Page 127 of Carnal Wagers

“If that’s why you’re here, Liam, you can just feck off. I’m busy.”

Next, I grabbed my knife, brass knuckles, another semiautomatic, and some magazines, since it always paid to be extra prepared. In case it was needed, I handed off another pistol and ammo to Liam.

“I already have my own.”

“Just take it.”

Finally, I slipped on my socks and shoes, then buttoned my pants. After jabbing my arms through the sleeves of a leather bomber jacket, I shut my front door behind the four of us and stormed for the elevator.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about.” Liam continued busting my chops as the elevator whirred us down forty floors, with Arthur and Smiles standing silent like looming sentinels in the background. “You’re putting everything off but her. You can’t do that. Brody and I need you too. The whole clan. There’s work to be done. You don’t get to sod off for a month.”

“Why the fuck not, Liam? Why the fuck can’t I enjoy life for two bleeding seconds?” I had a good three inches on my baby brother that I put to good use, crowding him against one side of the elevator. “God knows you chase enough pussy and booze to make it a sport, and Brody spends as much time gaming as he does on whatever research he decides to focus on. So aye, I decided to halve my work this month. Because guess what? I’ve got two brothers, and they’re more than capable of taking on their fair share when I need a fucking break.”

The elevator chimed and jostled open its doors into the garage.

“She obviously doesn’t want you wherever she’s headed.”

“Liam, will you ever whisht?” I snapped. I opened the back passenger door of one of three bulletproof SUVs parked in the underground garage. “Come or don’t. It’s your choice. But this part of the conversation is over.”

I thanked the Lord for small mercies as Liam climbed in and the door clunked shut behind him, without another pointless, tiring tirade. The engine rumbled to life as Smiles ended a call and mumbled to Arthur in the driver’s seat.

“Any news?” I pressed. “Where they headed?”

“A restaurant on Boston Wharf Road.”

“Good man.” I slapped and squeezed Smiles’ shoulder over the seat. That was less than five minutes away. “Let’s go.”

The tires squealed as the vehicle hustled out of the underground parking lot and into the blinding sunlight and the rumble of traffic. I shifted in my seat, twisted my trusted knife around my thumb, and gazed out the window at blurred pedestrians, the colors of autumn, and all the ground-floor glass windows of surrounding high-rises.

So many things could happen in five minutes. It only took a second of inattention from Paulie and Big Charlie for someone to slip in undetected and take Alice out. A bullet to the head. Poison slipped into her drink. A knife to the heart. Each with the same result—her cold, irreparable death. All it took was seconds for her life to be snuffed out. No more of her smiles, her teasing, her touch. No more of her nestling into my side in front of the television, and the bright look in her eyes whenever she spoke of smells and chemistry.

I cracked my neck and rolled my shoulders. I never should have let her leave.

“Hey, hey.” Liam’s hand slapped down over my bouncing thigh. “We’ll be there soon enough.”

I ignored the prying look he gave me and unholstered my gun, rotated it to release the magazine for a quick inspection, and snapped the cartridge back in place.

“I’m seeing someone new.”

I scoffed at his distraction attempt. “This supposed to be announcement-worthy? You’ve never cared what women you threw in LK’s path. Should I give you my condolences now, or is this another one you don’t give a shite about?”

“No, I meant—fuck, you’re an arsehole.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, eyed Arthur and Smiles up ahead, then whispered, “I meant a psych. She’s good, man. Real good. She could…I don’t know…help you too.”

I shook my head. “Not interested.”

Talking didn’t help me. I tried it several times over the years, but there was only so much a mental health professional could do for someone like me who refused to discuss my less-than-legal coping mechanisms. Even less for someone suffering from touch starvation who refused extended therapy sessions that might be seen as a weakness by the rest of the men. Crazed was more acceptable in the underworld than depressed. To men in my line of work, crazed meant unpredictable and dangerous, while depressed implied vulnerability. Neither my brothers nor I needed that target on our backs.

Then there were the antidepressants. I tried those too, three different types. None were the right fit. There was the one that left me sluggish and fumbling for two weeks. Next was the one that cut me off from my personality for four months before Brody and Liam demanded I stop taking it. After the last one that had me vomiting two to three times a day for a whole month while my psychiatrist kept saying the symptoms would fade, I was done. Medication worked for a lot of people, and I was sure there was a right one for me out there somewhere, but I was done playing the guinea pig. I was coping on my own. It might have been a constant struggle before Alice came into the picture, but it was my choice—my successes, my failures.

“You worry us, you know. Brody and I. We just—”

“There’s nothing to fret about.” I stared up at the suede cloth headliner above, my attention snagging between different trails of past finger brush marks. Why hadn’t we arrived yet? “I’m fine.”

“We know you’re hurting. We all are, in different ways.”

“I don’t hurt, Liam.” I stared him dead in the eyes. I’m not you went unsaid. “That was never my issue. I just stopped caring. Stopped feeling. Except…”

His eyes widened in realization. “Except when it concerns her.”