Dark tide, p.3
Dark Tide, page 3
“Fuck off, Cutter. Not you, too.” I throw back the covers and climb from the bed on the opposite side of the douchebag who woke me up.
The fucker could have left me to sleep it off instead of giving me the third degree.
“I have to ask the obvious fucking question, Rion. This isn't like you. You always drink, but you never lose control like this when you do.”
I trudge across the room to my dresser, pull off the T-shirt that reeks of stale beer and sweat, and toss it into the laundry basket on the floor, then do the same for my jeans and boxers. Cutter remains silent, but his judgmental inspection stings my back. I turn to face him, but he doesn't even flinch at my nudity. “I. Am. Fine.”
“Jesus, Rion.” He drops his head back for a second and stares at the ceiling before looking at me. “You forget I've known you for a fucking decade. You're not fine. None of this is fine. Who knows what the fuck you said to this girl last night? You gave her my fucking phone number. You must've been out of your fucking mind to do that.”
A tiny hint of a memory tickles my brain.
The bar. Smitty’s, maybe? Her asking if there was someone she could call to pick me up. “I'm pretty sure I didn't say anything I wasn't supposed to, Cutter.”
His eyebrows fly up. “How the fuck do you know that?”
“Because I'm not a fucking idiot.”
He scoffs. “Not a fucking idiot? Could have fucking fooled me. This is not the time we should be allowing ourselves to commit mistakes, Rion.”
Anger flashes across my naked skin, drawing it taut to my muscles, and I take a step toward him with my hands fisted at my sides. “I don't make mistakes. You of all people should know that, Cutter.”
He shoves his glasses back onto his face.
I would've expected this shit and the third degree from Preacher and E. Hell, maybe even Warwick, but not Cutter. Not after what we went through together. Not when he knows what I have in my head day in and day out.
Why can’t he leave this be?
“Just cut me some fucking slack already, Cutter.”
He advances on me and stops with his chest almost touching mine. “Your fucking slack is what could get us caught. Get your fucking shit together, or I’ll do it for you.” He intentionally bumps his shoulder into mine as he passes by and storms out the door, leaving it wide open to the hallway.
“Fuck.” I drop my head down for a second and stare at the concrete floor.
He isn't wrong. This is about as bad as things have ever been. Not only are we in bed with the Rose Cartel because of the deal with Valentina, but we've also got Michael and the Albanians amping up their game, which is only stirring up more shit in Chicago.
It's put everyone, especially Cutter, on edge, and I can't say I blame him for being worried about his woman. But I'm worried about us and the reason we were out on that boat in the first place.
The fact that Preacher can't get into those FBI files means they’re trying really damn fucking hard to protect something in them. That isn't good for the crew. We need in those files. It’s the only thing I keep telling myself to try to justify what we just did.
“Whoa, dude, put some fucking clothes on.”
I turn toward the door where Preacher stands. If he's going to make a comment or tear into me about last night, he's going to get an eyeful of me and all my fucking glory. “What's up?”
His eyes scan me and then come to rest back on my face. “You look like fucking shit.”
“Thanks.”
Like I couldn’t tell that by the way my body is revolting against me right now.
“Throw some clothes on and get out here. We need to talk.”
Just what I fucking need.
They better not be dragging me out for a fucking intervention. Though, I wouldn’t put it past them right now. Sending Cutter in here was low enough, but it shows there is some serious concern.
I tug on a pair of jeans and grab a T-shirt that I shrug into as I walk down the hallway toward the main warehouse.
Warwick, Cutter, Valentina, E, and Preacher all wait at the table for me. And none of them look very happy.
Judgmental assholes. What’s so wrong with me blowing off a little steam?
It’s not like I have a woman to come home to the way they do. I need to get my release where and how I can, and they shouldn’t be looking at me like that just because the way I choose to relieve my tension isn’t how they would do it. We’re at different places in our lives, and they need to get that through their thick skulls.
I bypass them and beeline to the kitchen. If I don't have a fucking beer, this headache is going to end my day real fucking early. I yank open the door and grab an IPA.
A little hair of the dog is usually the best cure.
I twist off the cap and take three cold gulps. The familiar hoppy flavor is heaven to my dry throat.
Fuck yes.
I let the door to the fridge close and turn back to find sweet, dark eyes staring up at me from the concrete floor. “Don’t look at me like that, Milo.”
The bulldog’s eyebrows rise, and he tilts his head to the side while he examines me, like he’s waiting for an explanation for my behavior.
