Permission: The Perversion Trilogy, Book Three

by Frazier, T. M.

  “No, you can’t blame yourself for things that happen to you.”

  She gives me a squeeze. “And neither can you.”

  She has a point.

  My mother nudges my side. “Go on then. Tell me all about your beau.”

  Having experienced a lifetime of little comfort, I find it odd now to be as at ease with her as I am in my own skin. I take a deep breath and tell her all about Grim. How we met as kids. How we had an instant connection. How we were apart for years but had never forgotten about one another. I don’t even realize I’m crying until she wraps her arm around me and pulls me in, tucking me into her body.

  “There there, now. No need for tears darling. You’ll see your beau again. I know it.”

  “How can you be so sure?” I sniffle.

  “Because true love cannot be separated by time or space.” She tips my chin up, and I find myself looking into an almost identical pair of eyes. “Do you truly love this boy?”

  I answer honestly. “With all that I am.”

  “Then, you’ll find a way back to one another,” she says, like it’s a fact.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because,” she smiles. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

  My heart warms.

  She lifts the blanket over my shoulders. “And because I’m your mother. You’ll learn soon enough that mothers know everything, and we are always right.”

  I relax against my mother, and after a few moments of comfortable silence, we both fall peacefully asleep.

  Eighteen

  Grim

  Levi Cohen, along with his wife Leigh, own the only deli in Lacking. It doesn’t have a name, or at least I don’t think it does. The sign above the barred door simply reads DELI. Belly, my brothers, and I used to take up residence at one of only two tables inside most Sunday afternoons. We’d stuff our faces with Levi’s famous pastrami sandwiches while Belly and Levi laughed or argued about football or something that happened during their weekly poker game.

  Although the deli is positioned between Immortal Kings and Bedlam Territory, Levi and Leigh aren’t affiliated with any particular organization. However, they’re friends, not just of Bedlam, but to my family. Which is why Sandy and I are here now, taking in the aftermath of this morning’s drive-by.

  “Holy shit,” I mutter, crouching low in the passenger sea, pulling my hood further over my face. “It’s worse than I thought.”

  Sandy grumbles his agreement as he slows the van to a crawl.

  The front windows are blown out, glass shards scattered all over the street and sidewalk, twinkling as they reflect the last rays of the fading afternoon sun. The thick metal DELI sign now hangs sideways, swaying back and forth like a dying man calling out one last time for help. Glass crunches underneath the weight of the tires just as the sign drops face-first onto the sidewalk below.

  Sandy parks the van in the alley behind the butcher shop and cuts the engine. We look around to make sure we aren’t spotted before heading inside the deli using the back entrance through the small prep area.

  There’s a long trail of smeared red leading behind the counter where Sandy and I find the Levi sitting up with his back against a cabinet, clutching a bottle of whiskey by the neck. His dead wife draped over his lap.

  “Fuck, Levi,” I start, unsure of what to say next.

  Levi’s grey and black hair is tousled, his white beard is stained red at the ends. His eyes are glassy and unfocused. He takes long pull from the bottle, but doesn’t look up at us.

  “You know,” he starts. “There used to be a such a thing called honor amongst thieves. Where innocents weren’t subjected to the violence between organizations. I served in the Israeli army for two years, as did my wife. We both saw death on a daily basis, and caused much death ourselves. But that was a fight against an enemy who fought back. It was soldier against soldier. Our bullets never strayed far from their intended targets.”

  “Fuck,” Sandy curses, pulling at his hair and puffing out his cheeks. “Shit is bad, Grim.”

  At the mention of my name Levi finally looks up. He looks over my shoulder, I turn to see what he’s looking at, but no one is there. “I guess you really are the reaper,” he says, unblinking. He looks over my shoulder once more.

  Still no one.

  “What is it?” I ask, crouching down beside him I pull my hood from my face. “What are you looking for?”

  “I’m looking for her,” he says, gently smoothing down his wife’s hair with a shaky hand.

  “She’s gone,” I remind him.

