Dream Maker (Dream Team 1)

He angled out of his seat quickly, and after he’d rounded the bed, he saw Evan was already out.

He reached his hand to her, and she took it without hesitation, holding on to his fingers like she was dangling over the side of a building and he was the only thing keeping her from falling, her fingers squeezing his so hard, they bunched together with a sting of pain.

Mag’s teeth clenched and he had to force them to release to say, “You’re safe, Evie. Yeah?”

She looked up at him and nodded, but he knew she did not get behind her affirmative.

He tugged her to the elevators, and they were in them, Evan still holding on tight, when his phone rang.

He dug it out of his cargo pants, saw the screen said, MO CALLING, and he knew that Auggie had been communicating.

He took the call by saying, “Hey, brother. She’s with me, I got her and Auggie’s on the way to her pad.”

Mo’s two words were so weighted with anger, they felt like boulders landing.

“She okay?”

“No.”

Mo didn’t reply.

That was good because Mag wasn’t in the mood for conversation except to say what he was going to say next.

“I need you to talk to Hawk, Mo,” Mag said. “You with me? Brock or Mitch, Hank or Eddie, I don’t care who can do it. I want it arranged. You know what I mean. I want to talk to him. Yesterday.”

“I’m with you,” Mo replied.

Mo then disconnected.

And Mag had a feeling he’d be having a sit-down with her brother ASAP.

The elevator doors opened, and Mag got Evie out of it, down the hall and into his condo. He then took her directly to the fridge.

Still holding her hand, he opened the bottom-drawer freezer, pulled out the bottle of Fireball he had in there, closed the freezer with his shin and moved her to the cupboard.

He had to release her to do what he was going to do next, but considering she still had a grip of steel on his hand, he knew she needed that connection. He got close, lifted her hand to his chest, pried her fingers from his and then pressed her hand, palm flat against his heart.

“Stick with me,” he murmured.

She was staring up at him and nodding.

She kept her hand where it was as he reached to the cupboard for a shot glass, nabbed it, opened the Fireball and poured her a shot.

He covered her fingers over his heart with one hand as he held the glass to her with the other.

“Shoot this,” he instructed.

“I…I can’t. Smithie doesn’t like us to drink on the job. And I…Danny, I gotta get to the club.”

She wasn’t thinking clearly.

“Evie, you’re not dancing tonight.”

Her eyes got large.

He ignored that and repeated, “Drink this. Fast. It’ll warm you up, smooth you out.”

She shook her head. “I have to get to Smithie’s.”

“Baby, right now, you need to look after you and Smithie’d be the first person to say that. Now take the shot and let’s—”

“I can’t lose out on my tips.”

“Evie—”

“I need my tips.”

“Honey—”

“I think I need a new TV and…and…” She took a deep breath, and he thought she was doing it to get her shit together, but then she screamed, “Everything!”

He set the glass down and rounded her with his free arm, wrapping his fingers around her hand at his chest and keeping hold.

It was a good call.

She lost it.

Tears and struggling.

“Calm down, honey,” he murmured, trying to contain her struggles without hurting her.

“It’s all gone!” she cried.

“I know it’s a lot to ask right now but you need to chill out, Evie. We’re gonna sort this.”

She suddenly stopped moving except to tip her head back, her pretty, warm brown eyes shining with tears, and she screeched, “Everything I worked for! Gone!”

Yeah.

It was gone.

Her cute, personality-plus boho pad.

Her clothes.

Her trunk jacked open on her car.

Even her medicine cabinet and linen closet had been raided.

All because of her fucking brother.

He let her go and lifted his hands out to the sides.

“Okay, then let it out,” he offered. “Hit me. Wail on me. Scream in my face. That shit was fucked up and you need to let it go, so let it out, Evie. Hit me with it. I can take it.”

She stared at him several long beats, but in the end, she didn’t pound on his chest or shout in his face.

She crumbled.

Mag caught her.

She sobbed against his chest, shoving her face in while she was doing it, her fingers latched onto his tee at his sides, twisting it so he could feel the fabric tighten against his skin.

Maybe Brock or Mitch, Hank or Eddie getting Mag in to see her brother wasn’t a good thing considering, in that moment, he’d gladly beat the absolute shit out of him.

“I don’t…I-I don’t have renter’s insurance,” she wailed against his chest.