The Truest Thing (Hart's Boardwalk 4)

“Yeah.”

“Two birds. One stone,” I whispered.

“Exactly. He deserved better.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks as I realized how much Jack had sacrificed for his sister. The depth of his father’s evil was shocking. All this time I’d thought Devlin was a ruthless son of a bitch. But he was more. He was worse.

“Oh, Jack.” I bent over and pressed a kiss to his cheek, flinching at the overwhelming scent of whisky wafting from him.

Our eyes met as I pulled back.

The sick feeling in my gut grew and grew as I considered how he’d feel if he remembered this in the morning.

“I’m a vault, Jack. I won’t tell anyone.” I wouldn’t. I would never jeopardize him or his sister like that.

A murder.

I could barely wrap my head around it.

“Of course you won’t,” he whispered, his eyelashes fluttering closed. “You’re just a dream.”

I groaned as Jack’s soft snores drifted into the room.

He would be so pissed in the morning when he realized wh

at he’d done.

Or should I say … what I’d manipulated him into doing.

13

Jack

One year ago

* * *

He was a coward.

Jack had never felt that more than when he woke up in a house he didn’t recognize, saw a photograph of Emery on the wall with an older woman, realized it was her house, and hightailed it out of there before she appeared.

Waking up fully clothed on Em’s couch was one thing. Seeing his car parked right up against her porch, wheels turned out, proving he’d driven here drunk, was another.

Wondering what he’d said to her didn’t bear thinking about.

Even though he shouldn’t have, he drove back to his place.

He promptly threw up in his bathroom, thanking God he hadn’t thrown up at Em’s. He hoped. Downing Tylenol and one of the smoothies he drank after a workout, Jack sat for a bit to keep it down. And he tried to think. Tried to remember.

Nada.

Getting ready for the day with the hangover from hell was difficult. His hands shook as he showered and trembled as he dressed, and his legs didn’t feel steady. Part of Jack wasn’t even sure if it was just the hangover.

What the hell had he said to Emery?

Jack remembered their encounter on the boardwalk. She’d cut him to the quick. He’d gone home, cracked open the whisky. Fucking downed a ton of his best bottle. Eighteen-year-old Macallan in a sherry oak cask.

That shit was expensive.