  “Yes, but you’re dead. If you’re here, then I must dead too. Which means that Leigh is probably looking for me. She’ll be cross if she thinks I’m hiding from her. Although, when I find her I have to tell her that I never expected the Grim Reaper to actually be Grim the reaper of Bedlam,” he chuckles. “She’ll get a kick out of it.”

  I place my hand on his shoulder. “Levi, you’re not dead and neither am I.”

  “I’m not?” he asks, his words weighted with the sound of disappointment.

  “No, I’m sorry, you’re not.” He closes his eyes tightly. “Grim, the innocent shouldn’t have to suffer. Not like this.”

  I agree.

  Either Marco doesn’t believe me and my brothers are dead, or my plan has backfired and he’s pecking at what he thinks are the dying bones Bedlam in an attempt to take over our business. It’s not just Bedlam he wants to destroy. The Kings have been under attack, as well as anyone who’s ever been associated with Bedlam, all while Marco remains in hiding while his soldiers slaughter innocents.

  “This can’t go on like this,” Levi sobs.

  “It won’t.” I assure him, standing up and glancing over the warn torn deli. The table where we used to sit is one of the only things untouched by a bullet.

  Levi’s head falls back against the cabinet. “You can’t take over a town if there isn’t a town left.” He looks to his wife again and sobs. “I have nothing left.”

  And I mean it. It won’t go on, even if it means showing my face to get to Marco.

  I look to Sandy who’s staring at Leigh’s lifeless body with a pained look on his face.

  “Sandy,” I say. His eyes snap to mine.

  He follows me over to the other side of the deli. “Make some calls. I want a brother of Bedlam posted inside every business in this town whose doors are still open where they’ll stay from open ‘til close, and offer people rides to and from work.”

  Sandy pulls his phone from his pocket “On it,” he says, tapping away at the screen as he moves to the center of the room.

  A cracking sound pierces the quiet. A picture on the wall behind Sandy cracks and falls to the ground, followed by a barrage of bullets.

  “Shit,” Sandy shouts.

  I leap over a table shove him violently, landing on top of him behind a refrigerated case. Bullets pepper the walls until the sound of tires screeching against the pavement outside signal the end.

  Sandy grabs his gun and runs to the front door. I race over to the counter on the other side. Before I see Levi, I spot the bottle of whiskey several feet from the counter, broken. What’s left of it spinning in a spilt pool of amber colored liquid.

  I crouch beside once more. “Levi,” I say. He doesn’t move.

  I pull on his shoulder gently, his head rolls to face me. His eyes are wide open is his mouth, the side of his neck is covered in blood.

  Levi is dead.

  “Fuck!” I roar, punching my hand through the cabinet door. This war needs to end and it won’t unless we do something more than point and shoot. We need to be cleverer. We need…”

  Trick’s beautiful face comes to mind.

  We need a con.

  Sandy is winded as he approaches, tucking his gun away. “The car was too far away by the time I got out there. I blew out the back windshield, but I don’t think I hit—” he stops abruptly when he sees Levi and my bleeding knuckles.

  I reach out and cl
ose Levi’s lifeless eyes. “Go,” I tell him softly. “Go find her.”

  * * *

  Fresh from the hell I’ve just witnessed, I burst into the chief’s office.

  He looks up, at startled, then relaxes once he realizes it’s me. “You’re going to give an old man a heart attack if you keep entering my office like you’ve got a bomb strapped under your jacket.”

  I stand next to the Chief’s desk. “After you found out that Emma Jean isn’t of tribal blood, what did you do with the application?”

  The Chief raises his eyebrows. He opens a drawer and digs through to the bottom. “We normally send out a letter of denial, but I figured I’d hang tight on this one, given the circumstances.”

  I shake my head. “No, send it, but not a denial. An approval.”

  “Why would I do…” The Chief pauses. “Oh, I see. And by chance, do you want me to ask him to come in to receive his first check?”

