Lock You Down (Rivers Brothers 2)

I didn't care if we somehow ended up destitute, I would rather the bank take their house than let Michael have it. To have him walk through the living room where Sammy and I used to binge-watch movies, dive into the pool where we used to have swimming contests, sit on the warm sand where we used to build intricate sand castles.

"No. They love that house. But they're unloading the ones in the colder states mostly. And the smaller one in California. They want to get a villa in Italy in the next year. If they can find one that doesn't need too much work."

"What are the chances of that?" he asked, knowingly. "You will miss them when they're gone."

"They've always been travelers," I said, shrugging. "We've always managed to make time to see each other."

"So what about you, princess? What have you been up to in this little town of ours?"

"Well, I've taken over the helm at Devil Tears."

"Right, right. Great whiskey."

"I agree. And it's my mission to get it in more hands. Make it more accessible."

"Sounds like a great plan. If anyone can do it, I know it's you."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I said. "Geez," I hissed when someone stepped back suddenly, ramming into my shoulder, knocking me forward into Michael's chest, spilling a bit of my wine on both of us.

"A little crowded," Michael observed, hand moving out to steady me, making my stomach drop. "Come on, let's get a little space," he suggested.

And because I had to, because this was the plan, even if everything was screaming at me to run in the other direction, I let him put his hand on my lower back and lead me away from the safety of the crowd.

Michael stopped in front of a closed door, one that was clearly closed for a reason, one where guests didn't seem welcome. He released me so he could turn the knob, walking inside, waiting for me to follow.

And then closing the door behind me.

Warning sirens blared in my ears as I tried to keep my breathing slow and even, remind myself that I was safe, that people were listening, that it was going to be okay.

The room in question was clearly a study. A "gentleman's study," as my father would put it--full of dark built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, an oversize executive desk to match, thick, buttery-soft brown leather chairs, a matching couch against a wall. There was a globe on a stand that I had seen often enough to know it wasn't a globe at all, but where the owner of the house likely kept liquor and a couple of glasses situated. There was a box of cigars on the desk, the same ones I had brought Charlie Mallick the first time I'd gone to his house. That suddenly felt like a long time ago, though it had only been about six weeks or so. When I took a deep breath, I could smell the smoke clinging to the soft fabrics of the carpet, the drapes.

I'd been in rooms much like this many times in my life. I had been in rooms like this with men like this more often than I could even remember.

It never occurred to me before this moment how easily that could have turned into a bad situation. Cornered, alone, surrounded by thick wood and heavy tomes that acted as sound barriers.

You had to wonder why Michael would know he could bring a woman here, why he would know it was safe to, that he wouldn't be interrupted.

My mind whipped through conspiracy theories about some big group of wealthy men preying on unsuspecting women as Michael prattled on about classics on the shelves, ones he clearly hadn't read. I knew this because I had, and because people who actually read them formed opinions about them, didn't just spout Cliffsnotes facts about them.

I offered him the answers he wanted, stroked his ego as I drank my wine, as I tried to remind myself that if I stayed on his good side, if I played the part of the nice, unassuming, compliant girl, that this could all be over, that I wouldn't have to spend my nights chasing down a man to make sure he didn't hurt anyone else, that I could stop feeling like business was unfinished, that my sister went unavenged.

"What about you?" he asked, the first direct question he'd sent my way since we walked into the room.

"What about me?" I asked, the wine starting to make its way through my bloodstream, making me a little light, a little slow. I should have eaten before I came, so the alcohol wouldn't slow me down.

"What is your favorite book?" he asked, coming to sit down on the couch near me. The couch was large, big enough for four, but he felt too close. He felt closer still when he moved one of his legs to cock up on the cushions to face me. It was a seemingly innocent move, but I felt myself stiffening, felt my belly twisting, recoiling, everything in me suggesting I get away as soon as possible.