Jesus, even the damn dog is judging me.
I point a finger at him. “No treat for you if you keep giving me that look.”
He whimpers and drops down onto his belly in a huff. Guilt twists my stomach. The dog just wants a damn biscuit, and I’m snapping at him.
I squat and scratch his head with my free hand. “Sorry, buddy.”
Leave it to the dog to make me feel guilty about something. I push to my feet, grab a treat from the jar on the counter, and squat again to give it to him. He takes it happily and gobbles it up before I can even stand.
Now that I’ve had a minute to myself and some of the good stuff, I can see what the fuck they want. I turn to head back out and find Valentina leaning against the door of the kitchen, watching me with question in her gaze.
I release an exasperated sigh. “Jesus, not you, too.”
She holds up her hands and shakes her head. “That's between you and Cutter…as long as you didn’t do anything to fuck up any of my business.”
“I didn't.”
I don't think…
It would be helpful if I actually remembered anything after getting to the fucking bar last night.
She raises an eyebrow at me, and her amber eyes, always so observant, seem to strip me barer than I was when Preacher just walked in. “You coming or what?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I follow her out to the table with Milo at our heels and ignore the looks I get from the crew. They can shut the fuck up if they want to be my fucking mom.
Wait…
Why does that sound familiar?
“I'm not your mom. But if you kill yourself or someone else driving home, I don’t want that kind of guilt on my conscience…”
Her voice is crystal clear in my head. As if she were standing right across the bar from me now. She was funny.
God, what was her name? What the hell did I say to her?
I drop into my chair, recline, and take a swig of my beer. It's after five somewhere. I’m not going to let the critical looks from everyone around the table stop me from drinking.
Preacher raps his knuckles on the table. “Since we’re all here and at least somewhat functioning now, I can tell you all that I just talked to Rose.”
I stiffen and turn my focus on him.
Cutter snorts and picks up Milo off the floor to sit on his lap. “What did that fucker want?”
I'm surprised Cutter hasn't tried to kill the head of the cartel already. He's definitely not happy about the fact that Valentina is still under Rose’s thumb and stuck with him selling in her territory. He won't be content until Rose is out of her hair and her life.
Preacher drums his fingertips against the table. “He received all the confirmation he needs that we succeeded in the raid.”
Raid? More like assassination…
Cutter motions for Preacher to continue. “So…is Rose going to help you?”
Preacher rubs the back of his neck. “He said I should expect a phone call when his tech expert is available.”
“And when the fuck is that supposed to happen?” Warwick raises his eyebrows. “The longer this goes on, the worse it could end up being for us.”
“Don’t I fucking know it.” Preacher leans back in his chair. “I'm hoping it'll be in the next day or two. I don't want to wait any longer than you guys do to get any answers, but it's not like I can force anything. We’re kind of at his mercy right now.”
That calls for another drink.
I down half my beer and rock back on two legs of my chair.
Valentina's lips twist into a frown. “I really dislike that man.”
I grin at her over the top of my bottle. “Don't we all?”
Preacher nods his agreement. “But he's a necessary cost of doing business, isn’t he?”
Cutter glances toward Preacher, and the hand he had been using to pet Milo stills. “Only because you threw Valentina and us under the bus.”
Our resident computer geek narrows his eyes on Cutter. “Are we still on this? What was I supposed to do, leave Everly with that fucker to let him kill her…let him eventually kill us?”
Warwick stands and holds up his hands. “Everybody, shut the fuck up. Preacher, do we need to do anything else for you to get the help that you need?”
Preacher shakes his head. “No. We're good, at least for now.”
“Excellent.” War turns toward Val and Cutter. “Valentina, anything else?”
She shifts forward and rests her elbows on the table, and her eyes dart around to all of us. “Well, I hate to mention it…”
I drop my head back and squeeze my eyes shut.
Here we go.
Working for her is a thousand times better than it was to work for her predecessors, but the unrest that's been happening in Chicago since Il Padrone and Arturo died has meant far more work in ways we never anticipated.
But it's not like we can walk away. Not when she's so important to Cutter.
The money doesn't hurt, either. The retirement funds we’ve all been squirreling away have been growing and waiting for the day we finally walk away from all of this. But lately, it seems like that day is getting further and further out of sight.
She sighs. “It's about our new friend Michael.”
I take another drink of my beer and let the cool liquid slide down my throat. The little bit of alcohol that has already absorbed into my bloodstream is helping to ease the pounding in my temples slightly. “What is Michael up to?”
