. I must have been six or seven, and all I remember is the lady behind the counter asking who she could call to come get me.

  There was no one, of course. If it wasn’t my dad, it was nobody.

  He came back eventually. The store had closed, and the woman had stayed behind to clean up, busying herself with wiping the countertops and counting the day’s takings while the sun dipped low in the sky, before disappearing altogether.

  When my dad got back, covered in blood and dirt, he
paid the woman to make sure she wouldn’t call the police.

  Things were never the same after that, because after that day, things like that happened all the time. Life changed, things got harder, and bleaker, and more violent.

  My dad stopped smiling, my mom started getting high more, and Uncle Dornan became so terrifying, I avoided him completely.

  “Julz?” Elliot’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Did something happen?”

  I shrug, looking at him in that adoring way reserved only for him.

  “I was just thinking about seeing you with her,” I say, smiling wistfully. “I’ve never seen anything so divine.”

  “I could use a nanny,” he jokes. “You any good at playing with Barbie dolls?”

  I laugh. “I’m good at cutting their hair off.”

  “You and me both,” he says. “Though I prefer to draw inappropriate tattoos all over them just before I drop her back at her mother’s house.”

  There’s a rap-rap-rap at the door, and Elliot leaves the balcony, returning a few moments later with a tray full of every comfort food I could possibly imagine. Fries, a club sandwich as big as my head, a milkshake, a tall glass of cola, mashed potatoes, fried chicken and a glass jar of candy.

  I look around the balcony, which is strangely devoid of any furniture. Maybe it’s the persistent hazy smog that coats this part of town. Nobody would want to be out here long enough to sit down, anyway.

  We spread the food out on the coffee table and sit side-by-side on a low gray couch in front of it, neither of us speaking until we’ve exhausted our culinary options. Seems like so much food, but I try my best to sample everything. After we’ve finished and are laying back, licking grease and salt from our fingers, Elliot is the first to speak.

  “So, you’ve decided to take my advice and cut your losses?” he asks hopefully.

  “Not exactly,” I reply. “There was a raid on the clubhouse. I managed to get out before the police arrived.”

  “Oh,” he says, looking disappointed but not surprised. “Did you get back to the hospital okay?”

  It feels like it’s been years since I ran into Jase at the front of the emergency room, and a rude reminder socks me in the gut.

  “Elliot.”

  “Julz,” he says, reaching for another French fry.

  I take a deep breath. “Jase saw me leaving the hospital the other night. He knows I went to see you.”

  My voice shakes a little bit as I deliver the final blow. “He knows your name.”

  Elliot throws the French fry on the ground, sending it skittering across the carpeted floor. He stands and presses his hands to his head. “Shiiiiiiiiit,” he utters.

  I chew on my lip nervously. “That’s all, though. He hasn’t told anyone.”

  He raises his eyebrows in disbelief. “Oh, and what, you trust this guy?”

  “El,” I protest.

  “Don’t El me. I have a daughter, goddamn it. Damn you and your stupid revenge plan.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “How many more people are gonna die before you realize this isn’t worth it? Huh?”

  “Nobody else is going to get hurt,” I say emphatically.

  “He knows my name, Juliette! That’s one step away from knowing that I was a cop!” He starts ticking things off on his fingers. “One step away from knowing I was there the night you died, one step from finding this whole mess out and killing us both.”

  “He wouldn’t do that,” I say weakly. “He wouldn’t.”

  “Listen to yourself!” Elliot roars, picking up the plate of fried chicken and throwing it so that it crashes against the far wall. I jump to my feet as the room vibrates under the sudden assault, rooted to the spot. A hollow, aching dread begins to form in my stomach and snake its way up to my throat, where it squeezes and holds.

  “He doesn’t even know who you are,” Elliot says bitterly. “What makes you think for a second that he’ll do the right thing by you?”

  “Because he’s a good man,” I reply. “Because he’s more like you and me than he’ll ever be like them.”

  He storms out of the room and stands on the balcony, the white T-shirt he’s wearing outlining every coiled muscle in his shoulders and arms, ready to explode at any moment.

  I follow him tentatively, but when he hears my bare feet hit the balcony floor he holds a hand out, addressing me without turning to look.

  “Go,” he says. “Just—go.”

  I feel my shoulders slump as I return to the confines of my hotel room. My eyes feel bleary and I figure I may as well give Elliot some space, and take a hot bath in the claw-foot tub the bathroom boasts. My stomach is cramping again thanks to Dornan and his version of a rough fuck, and I’m counting on the hot water to soothe the pain that’s stabbing at me so violently.

  Ten minutes later, I’m floating in a warm cocoon of water, steam rising in little puffs off my bare knees and my toes. The rest of me is submerged, weightless, and I think of how long it’s been since I felt so relaxed, physically anyway. Emotionally I’m a tightly wound mess, doubts and guilt eating away at my soul like acid on skin.

