Give Me Hell

by Kate McCarthy

  “I want to make a toast!” he shouts, loud enough for anyone in the nearby houses to hear.

  “Jake!” I shake my head, looking down on him as he holds me up with no apparent effort. “We have no champagne.”

  His expression sobers and his eyes deepen into pools of dark whiskey. “To the future Mrs. Romero. She burns hotter than the sun and fights harder than a warrior in battle, and I’m the lucky man that gets to wake beside her every morning until the day I die.”

  Oh god. “Jake,” I whisper and cup his cheeks in my hands, the ring feeling foreign and cumbersome on my finger, and yet so very, very real. “I …” Fuck. Why is this so hard? “You know I’m a grouch in the mornings.”

  Jake chuckles and touches his nose to mine. “I love a woman who can admit her faults.”

  MAC

  We return to the party. Jake once again opens my car door and I slide out. “How are we going to explain the giant rock on my finger?” I ask, re-settling the skirt of my dress so it doesn’t catch in my heels. The fabric remains unscathed. It’s unusual, but we were careful this time. For some unfathomable reason, Jake decided I was fragile glass and his touch was slow and whisper soft. It was something new for us, and I found it drove me mad in the most delicious of ways. The added plus was sneaking in to my parents’ house and making use of my old room.

  “Leave it to me,” Jake says smoothly and links his arm with mine.

  “I don’t think so.” We stride toward the back entrance. “You’ll bungle it.”

  He snorts. “Hardly.”

  I fiddle with the ring, looking down at it. “Perhaps I should take it off,” I say, expecting an immediate protest. “It might be easier to explain tomorrow.”

  “Now is the absolute best time to explain. Everyone is drunk.”

  Jake has a point, but there’s been no time to prepare. There’s a lot of back story involved. We need to work out what to share and what remains better left unsaid. Perhaps we should tell them next weekend. We can plan a barbecue and get everyone drunk all over again. “How about—”

  “You’re right,” Jake says in a rush. “Take the ring off. Now.” His voice is sharp and low as he pulls us both to a halt.

  I stumble. Jake doesn’t help right me. He basically shoves me away until I’m situated half behind him. “What the …” I trail off, looking up. Elijah Rossiter and another man are walking toward the parking lot. It puts them directly in our path. It seems Eli stayed longer at the party than he was expecting to. It’s highly possible my father cornered him with scotch whiskey and World News conversation.

  “Son of a bitch,” Jake mutters, standing tense in front of me as he stares at them. “Take it off,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

  “Have you lost your mind?” My brows snap together. I’m thoroughly confused. “Why? And put it where? Up my butthole?”

  “Give it to me. Discreetly. This is one of those times you need to trust me. Please.”

  I do as he asks, knowing he better explain this later. I feel oddly bereft as I slide it from my finger, like I’m a cop on suspension handing in my piece.

  Jake takes the bit of jewellery and slides it in his pocket imperceptibly. “Let’s go,” he commands and starts for the door, hands in his pockets and head down. He’s moving fast. I trot a little behind him to keep up.

  “Fuck,” Jake mutters. Eli has spotted us. “He saw us.”

  “So what if he did?” I say to his back as he keeps up his hurried pace. “What is with you, Jake Romero?”

  Eli appears indecisive until the man beside him says something that leaves him oddly pale. Then they start toward us, leaving no option but to stop or appear rude. Jake’s expression is hard, yet he gives nothing away. He just stands there, stiff as a board, blocking me from both of them.

  “A lovely party,” Eli says as I step around Jake and smile at my brother’s best friend. “I’m sorry I have to leave.”

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “Anytime,” he says in a soft tone. “You know that.”

  Jake stiffens further.

  “This is my little brother, Adam Rossiter,” he tells us, nodding to the man beside him, and I jolt with surprise. Eli has a brother? A not so little one. Adam has a tattooed neck, bulky shoulders, and a buzzed head. He looks like a thug. Not a sexy one like Jake. More like a scary one that would slit your throat in the night for a measly fifty dollars. His eyes aren’t just cold. They’re cold. Like ice. “But we just call him Ross.”

