Skirt Steak (Grade-A Beefcakes 5)

I had to wonder if he’d given them the idea of me writing fake prescriptions.

“For how long? You think they’re the kinds of guys who will ever let me stop?”

“Look, sis. I like my fingers attached. What’s a few prescriptions?”

“It’s my nursing license, Tommy,” I snapped. “Not only can I be arrested, but I can lose my career. My livelihood.” I paced back and forth across the concrete landing. “Dr. Metzger hasn’t even said if I should come in tomorrow. I’m probably fired and that means I can’t pay the bills. The mortgage. I could lose the house, Tommy.”

“You’re fucking two guys who can make it all go away. Smart thinking.”

I was stunned and insulted and hurt and pissed.

“You know what? You got yourself into this. Why don’t you get the money? Get a job and earn it. Or leave town. Run. Get away from all the stuff you’re involved in.”

“Look, Jilly, I’ve got to go. Talk soon.”

The line went dead.

I shoved my cell into my scrub top pocket next to my notepad and pen. I made a funny scream sound that echoed off the concrete walls as I tugged at my hair.

How dare Tommy say that? How dare he call what I had with Liam and Porter something so… so tawdry? God, he wanted me to risk my career, my relationship, everything just so he didn’t have to face the consequences of his mistakes?

But they were going to kill him.

And me.

What could I do? Not do what they wanted and just go right on living, watching my back so I wouldn’t be grabbed and chopped up into pieces? Tell the guys to fuck off and then they’d kill Tommy? Maybe me, too?

I sat down on a cold step, put my elbows on my knees. I could tell Liam and Porter what was going on, but the men said they’d kill Tommy, and I believed them. No matter how much I hated him right now, I didn’t want him dead. I couldn’t live with that.

I was screwed. Write fake prescriptions or my brother dies. I die. But a relationship with Liam and Porter was out of the question. I couldn’t drag them into this. Their careers could be ruined. Their actions would be scrutinized. People would believe they’d been helping me, or at least bending the rules for the woman they loved. Liam would be removed from office. Porter could be disbarred. It wasn’t fair to them that they be with me.

Tears filled my eyes and I blinked them back. God, for the first time in my life, I relied on someone else, two someones, put hope in a relationship. In love. And, just like with Mom, it was ruined. Of course, she’d had no choice with cancer.

I had a choice now. I had to leave town. Run away. I couldn’t do what the men wanted. I couldn’t write fake prescriptions, couldn’t imagine where the drugs would end up, who would be hooked or hurt by my actions. I couldn’t stay in Raines and see Liam and Porter, watch them move on with another woman. If I left, they couldn’t hurt me. And if I told Tommy to run, too, then maybe he would listen. Maybe he’d have a chance.

I pulled out my cell, sent a text to him.

* * *

Me: They’ll come after you. Run.

* * *

I stood, took a deep breath, let it out. Tried to push down the heartache, the pain I felt at having everything, then losing it all. After my shift, I’d go to the ATM, get the two hundred I had in savings, go home, pack my car with whatever would fit and leave.

15

PORTER

* * *

By the time I got to the station and sat down across from Tommy Murphy in the interrogation room—it also served as a meeting room since the place was so small—Liam had been grilling him for over an hour.

The resemblance between brother and sister was obvious. Jill and Tommy h

ad the same dark hair, eyes and face shape. But that was where it ended. Tommy was tall, lean-muscled and wiry, where his sister was petite and had soft curves. Jill smiled with her eyes and had deep concern and affection for everyone. She was a giver, a nurturer. And she’d wasted her time and energy on this fucker.

Tommy sneered, his eyes cold. His arms were across his chest as he slouched in his chair, an overly confident posture for one who’d been arrested for breaking and entering with the intent to commit a felony. His hair was long and unruly, greasy, as if he hadn’t showered in a few days. He had on a University of Montana hoodie sweatshirt two sizes too big, a pair of jeans with a rip in the knee and sneakers. When I rested my forearms on the table and stared him down, he didn’t even flinch.