Lift You Up (Rivers Brothers 1)

In a small way, I appreciated that.

He might have been a chickenshit, but he didn't play games.

"Kingston Rivers," I declared, jerking him around, pressing my hand around his throat as he faced me, putting enough pressure there to be genuinely uncomfortable without risking unconsciousness.

"Private security," he told me, tone calm, collected, even as his broken, bleeding nose dripped into his mouth.

"Her man," I clarified, even if it was maybe too premature to claim that when we hadn't even discussed it at length yet. She was mine, case closed. Just as much as I was hers. That was all he needed to know.

"Oh, shit," he said, shaking his head in a self-deprecating way, like this was just his luck, like his life was full of these unfortunate little twists and turns.

"Yeah, Oh, shit. You stupid bastard," I shot at him, finding myself losing a little edge to my words, somehow unable to keep it when he was so calm himself, even with the taste of his own blood filling his mouth, staining his shirt.

"I'm doing everything I can to protect her."

"By leaving town? You let some bastards chase her through the streets of Navesink Bank at night in the pouring rain, all alone, no one to help her."

Okay, maybe some of the rage was still there. If the clenching of my jaw, the pain in my grinding teeth was anything to go by, that is.

"They didn't get her. They came back without her."

"They didn't get her that night. Because she was lucky enough to get to me. No thanks to you. But they got her today. You fuck. They have her. And fuck-knows what they are doing to her. And you are going to stand here and try to tell me that you are helping her by spending your days at the tables, worry-free?"

"Worry-free," he snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, that's what I am. Worry fucking free, buddy. Not hundreds of thousands in debt that I might have to pay with my own skin. But, yeah, aside from that, just peachy fucking keen, buddy."

"Who are you in debt to?" I demanded, pushing him back to the wall again, seeing a little sliver of pain slide across his eyes before he closed them, taking a breath before opening them again. "Answer me. Who is it? Who has her?"

"Who I owe money to and who has her are two different issues."

"They're connected."

"In a way, yeah."

Okay, maybe he wasn't opposed to games. But why play now? Did he think someone would happen by and save him before he had to spill it, give me names, give me what I needed to go and get my girl back?

I didn't care if the entire Bethlehem police department showed up. No one was stopping me from getting the answers I wanted.

"Fucking names, Harry. Or I will be the one making you pay with your skin."

"The guys who have her are contract workers. Newer ones. I have only seen them the past six weeks. Before them, it was another crew. He likes to keep things fresh. Keep the guys clamoring to come back to get the next job. So they stay on their toes."

"Who is he?"

"Eamon," he told me, shrugging like that name meant something.

But even as I scrolled through my long list of names, that one didn't even come close to ringing a bell.

"Eamon Awan," he added, clearly sensing my lack of recognition.

"You're going to need to elaborate."

"Look," Harry said, looking off to the side, something that made my hand press harder into his windpipe, making him choke a bit. "I am guessing I am not going to be walking away without you. So let's say we have this conversation in your car where I can do something about this?" he suggested, waving at his nose with a nonchalance that spoke of more than a few breakings in his past.

"Fine," I hissed, releasing his neck only to grab the back of his shirt again, not taking any chances of him running off.

"Really?" he asked when, five minutes later, he found his wrist situated in a cuff, the other bracelet secured to the door handle.

"Yeah, really. I imagine this isn't as bad as whatever Savea is going through," I added, slamming the door harder than I needed to. I wasn't sure, but I thought I might have spotted a flash of regret in his eyes before I turned, going around the car to climb in the driver's side.

Beside me, Harry reached into the glovebox, producing a handful of take-away napkins, swiping at some of the blood, then tipping his head back, pinching the bridge to stop the free flow.

"Who is Eamon Awan?"

To that, Harry let out a snort that must have hurt even though he didn't let on. I imagined with his gambling history, this was not his first dance with loansharks or collectors. He had to have gotten somewhat used to pain in many of its incarnations.