  Ross makes no move to shake either of our hands. He simply stares at the both of us in turn, not speaking. Oddly enough, Jake doesn’t say a word either. The tension feels thicker than my homemade pasta, which no one even pretends to eat.

  “Ross, this is Mackenzie Valentine and Jake Romero, the drummer in Jamieson. And if you haven’t heard of Jamieson, then you must be living under a rock. They’re probably the hottest band in the country right now.”

  Eli’s jovial tone falls flat under the unexpected tension. I repress an instinctive need to roll my shoulders and instead I give Eli’s little brother a polite smile. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Ross.”

  His response is silence.

  The tension heightens to impossible levels.

  “Well, we should get back inside.”

  “Of course,” Eli replies. “I’ll see you soon,” he says to me, referring to our lunch plans.

  The comment doesn’t go unnoticed. Jake’s eyes narrow. We turn from them and resume our path to the back entrance of the bar. Rather than taking my arm like he usually would, Jake pushes me ahead of him. I stumble. Again. “What is wrong with you?” I hiss as we walk away.

  JAKE

  Everything. Everything is wrong with me. My entire body pulses with dread. Adam Rossiter is Ross. How is it possible that this notorious gang leader is the son of the Deputy Commissioner and Eli’s brother? Do the Valentines know? Because judging from Eli’s body language, he wasn’t happy to see us stumble across them.

  Ross knows my true identity now. I’m not just ‘Jonah’ anymore, the alias I used years ago in Melbourne. He knows where to find me. And the worst? In one single moment of bad timing, he knows the person I love above all others.

  I turn my head, looking behind me as we reach the back door and Mac steps inside. Ross is watching us. He holds up two fingers and a thumb, mimicking a gun. He aims it at Mac, and with a slow grin, he pulls the trigger.

  My glare is hard and cold, but my insides are screaming with fear. Ross isn’t an honourable man. He fights dirty. And he hoards grudges like a squirrel hoards nuts. The only people who leave his gang are the dead kind and here I am, alive and breathing, and he hates it. I’m a marked man.

  I turn back. Waves of tension roll through me as I step inside behind Mac and shut the door. I need to find Mitch and I need to find him right now.

  Mac stops me in the coatroom with a hand to the chest. “What was that?”

  I open my mouth and snap it closed. Jesus Christ. I want to tell her. There have already been enough secrets kept between us, but I can’t. She’ll get herself caught right in the thick of it. And the thought of Ross getting his hands on her is unthinkable. It chills my blood. “It was nothing. I initially thought Adam Rossiter was someone I used to know. Someone who’s not a good person.”

  Her nostrils flare and her tone is an accusation. “The Rossiters are close friends of the family,” she hisses. I’d bet all my earnings on the fact that Adam Rossiter is the black sheep she’s never met. “They’re the good kind of people. And you were rude.”

  “You’re right. I was,” I concede. “I’m sorry.”

  Mac presses her lips together, annoyed. She was gearing up for an argument and my hasty apology has shut her down.

  “Go find Evie and Quinn, Princess. They’re probably looking for you to do the toasts by now.”

  She nods and moves away. “Wait,” I call. Mac stops and turns her head. Green eyes search mine. God, she’s so precious, not at all invincible
like she believes herself to be. She joked to me once when she was young about being Teflon. I believed it then and I believe it now, but Teflon only covers the surface. Beneath the protective layers, Mac is just as vulnerable as the rest of us. I know that better than anyone. “Don’t leave the party without me, okay?”

  Mac cocks her head but she doesn’t argue. We never leave together. But that was before Ross. Everything is different now. “Okay.”

  “Good.” I make my way through low murmuring guests toward Mitch and Henry. Mac’s brother has his hand on Henry’s shoulder, and he’s handing him a full glass of scotch. “What’s happened?” I ask, reaching the two.

  Mitch looks up. “Henry and Casey had an altercation.”