  “He’s probably learned by now that I’m dead.” I shrug. “If he believes it, then there’s no reason for him to think he’s not welcome on the reservation.”

  “He’ll wonder why we aren’t asking him to bring his wife along.” The Chief says, turning in his chair.

  “Write the letter personally, as Emma Jean’s father. Tell him that, as he must know by now, she’s disappeared after being taken into custody by Lemming, but in her absence, you want to bless your new son -in -law with all that he’s entitled to by tribal law.”

  He steeples his hands and purses his lips. “I don’t know. He knows I’ve had trouble with his old man. You think he’ll buy it?”

  “We can’t be sure until we try. Tell him you’ve had a change of heart since learning Emma Jean is your daughter. And the time to make peace is now. Tell him you want Los Muertos to run security. Tell him anything that might feed his fucking ego and get him on the reservation.”

  “What kind of ritual?” he asks, skeptically.

  I lean over the desk. “A deadly one.”

  Nineteen

  Imogen

  “Gabby, I hate to say this because I don’t want the compliment going to your head…” I say, staring at her reflection in the mirror from behind her.

  “What?” she asks, setting down the tube of mascara in her hand.

  I smile. “You get prettier every day.”

  She blushes and then shrugs and turns back to the mirror, observing her reflection. For the first time since I can remember, she appears happy to see the person staring back at her. “I feel prettier every day.”

  “I think that’s what it is.”

  She looks at me through the mirror. Her expression soft. “Thanks, EJ.” She wrinkles her nose. “Should I still call you EJ? I just realized that it really doesn’t make sense anymore since your name is Imogen and not Emma Jean.” Gabby applies gloss to her lips. Her eyes are heavily lined. Over the past several weeks, I’ve seen her grow stronger. Bolder. More confident. The evidence is in the makeup she’s grown to love and wears every day, even if we aren’t going out. I love watching her shine come back after so many years. It makes me so happy. And…nauseous?

  I grab my churning stomach. “Oh, shit.”

  “Again?” Gabby asks, swiveling on her stool.

  There’s no time to answer. I race for the bathroom and barely make it to the toilet, emptying the contents of my stomach in several loud heaves so violent I wouldn’t be surprised if I expelled a vital organ or two into the white porcelain.

  When I think it’s passed and there’s nothing left to puke up, I slowly stand on wobbly legs and flush. I wash my hands and splash some water on my face.

  “I don’t think Irish food agrees with me,” I groan to a sympathetic Gabby as I skulk back into our room.

  “You’ve been working yourself too hard. All those hours at school and then when you come home, you’re in the gym for hours with the trainer. You don’t rest enough.”

  “That might be true,” I grumble.

  Gabby stands and opens her arms, and I fall into them, jumping back with a shock of pain.

  “What now?” She asks.

  My hands cover my breasts over my shirt. “Just sore. Probably that time of the month soon.”

  Gabby eyes me suspiciously, then crosses the room to the dresser. She sits and picks up a hairbrush and begins to casually brush her hair. “So, when would you say the last time you had that time of the month was?”

  I fall onto the mattress. “I’ve never been regular. You know that.” I try to recall my last actual period. “But I had something after we got here. Yeah, I did. I think.”

  “Something like a period?”

  “Spotting more like.” As the words leave my mouth, dread pools in my stomach.

  I sit up. My face pales. I reach out and hold onto one of the bed posts to keep from toppling over.

  “Oh, shit.” Gabby runs to my side.

  “What if…” I whisper. I don’t have to finish the sentence. I don’t know how. There’s too many what-ifs. What if I really am? What if Grim isn’t the father? What if it’s one of those men Marco let play with me like a dog toy? Or Marco himself?

  “I think I’m going to be sick again.”

  Gabby races to the bathroom. She emerges quickly, setting a wastepaper basket on my lap. I hug it for dear life. Rocking back and forth on the edge of the bed.

  Gabby sits down beside me and gently rubs my back. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get a test and figure this out together.”

