Subject: Re. Photo
Remember old James Lawson? Your dad’s version of me?
I used to watch him in town. His kid had respect and she drove a Merc. He drove a BMW, and I know he went to Crosskeys Country Club because I saw him there when I was waiting tables.
He knew everyone.
Everyone owed him something.
I wanted that. Fuck, I wanted that so badly I could taste it.
You’ve no idea what it’s like to be powerless, Rex. I’m so grateful for that. Most of what I’ve done is to keep you in the position you’re in!
I knew your dad always kept on Lawson’s good side. I knew, of all the people in the whole fucking country, the only person Bear listened to was Lawson.
I wanted to be him.
I wanted it so badly.
I wanted people to owe me. I wanted to be rich and have three imported cars. I wanted to have memberships at country clubs and for people to see me and think, “That’s Rachel Laker.” I wanted my name to mean something—to inspire fear or respect.
I never had that when I was growing up. Mom and the way she was and how she led her life meant that I was treated like white trash too.
So that’s one of the reasons why I wanted to be a lawyer.
But I also like making DAs look foolish—they make it so easy.
That’s part of why I set up my charities. I don’t want ANYONE to feel like I felt, and if I can stop that, then I will. They’re a pain and cause a lot of stress, but they’re worth it.
AND, it’s not that I don’t want you to live with me. It’s that it’s easier if you’re on the compound.
R
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re. Photo
Trust me, there’s nothing easier about my living on the goddamn compound.
And I get it. I do.
TBH, you’re more powerful than Lawson ever was. He didn’t bother passing his bar anywhere else. You did. You have more people in your little black book than a high-class madam.
Did I ever tell you that I’m proud of you?
I always have been and always will be.
I love you, Rachel. That won’t change if I spend the rest of my life living in the clubhouse. I want you to know that.
K
THIRTY-ONE
LODESTAR
It was the measure of a man, I thought, how he tortured someone.
Now, that definitely wasn’t a politically correct method of discerning if a guy was a worthy partner, but as I snagged a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos from the counter while Conor O’Donnelly got his hands dirty, I couldn’t deny—my heart twanged in my chest.
My heart never twanged. It wasn’t a fucking guitar. But Conor had this way about him that got to me. And with this show of strength, he was speaking my love language.
I knew I’d dug myself a few holes in my life. Where, if I didn’t do it my fucking self, I couldn’t trust another person’s handiwork.
That Conor was willing to wade into the fray to get answers made me appreciate him even more than I already did.
And that ‘appreciation’ was far more than was technically wise.
“Fuck—” An inhalation. “You.” Exhalation.
I stared at the living corpse on the board in the warehouse and had to admit—Conor had style.
This was like something from a horror movie with all the wires coming off the guy whom Conor was grilling.
Huh.
Literally.
I almost laughed.
Conor’s torture involved electricity—grilling was far more fitting than I’d originally thought.
Not that he was as amused as I was.
This wasn’t his style. He didn’t have the taste for it like I did, but that was the kind of guy he was—he did shit he didn’t want to for the people who mattered to him.
“There are five levels to this program,” Conor mused, breaking into my thoughts. “You’ve only experienced the first one.”
If the former Five Points’ driver—and traitor—didn’t hear the warning in that, then Michael Byrne was a moron.
Pain-filled shrieks boomed from the speakers, making me glad no one was in this part of the house as I tore open the bag of Cheetos.
“Wonder how long it will take for him to break?” I queried as I watched the guy’s spine bow under the strain of the current.
Conor peered over at me, guileless and all the more dangerous for it as he took in the sight of my snack with a quirk of his lips. “Settling in for the show?”
God, could he be any more perfect?
Acceptance.
Fucking acceptance.
It was a beautiful, beautiful thing.
Not that I made a fool out of myself by saying that; I just nodded. “You’d better be entertaining.”
He rolled his eyes. “This isn’t Netflix, Star.”
“Nope, it’s even better.” I waggled a Cheeto at him and watched as he got to work.
It was, in a word, brutal.
Surprisingly so.
I’d been trained to not give a fuck about the human body.
Morals and beliefs were weaned out of my nature over the process of my training—read indoctrination—into the CIA, but Conor didn’t have that same training. It was clear in every move he made.
The more I watched, the more I saw that he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t enjoy it.
He felt he had no alternative means of making Michael talk.
I knew, in this instance, it was love that made him do this.
Strange, no?
How love, the supposedly purest emotion of them all, could trigger this kind of violence?
Somehow, that made me like him even more. I knew it was technically a weakness, but I couldn’t fault him for it.
Not when I could think of nothing better than having this man love me enough that he'd do anything and everything to cherish me because of it.
“Dagda will make you bleed for this—”
The shriek was cut off, much as it slashed at my sentimental train of thought, and I arched a brow as the zapping of the electrical current made the guy finally pass out.
Those last words had me peering at the frazzled dude, who was literally steaming under Conor’s ministrations, and questioning, “Is he dead?”
“No.”
I took note of the sweat beaded on Conor’s forehead and asked, “Why didn’t you get one of your brothers to do this?”
He cast me a grim look. “Because my mother entrusted this task to me.”
The O’Donnellys were a weird fucking bunch. Intriguing, but goddamn weird. More secrets than a soap opera.
“Why?”
“Because she knows I can keep my mouth shut.”
“You told me,” I pointed out.
His gaze was measured this time as he glanced away from Michael and let it tangle with mine.
No words passed from his lips.
No words needed to.
I swallowed as I stared at him, the Cheetos bag drifting to the table in front of me as we stared at one another.
At that moment, I knew I’d never been as splayed apart as I was with that glance. I’d been tortured, I’d been abused, I’d been treated like an animal—but nothing cut me to the quick like that look.