  I don’t leave the bath until the water has turned cold and my skin is wrinkled like a prune. Wrapping myself in a fluffy hotel bathrobe, I head out to the main room, hoping that Elliot is in a better mood. Not that I blame him for being shitty with me.

  The guy has a daughter.

  He has precious things to lose.

  He’s sitting on the sofa in front of the coffee table, fiddling busily with something in front of him. The food plates have all been removed and he has lined up zip-lock bags on one side of the table, each with a mobile phone sitting on top.

  He doesn’t look up as I sit next to him, just continues fiddling.

  “Been getting into petty theft?” I ask, looking at the assorted cell phones arranged in an orderly fashion.

  I peer closer at one of the bags, tugging the corner of it to bring it to the edge of the table.

  And that’s when I understand what this is.

  Nails. Ball bearings. Broken pieces of razor blades. All floating in some kind of fluid.

  “Are these—”

  “Bombs,” Elliot finishes, continuing to fiddle with the last bag.

  “Bombs,” I breathe. “Bombs?”

  “Yeah,” he replies, tearing his gaze away from his work to level it at me. “I can see what’s happening with what’s-his-face. You’re faltering, Julz. You’re starting to settle in with those motherfuckers in that clubhouse.”

  “I am not,” I scoff. Settling in?

  He cocks his head to the side, raising his eyebrows. “Oh, really? What’s your game plan? Who’s next?”

  “Jazz,” I say automatically.

  “Who?”

  “One of the brothers. He’s next on my list.”

  “And how are you taking him out?”

  I shrug. “I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”

  “Exactly,” Elliot says. “At the rate you’re going, it’ll take years to finish them all off. And by then, you’ll be so ingrained into that life again, you won’t be able to leave. Ever.”

  I shrug. “I could take over as President,” I joke. “Those people were my father’s friends as well, you know?”

  “Are you serious?” Elliot exclaims.

  “No,” I sigh. “I’m just tired, El. It’s hard doing all of this.”

  “Right,” he says curtly. “Well, Prince fucking Charming knows my name, right? So we can assume we’re on borrowed time here. Unless you miraculously find that tape or the money in the next few days, I’d say you should forget about it and cut your losses.”

  It all sounds perfectly logical, but my brain is fuzzy and takes time to catch up. “You want me to blow them all up?” I whisper.

  “Yeah,” Elliot replies. “Look.” He holds up a sealed bag, which isn’t any bigger than one of the cellphones sitting on the table.

  “Wait,” I say, my stomach sinking like it’s full of lead.
Lead bullets, maybe.

  “There are six bags.”

  “Yeah,” Elliot replies, his gaze challenging me to argue.

  “Why are there six?” I repeat.

  He narrows his gaze at me. “Seven sons, plus one father, equals eight. Minus two dead fuckers, equals six.”

  My blood turns cold.

  “You’re not serious, are you?”

  He frowns. “What do you think’s going to happen when you kill his entire family and he finds out it was you? Do you think he’ll forgive you? You think you’re going to run off and live happily ever after?”

  I wish.

  “Of course not,” I respond. “But I’m not killing him.”

  “The guy knows who I am, Juliette. He knows where I live and where I work. He’s probably looking into me right fucking now.”

  I stare at the floor, my head whirling. No. I never wanted this! I never wanted to hurt Jase. Everything is getting too muddled, too murky, and I’m drowning under the weight of it all.

  But if Jase hurts Elliot—I couldn’t live with that, either. An image of his daughter pops into my mind and I bite back frustrated tears.

  “I’ll deal with him, alright?” I say to him. “Not like this. But I swear to you, if he’s a threat to either of us, I’ll put a bullet in his head myself.”

  He rubs his hands over the back of his head, the way he does when he’s angry. And he is so pissed at me right now.

  It’s not fair, I want to scream at him. You can’t ask me to kill him.

  But I’ve hardly been fair on him over the many tortured years our lives have been entwined, and so I don’t argue my point.

  All I know is, the only way I’m killing Jason is if he’s got a gun pointed at my head, and I’m all out of options.

  And even then, I might just let him do it. I’d deserve it, after all, for the things I’ve done. For lying to him. For killing his brothers. For Dornan. My gut twists painfully at the thought of everything I’ve sacrificed in my quest to get back at him.

  My mind briefly wanders over to the possibility that Jase might forgive me for murdering his father and brothers. I mean, he’s said himself that Chad was better off dead, right?

  But on the flip side, family is blood, and nothing is more important than that. That was the number one motto instilled in me growing up, the number one thing Jase was brainwashed with from the moment he stepped foot in the club.