  “But what if—”

  “Shhhh. It’s too early for what ifs. One thing at a time.”

  “What on earth is the matter?” My mother asks from the doorway. She’s clutching a stack of folded towels, which she immediately drops to the floor. She rushes into the room and kneels before me.

  I swallow hard, but can’t find the words. I look to Gabby, giving her silent permission.

  Gabby gets the message. She clears her throat. “How soon would you say is too soon to come to you with a major life problem?”

  Ma looks from Gabby back to me. She places a reassuring hand on my knee. “You’re scaring the ever loving’ shite out of me, girls. Out with it.”

  The nausea passes for a moment. I take a deep breath and set the wastepaper basket on the floor. I don’t even realize my hands are cradling my stomach until my mother’s eyes follow.

  She places both her hands over my own and smiles up at me. “That ain’t no problem, my dear.” She squeezes my hands and shakes her head. “It’s a babe.”

  * * *

  It’s late at night but I can’t sleep. I wander the halls until I find the room I’m looking for, getting lost twice in the twisted halls of the castle. When I’m almost sure I’m in the right place I knock softly on what I hope is the door to Callum’s study.

  “Come in,” he answers.

  I push open the heavy oak door. The castle had been updated to look modern and bright, except this room. It was dark and covered with heavy furnishings. The walls were a dark oak matching the formattable desk. Which is where I expect to find him, but when his chair is empty I glance around.

  “Over here,” he says. He’s on the other side of the room, sitting in a high-backed chair with a drink in hand, staring off into the fireplace.

  He glances up at me and offers me a small smile. “Come, sit with me.”

  I take the chair opposite with him. Regardless of the roaring fireplace, a chill runs down my arms and legs. I rub up and down the arms of my thick hoodie.

  “Here,” Callum says, pulling a heavy wool blanket from the back of his own chair, leaning over he sets it across my lap. “Better?”

  I hold the blanket closed in the front and relax a little into the warmth. Between that and the fireplace, I’m almost comfortable. Almost. “Much better. Thank you. The weather here is a little different than Florida.”

  “It takes some getting used to,” Callum replies, taking a sip from his drink. He crosses his leg over his opposite knee and resumes staring at the firep
lace. A few moments of silence pass between us.

  “Listen,” I start. “Are you…” I struggle with finding the right word. “Disappointed in me?”

  Callum regards me for a beat. “Nae, I’m not disappointed in you. Am I still gonna give Grim a beating on for knocking up my little girl?” he nods as if he’s agreeing with himself. “Most certainly. But you,” his expression softens. “I’ll be happy as long as you are happy.”

  His words do more to warm me than the blanket.

  “Happy?” I ask with a burst of a laugh. I look to my hands. If only it were that easy. If only it were Grim’s baby growing inside of me.

  “What’s the matter?” Callum asks, his brows wrinkled with concern.

  I tug the blanket around me tighter.

  “I told Ma what happened to me while I was at Los Muertos. I don’t know if you know…” I trail of. It’s too hard. I’m not going to be able to tell him.

  “Aye, I know, but don’t be cross with your ma, she didn’t tell me. Grim did. A ways back.” He cocks his head to the side. “You know, I’m a daft man at times. I realize now what that look of worry is and I think my own excitement of having you here has caused me to overlook somethings I’d rather not think about.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “So, your look of worry is because you don’t know if the babe’s father is Grim?” he asks.

  I press my hand over my stomach inside the blanket as tears prick my eyes. “I don’t know if it’s him,” I admit. “And chances are, after what…chances are it’s not.”

  “I’m sorry,” he offers.

  “Don’t be sorry.”

  “Not for what you’ve been through, you don’t need me to be sorry for you. I know that much about you. I’m sorry for being a shite father.” He sighs.

  I’m about to argue with him when he holds up his hand to prevent me. “You and Gabby are both going to see a therapist the soonest I can schedule it. You need to talk to someone. A professional. Work through the past,” he says his eyes dropping to my concealed midsection, “Before you can make a sound decision on the future.”