There’s another pause, this one longer. “And what kind of terrible sins have Robin Hood and her merry band of thieves committed that would require making amends to the entire world?”
“Not us,” I say, my voice quiet.
“Then who?”
I don’t know why I tell him.
Maybe because I’ve never said the words out loud before, or because I sense so much is riding on my answer, or because I’ve had a lot to drink. But the words are out before I can stop them. Along with them comes a strange sense of relief.
“Our fathers are all bad people. Very bad people. The kind who don’t care who they have to hurt to get what they want. The people we steal from are all like that, too. What we do is kind of…it’s our small way of giving back. Of trying to make up for being related to such gigantic assholes.”
When he doesn’t say anything for so long I start to get worried, I blurt, “I’m not lying.”
“I believe you,” he says, his voice surprisingly soft.
Then he doesn’t say anything else, and panic kicks in. I start to babble.
“Um. So. That’s it. That’s the reason. We’re actually pretty bad at what we do. One of us inevitably screws something up, and it’s a miracle we’re all not in jail already, and we do have day jobs, we’re not total criminals, just sort of part-time you could say. Well, I don’t mean to make it sound like we don’t take it seriously, because obviously we do, it’s dangerous stuff, but—”
“I want to see you.”
His tone has lost all its softness. It’s still low, but now it’s tense, too, filled with a dark need that makes my panic skyrocket.
All the breath leaves my lungs. Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I whisper, “Why?”
His voice thick, he says, “You know why.”
God help me, I do. And it’s not because he wants to kill me.
I didn’t even know my heart could do what it’s doing, that throbbing, thrashing thing that’s making my limbs weak and my entire body shake.
“I…I have a boyfriend.”
He makes a soft sound of dissatisfaction. “We were doing so well with the truth telling, little thief. I know you don’t have a boyfriend. I know you haven’t been serious with anyone in years. I know your credit score and how much money you have in your checking account and that your name is probably fake, because I conducted a background check on you and found several interesting holes in your life history.”
His voice drops. “I also know you like me, too, even though you’d never admit it.”
I can’t speak. I doubt there are any words that could properly convey the depth of my shock, anyway.
Finally, I pull my head out of my ass and say the only thing that comes to mind, though it’s not even in the top ten most relevant after those bombs he just dropped on me.
“How did you find me here?”
“I put a tracker on your jacket. Under the collar, left side.”
My hand flies up to fumble around under the collar of my jacket, until my fingers close over a tiny, round piece of metal, smooth and cool against my skin.
I pull it off and stare at it in disbelief. Smaller than a dime, it’s a little electronic gotcha winking at me under the phone booth’s lights.
“I’d apologize, but I’m not sorry, and I want us to start off on the right foot, like I said. So no lying. Either of us,” he adds sternly, as if he’s being entirely reasonable.
As if he hasn’t completely short-circuited my brain.
I say faintly, “What is happening?”
“Be in the alley behind the bar in sixty seconds, and I’ll explain it to you.”
The phone goes dead in my hand.
I stare at it, frozen, until someone knocks on the phone booth glass. I jump, looking up into Max’s face.
She gives me a questioning thumbs-up.
Moving slowly, I hang up the phone and open the door.
She says impatiently, “Well? How’d it go?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s not going to kill us.”
She examines my expression for a moment. “Then why do you look like you’re about to barf?”
“Because he’s waiting for me outside.”
She swings around to stare in shock at the exit I gestured to. “Here? Now? Why?”
“I…think we’re going on a date.”
She turns back to me, blinking so slowly it’s comical. “A date.”
“I think so. Either that, or he recently fired his therapist and needs to get some things off his chest.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“It means that for a soulless, ruthless, cold-blooded gangster, he’s surprisingly big on confessing his faults.”
Max stares at me in silence.
“And honesty. He seems to be big on honesty, too. He kept insisting we weren’t going to lie to each other.” My laugh is small and semi-hysterical. “So we don’t get off on the wrong foot.”
She says, “Oh shit.”
“Exactly.”
We gaze at each other for a while, both of us knowing that my choices are limited.
I can try to run, putting my friends’ lives in danger, in addition to my own if he finds me. Which I’m beginning to suspect he could easily do. He seems to have all kinds of tricks up his well-tailored sleeves.
And despite his promises to the contrary, there’s no guarantee he won’t kill us all if I don’t comply with his wishes.
Or.
I can walk out the back door.
“Where’s Fin?”
“She went to the restroom.”
I take a deep breath, blow it out, and say a quick, silent prayer. “Don’t go back to the apartment tonight. Go to your safe spots and stay there. And if you don’t hear from me by dawn, contact my father.”
Max blanches. “Your father? Why?”
I say grimly, “He’s the only one who’ll be able to protect you and Fin from Liam Black.”
Then I give her a quick, hard hug, and head out.
7
Jules
The heavy back door of the bar closes behind me with an ominous bang. I step out into the alley.
I’m greeted by the unnerving sight of five black SUVs lined up in a row, windows blacked out, engines running. Exhaust from the tail pipes steams white in the night air.
The driver’s door to the SUV in the middle opens. A big guy in a dark suit steps out, buttoning his jacket. He’s got jet black hair, ice blue eyes, and a hard, handsome face.
Like his boss, he’s disturbingly good-looking for a gangster.
Most of them have smashed noses or beady eyes or any number of scars and deformities from their time in the trenches. When my father and his associates get together, it looks like a gathering of trolls.
The driver opens the back door to the SUV and stands aside, waiting.
I hesitate, trying to muster my courage.
He says, “In you go, lass. Mr. Black doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Funny how a lilting Irish brogue can make everything sound lovely. Even a threat.
I walk forward, head held high, until I’m within a few feet of the car. Then I stop and skewer the driver with a look. “For future reference, I don’t like being rushed.”