Broderick (Sabine Valley 2)

At least, acceptable losses that include their family members.

But will it continue to be so?

I have no idea.

And that keeps me up at night.

Chapter 5

Monroe

I fall in love with the Goat the moment we walk through the door. It’s a tiny bar with sticky floors, one dirty window, and a bartender who looks approximately five hundred years old. I had expected something else, with it being only one block off Old Town. That little neighborhood within the Raider faction is polished to a shine, ruled with an iron fist by the three families who own the majority of businesses contained in that three-by-seven block area. They arguably hold as much power as the Paine brothers, though they don’t bother with ruling overtly.

That shit would never fly in the Amazon faction.

But this place? It’s something else entirely. I allow Shiloh to lead the way to the bar and slide onto a stool. She looks as deliciously understated as always, wearing what I’ve come to recognize as her custom clothing and hairstyle. It’s a little plain, but I can appreciate a woman who knows what she likes and sticks to it.

I scoot my stool closer to hers just to see her narrow those pretty, hazel eyes. “Since we only have an hour, we’re going to make this count.”

“Monroe.”

I like the disapproving way she says my name. I’ve come to crave it more than I likely should during our time together. When I decided to seduce her to irritate Broderick, I never expected to enjoy her company so much. She’s not the little church mouse I first assumed. The woman has a spine of steel, and I haven’t managed to bend it even once since she became my glorified babysitter.

Ah well, I have a little over eleven months left. More than enough time. I catch Shiloh staring at my breasts when she thinks I’m not paying attention; she wants me. She doesn’t want to want me any more than Broderick does, but the desire is there all the same.

I glare at the scratched bar for a moment. Broderick. That damned coward has been avoiding me since Lammas. I’ve allowed it for the time being, but I’m over it now. Three weeks is more than long enough for everyone to settle into this new rhythm of life.

Now I’m going to blow this fragile peace all to hell.

I smile at the elderly bartender. She’s a tiny Black woman who’s mostly bald, except for a tuff of gray hair hovering around her head like a stormy cloud. She glares at me. “Well? What do you want?”

“I like her already,” I whisper to Shiloh.

“I’m old, but I hear just fine.” She snaps gnarled fingers at me. “Order or get out.”

“Three shots of tequila. Each.”

“Monroe.”

The old woman cackles. “Guess you’re not so worthless, after all.” She grabs a bottle of tequila and pours six messy shots while Shiloh looks on in horror.

“You drink,” I remind her.

“A beer is not three shots of tequila.”

“Aw, love.” I bump my shoulder against hers. “This is just the appetizer. I said we’re going to make it count, and we will.”

She looks like she wants to argue but finally sighs. “Either Maddox or someone will be here to pick us up in exactly an hour. Don’t get any funny ideas.”

“I’m full of funny ideas.” I nudge three of the shot glasses in her direction and pick up my first one. “Here’s to the heat. Not the heat that brings down barns and shanties, but the heat that brings down bras and panties.” I down my shot to the sound of the bartender laughing.

Shiloh takes her shot without so much as a wince. I knew I liked this woman. She shakes her head. “That’s a terrible toast.”

“Do me one better.”

“I will.” She licks her lips and picks up the second shot. “May you work like you don’t need the money, love like you’ve never been hurt, dance like no one is watching, screw like it’s being filmed, and drink like a true Irishman.”

I snort and take my shot. The tequila burns all the way down. There was a time I could hold my own with any fraternity boy, but I stopped drinking foolishly years ago. Being the heir to the Amazon faction means putting aside anything resembling weakness, and too much alcohol is exactly that. A weakness. Not that it matters now. I might still be the heir, but I’m also a glorified prisoner.

I clear my throat, not liking the direction of my thoughts. “That was poetic, love. Are you Irish? They always get poetic when they drink.”

“No.” She shrugs. “It's a toast Iris gives when she’s feeling nostalgic.” Shiloh makes a face at the third shot. “My parents would hate toasts like this, even if we were Irish. Far too crass for them.”

It’s the tiniest nugget of information, the smallest of cracks I fully intend to worm through. I run the tip of my finger along my shot glass, biting back a smile when Shiloh follows the movement. “Uptight, were they?”