Make Her Mine

“Maybe.” Ian runs a hand along his jawline and cocks his head to the side. “Either way, I feel like shit for getting you involved in this. I booked a hotel up in Jersey City. If you leave tonight, you can stay through Tuesday, until all this is done.”

I plant my feet and stick my face closer to the door, closer to his. “Or you can come in and tell me everything so I can help you.” He opens his mouth, probably to point out that I said I was done helping, so I add, “I know what I said. But I know you’re my brother too. And I’ll do anything I can to protect you.”

“You’re in danger, Skye,” he grinds out through his teeth.

“Yeah, well, so are you.”

But it’s my own damn fault.” His blue eyes narrow into thin slits, so I challenge his glare with one of my own. “Just leave, okay. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t tell me what to do, Ian,” I say softly. “You’re not my keeper, and you’re not going to treat me like some breakable porcelain doll just because shit’s getting real. I’m staying put, you’re going to tell me everything, and I’m going with you when you finish this thing.”

Nostrils flaring, Ian gives me a fierce shake of his head. “Fuck no, you’re not. Skye. Be mature here.”

“I am. And that’s my only offer, Ian. Take it or leave it. Call me when you’re ready to stop playing word games and talk about this.” Then I slam the door hard, so fast, he only barely manages to yank his hand away in time. As I turn the lock, I hear him through the hard wood.

“You’re not safe, Skye.”

“No one is,” I shout back. “That’s life.”

But after he’s gone, I do latch all three locks on my door and then circle my apartment, checking every window. I’m not running away from this, but I’m not planning on being an idiot, either.

Only a few more days, I tell myself as I pad to the kitchen to have that cup of coffee I’d decided against earlier. Just a few more days. Then this nightmare will be over.

21

Stone

The day after meeting with Ian seems to move in even slower motion than the first two. Seventy-two hours since I last touched her, I recite as I go through the motions, pouring coffee and getting into my truck to drive to Rich’s office. It’s in the back of the Revel, where renovations are almost complete.

Rich’s new “office” looks exactly as sketchy as you would imagine. From the outside, it’s not bad. It’s located at the top floor of the Revel’s new glass central staircase, offering a view of the entire gaming floor so Rich can make sure nobody’s trying to rip him off. But the moment I knock and the door swings inward, any hopes I had that the motherfucker might finally bring some class to this operation are flushed down the toilet.

The walls are plastered with pin-up posters. Not the vintage kind, either, with women with curves and ass for days. Posters that look like they were pulled straight from PornHub screenshots. Stick-thin women in every position, getting fucked ten ways from Sunday—in one case, by ten guys at once.

Then, of course, there’s the live action version. Rich is on his leather couch, a girl in a tight thong and nothing else perched beside him, absently rubbing her foot against his thankfully-still-clothed dick as he types something on his phone. He glances up at me when I enter, grunts, and looks back to the phone.

I lean against the door and wait.

I swear he takes extra time on purpose, knowing I’m standing here and wanting nothing more than to get the fuck away from him. The whole time, I have to stare at the ceiling to avoid watching his hooker give him a foot job through his pants. It’s not exactly something I want permanently scorched into my memory.

Finally, after at least five minutes of complete silence, aside from the small grunts Rich emits when the girl hits a particularly sensitive spot through his pants, he growls and tosses his phone aside.

“What now, Xander?”

That, more than anything else today, sends a chill along my spine. I can’t remember the last time Rich called me by my given name. I wasn’t aware he even knew I had one. Even when I was still fighting and making him money, he just called me Stone.

“The location is set,” I tell him.

He brushes the hooker’s bare feet away impatiently and shoves to a standing position. At six-two, I’ve got a couple inches on him, yet Rich is stocky in a way I’m not. More fat than muscle. Still, all it would take is one punch. One punch and I could knock this prick on his ass and he wouldn’t know what hit him for days.

I make myself mentally retreat. I’m not here to intimidate Rich. Jesus. My death wish isn’t quite that strong yet because as soon as I put hands on Rich, I’ll have the Man Bun guild on my ass. And they use guns. Not fists.

/> “You could have texted me about the location,” he drawls.

“Thought it would be better to talk in person.” I push off the door and cross the room to stand by his desk, maintaining eye contact. “What’s the plan for Monday? If I’m coordinating, I ought to know the full details.”

“You know the plan.” He waves a dismissive hand. “Get the money, get out before anyone sees us with Banner.”

As he says this, though, his eyes drop from mine to the desk between us, and his hand goes to his pocket. Fidgeting. It’s a wonder this asshole ever wins at poker. Half the time his tells are a mile wide.