  “And I’m going to kick his ass,” snarls my normally easy-going best friend. I don’t think he’ll ever come to grips with the fact that Casey is seeing his little sister.

  “What did he do?”

  “Breathed,” Henry fumes.

  “That’s unfortunate,” I sympathise, “but we have a bigger situation to deal with right now than a little tiff.”

  Henry is too caught up in his anger to heed my warning but my comment catches Mitch’s attention. “What?” he asks, eyes wary.

  Before answering his question, I allow myself a brief moment to seek Mac in the crowd. My shoulders relax when I find her deep in talk with friends, though her expression is etched with concern. Something has her troubled. I make a note to ask her about it later before I focus back on Mitch. “We just encountered Ross in the parking lot. Adam Rossiter,” I stress. “He was there with Eli. His older brother,” I further clarify for Henry’s sake.

  “Who’s we?” Mitch asks, seemingly unsurprised at my announcement.

  It leads me to the conclusion that he’s long since known the familial connection. Frankly, how could he not considering he and Eli are close friends? But thanks for sharing that information, mate. My arms fold in a tense knot. “Mac and me.”

  “Who’s Ross?” Henry asks, joining the conversation.

  “The leader of the King Street Boys,” I remind him. Henry knows of my past. He always has. When I met him at university, I needed a friend. I took a risk by opening up to Henry. He’s kept my past private, but I never included Mac in that history. It was too painful, and then time passed and it got easier not to mention her at all.

  “Oh shit,” he mumbles.

  Mitch rubs his jaw, his response even less helpful. “I heard he was in town.”

  “You heard?” I growl and blink slowly, trying to get a hold on my rising temper. “You fucking heard?”

  “Relax.” He places a hand on my shoulder. The placating gesture makes me want to punch him in the face. “He can’t touch you.”

  A grunt of frustration leaves my throat. “You never told me he was Adam Rossiter, son of the Deputy Commissioner and Elijah’s goddamn brother.”

  “There was never any need,” he says in a low voice, his eyes skimming the party to check who’s in hearing distance. “Let’s take this conversation to the bar.”

  “Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “Let’s.”

  We weave through clusters of guests and reach the bar. Henry trails behind us. Vince, the barman, takes our drink order, and I waste no time picking up where we left off. “So? Care to tell me why I’ve been kept in the dark?”

  “It wasn’t that we kept you in the dark,” he says. I listen with one ear as I seek out Mac again. She’s standing with her father now. He has an indulgent smile on his face as he chats with her. Mac is clearly not feeling the conversation. Her lips are pinched in an irritated line. “The Rossiters are an important family in Sydney,” Mitch continues, “but Mrs. Rossiter, Leanne, is his second wife. The first lives in Melbourne. They divorced at least twenty years ago, from what I know. Apparently she returned there to be close to her family and took Adam, who was only six at the time, with her.”

  “What about Elijah?” I ask, my gaze returning to Mitch. My shoulders are tense as I focus on the story they should have told me years ago.

  “There’s a five year age gap between the brothers. He stayed behind to attend the Academy. They aren’t close. They never have been, for obvious reasons.” Vince sets our drinks on the bar. Mitch twists to collect them and hands a schooner of beer each to Henry and me before taking one for himself. He sips it and frowns. “You say they were in the parking lot together?”

  “Yes,” I confirm.

  “What were you and Mac doing out there in the first place?” Henry chimes in, standing there slightly smug with his beer in hand.

  Really, asshole, my eyes convey in a singular glare. This is the topic you wish to address right now?

  He shrugs as if hearing me.

  “None of your damn business.”

  They both smirk and it riles me further. We’re in the middle of a volatile situation here and it seems I’m the only one taking it seriously.

  “Now is probably a good time for you to share how you got me out of the gang, Mitch.” I never pushed the issue before when I should have. I was just grateful being free to live my life. And when you have a past like mine, putting it behind you is the smartest course of action. Unless said past returns to bite you in the ass.

  “It’s sensitive information, Romero.”

  My voice is tight. “Don’t make me strangle you right here in this bar.”

