Stitches

“Fine,” he texts back. “Come over for dinner.”

I’m sitting in my car, staring blankly out the windshield while I try to figure out just how fucked I am when I see Ashley come out, her long blond hair blowing in the violent wind as she heads for her car. Since she’s more concerned about her hair getting fucked up than watching her surroundings, she doesn’t look over here and see me.

Where’s she going?

I guess it’s none of my business and I don’t care, necessarily, but I am curious. So when she starts up her car and pulls out, I find myself following her.

She heads to a seedy part of town and hits her turn signal to pull into a parking area that could be to one of three places. I can’t pull in behind her—it’s too small, she’d see me—so I coast to a stop at the red light just past it. To my left a shitty-looking club with a roll-down door. In front of it is a telephone plastered with flyers—some offering to buy your shitty houses, others advertising bands probably playing at this club, a lost dog, a missing teen. Tragedy, mediocrity, and excitement all on one telephone poll.

I know I’m going to miss seeing where she goes, but all I can do now is go around the block, come back, and check out what’s in the buildings she parked near.

At least, that’s my assumption. But when I drive around and come back, Ashley is still in the parking lot outside the club, closer to the street now. Some Jersey Shore-looking motherfucker stands there with his hands on her ass and his tongue jammed halfway down her throat.

I feel like I recognize him, but I can’t exactly sit here and try to get a longer look. Given Seb and I are owners of one of Philly’s more popular clubs, obviously I know the competition. This little shithole here isn’t even that. No one is trying to decide whether they want to come to our club or this one.

I hang a right and pull into the first streetside spot available. I check both ways and jog back across the street toward the club.

There’s chain-link fence around the parking area so I can’t creep as close as I want, but there’s a trash can and part of the building here to camouflage me a bit.

Now I get a better look, and I know who it is. The Philly crime scene has been changing lately with a new player raking in most of the power, but there are still some little guys who think they’re hot shit. Maybe guys Donovan hasn’t got to yet, maybe guys so small he just doesn’t give a fuck.

This little fucker attached to Ashley’s mouth belongs to the “too little to matter” group. He owns this shit little club and runs petty crime in this area, but I mean, so fucking petty that even I’m not impressed, and I’m no kind of criminal. He’s a smalltime dealer, nothing to get excited about.

I don’t even like dealing with Donovan, but unfortunately when these bloodsuckers pop up and demand a tax, it’s just easier to pay it. To my surprise, Seb didn’t bat an eye at the situation. Maybe the way he saw it, we’d pay voluntarily, or Donovan would shake us down, and coming voluntarily built a better rapport. Can’t say it didn’t work. While Donovan has a club of his own—bigger and more profitable than ours, go figure—he does pop into ours on occasion and talk to Seb like they’re friends.

I fucking hate that.

Sometimes I worry about Seb, about his willingness to cross lines. He’s a decisive guy, so when he has a problem, he doesn’t waffle on it for too long. He looks at his situation, decides on a course, and does what benefits us.

I don’t like him crossing paths more than he has to with terrible men who could invite him to go dark. I especially don’t like it because right now Ashley thinks she can shake me down—and she won’t shake me down without shaking Seb down. Seb, he’s not going to let someone like Ashley get the better of him. She might have this insignificant little fuck and think she’s some sort of up-and-coming crime lord’s bitch, but boy, is she mistaken.

When it comes to this stuff, Ashley doesn’t know her ass from her elbow. This does give me a new perspective, though. She probably wants to take me to the cleaners so she and this little shit can rise up and become some kind of big deal.

God, I almost feel sorry for her. She doesn’t know shit, and this little asshole has surely talked a big game. He’s conned women out of their money before.

He finally pulls away from her face and she grins at him. I can see the excitement on her face and it makes me feel bad again. I shouldn’t. It’s not exactly a noble aspiration, trying to be this little shit’s moll, but Ashley’s about as basic as they come. It probably sounds reasonable and exciting to her. Probably makes her feel pretty important. She wasn’t cut out for society—she didn’t have the class—but since she’s seen Scarface or some shit like that, she probably thinks she knows the score. She’s been with a club-owner already, after all. Now she’s found one that’s younger and more exciting—an air of imagined danger, since he’s fooled her into thinking he’s hot shit.

What a dumbass.

I’d feel worse for her except she’s a major pain in my ass because she fell for this shit. I can’t even try to talk to her and set her straight, because then she would know I followed her, plus she’d never believe me. She’d think I’m just trying to save my own hide.

They turn to head inside, no doubt so she can relay in person all the details of what just went down between us. My stomach sinks when I imagine this asshole’s glee as she tells him I came with cash. Fuck, I shouldn’t have done that. I showed weakness. I showed a willingness to negotiate. I thought I was only dealing with Ashley, not this little shit, so I went softer. I guess part of me

still felt a little bad about the divorce.

I fucked up, and now I’m not sure how to fix it. I should have listened to Carrie. I should have listened to Seb. I should not have responded to her going after Moira.

Problem is, if I didn’t, Seb would have—and he wouldn’t be nice about it.

21

Moira

I feel terrible when Sebastian comes home this evening. He wanted to come home early, but he had to work late to deal with some of the stuff Griff didn’t get to.

By the time he gets here, my poor husband looks exhausted and annoyed. He yanks his coat off and hangs it up, then storms into the kitchen, pulling at his tie. He looks dreadfully sexy when he’s like this, but I want to relax him.

I just finished cutting tomatoes for dinner, so I make a quick stop to wash my hands. I made soup and I’m throwing together toasted sandwiches to go with it. Salads are all prepped and in the refrigerator, but I still have an abundance of nervous energy. I want everything to be all right, and I can’t be sure it is until both men are in this house with me.