  His lips press together. “Maybe tomorrow—”

  “Now.”

  “Romero, I think—”

  “Now.”

  Mitch clears his lungs in a long, audible whoosh. He knows I’m not going to let this go. “Can we trust you with it?”

  My mouth curls in a sneer.

  Mitch and looks pointedly at Henry.

  “Henry stays,” I tell him.

  “Okay.” He nods slowly. “The Rossiters come from a long line of wealth and a long line of gambling. Their bloodline includes an extensive history of throwing their money away. Alan, the grandson of George Adam Rossiter III, was the only brother of four that went to college rather than indulge in the playboy life style like the rest. So in his will, George gave Alan control of the entire Rossiter estate. Worried about his own sons following the same legacy, Alan subsequently changed the inheritance for Elijah and Adam. Rather than receiving a huge sum when they turn twenty-one like their predecessors, he changed it to thirty-three. Elijah comes into his funds in just three months. Adam has another five years.”

  “And what does any of that have to do with getting me out?” I ask as Mitch finishes the rest of his beer.

  “Everything,” he says, setting his empty glass on the bar behind us. “Alan and my father went through the Academy together. They used to be partners in the Intelligence Division. But during an investigation into the missing daughter of the Mayor’s cousin, they went out to question a lead and got caught in gunfire. Dad pushed Alan behind their car just before bullets rained down in the street. He took the hit instead and saved Alan’s life. Alan always said he owed him ever since. He kept on at Dad to cash in his marker. It was a running joke between the two. Alan kept trying to find ways to give him money that he would never accept. Dad kept calling him a pain in his ass, saying he should’ve let him take the hit so he didn’t have to put up with his sorry ass.”

  “Everything okay here?”

  We all jolt at the booming voice. Caught up in the tale, the three of us didn’t notice Steve Valentine himself walk over to our huddle. He signals to the barman and calls for a whiskey.

  “Everything’s fine,” Mitch assures him.

  Except it’s a lie—one in a long line of many—and I’m tired of it. “Everything is not fine.”

  “Oh?” He looks at me, his brow arching and tension gathering in his big frame. It fills him until his entire body appears to increase in size. “Care to explain?”

  “Mitch was doing just that. He was telling us the history of the Rossiters and how you saved Alan’s life.”

  “Was he now?” Steve t
akes his drink from the barman, rumbling a thank you before turning hard eyes on his son. “And why would he do that?”

  Mitch lets out a huff. “Because Jake just encountered Adam Rossiter in the parking lot.”

  Of course Steve knows of my involvement in the King Street Boys. Knowing the connection between him and the Rossiters, Mitch would have sought his counsel on the matter of my extraction. Not that Steve ever mentioned it, or even alluded to his knowledge. I’ve no doubt it’s why he always looks at me as if I don’t measure up to his high standards.

  “That punk Ross is lurking around the party?” he asks.

  “Apparently,” Mitch replies. “So we thought it an appropriate time to explain some history.”

  “We?” I say, my voice loaded with sarcasm.

  Steve ignores the friction in the way only a father of four dominant children can. “Adam Rossiter won’t touch you,” he tells me, his tone rich with authority and assurance.

  Not if I have anything to do with it, but the image of Ross pointing a mock gun at Mac is in the forefront of my mind and it gives me chills. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

  Steve’s gaze narrows in question. “Who are you worried about?”

  “Mac.”

  “Why are you worried about him touching Mac?” His eyes seek his daughter across the room at the same time mine do. She’s by the door of the kitchen now, talking with the staff. “Ross lives in Melbourne. Has done for most of his life. He likely has no idea who she even is.”

  I clear my throat, a flush heating the line of my cheekbones. Henry fidgets on the other side of me. “Can we talk in private, sir?”

  The frown on his face deepens but he nods. We leave Mitch and Henry and move off to a quiet corner of the function room.

  “Say what you need to say, Romero,” he instructs and takes a sip of his whiskey.

  “I’m worried about Mac because he saw us together in the parking lot.”