“Well…you know he dismantled the trafficking operation Erjon had established, per our agreement.”
Preacher nods. “I’ve been able to confirm all that. It doesn't seem like he has any interest in getting back into the human trafficking business.”
Valentina shifts uneasily in her chair. “He seems to be staying a good boy where that's concerned. But in other areas…”
Warwick growls. “What's that fucker doing?”
When we first met Michael, there was skepticism all around at his easy promise of an alliance, but we didn’t have a choice but to accept him at his word. If we hadn’t, his muscle would have blasted us the moment we tried to leave Erjon’s office. It was safer to agree and walk out unscathed—leave any outstanding issues for another day. The tentative truce between the new head of the Albanian mob in Chicago and us extended to Valentina and her interests.
Or so we thought.
But the nervous look on her face may suggest otherwise. It seems the future date to deal with issues has finally come.
She scowls and shakes her head. “He’s stirring up trouble. Trying to push into territory historically controlled by the Irish and Russians. It will only be a matter of time before he moves on me—and the other families—more aggressively. The man has ambition; I’ll give him that, but he’s going to start an all-out war.”
“Fucking eh.” I drain the rest of my drink and set my empty bottle onto the table. “The guy seems like a real fuck-wad. Why not just take him out now that we have a better idea of who he is and what his plans are?”
I survey the table to gauge reactions. Cutter and Valentina exchange a knowing look. War drops back into his chair and sits stoically, rubbing at his jaw as he considers my suggestion. Preacher looks to Cutter and Valentina to see how they’re reacting. E just shakes his head and releases a long, drawn out breath.
He’s been his usual reserved and silent self during all of this, but when it comes to the Albanians, he’s the one with the personal vendetta. He leans forward and looks around at the crew. “I don’t trust Michael. Haven’t since the minute we met him. And God knows, if I could wipe that entire fucking organization off the map, I’d be all for it.” He sighs and shakes his head. “But I don’t think taking him out right now is the best course of action. Not when we don’t know what the FBI might have on us. We need to be laying low.”
I snort. “Yeah, like going out and slaughtering a dozen men is laying low.”
Warwick scowls at me. “You know why we did that, Rion. Why we had to.”
“Yeah, whatever.” I wave a dismissive hand at him.
Cutter sneers at me. “Maybe you should be more worried about finding out what you did and may have said at that bar last night than complaining about the things we do for the good of everyone around this table. Right now, the only one putting us at risk is you.” He jabs a finger in my direction.
I shove away from the table, my chair skidding back across the concrete. “Fuck you, Cutter.”
And fuck the rest of them.
After everything I’ve done for everyone around this fucking table, I deserve some damn respect and appreciation from them. I don’t need this shit. What I do need is some answers.
4
Gabriella
The familiar opening chords of “Don’t Stop Believin’” blare through the speakers in the bar. I slam my palms against the sticky, old bar top and scan the dark, dingy room for whatever asshole selected it on the jukebox…again.
I can’t take it anymore.
I’m starting to get murdery, and that’s never safe for anyone.
“Fucking enough.” I climb up onto the bar and whistle as loudly as I can.
The high-pitched sound makes the dozen or so people scattered around the small room turn toward me. Once I have their undivided attention, I point toward the old jukebox in the corner.
The door to the bar opens, and a familiar set of wide shoulders fill the jamb. He steps in and lets the door swing closed behind him, then leans back against the wall next to the door and crosses his massive arms over his barrel chest.
Shit.
I hadn’t expected to see him tonight and definitely not while I’m in the middle of telling off the entire bar. But it’s too late to turn back down.
I clear my throat. “Whoever the asshole is who played “Don’t Stop Believin’” again is grating on my last fucking nerve. I love Journey as much as the next girl, though I’m going on the record to say that without Steve Perry, they’re just shit. So, while I love this song, six times in less than three hours is beyond my limit.”
A smirk plays at the corner of his lips while his inky-black eyes rake over me from head to toe, heat dancing across them.
Crap.
It would be nice if I were wearing something a little sexier than ripped jeans and a now-stained white tank top. Maybe something lower cut and silky. Something that would draw his attention to all my assets.
Instead, I look like I belong in a bar like this.
So much for any hopes of a hot hookup.
I return my attention to the crowd that holds the culprit. “If this song plays again, and no one is willing to turn in the offender, I’m kicking everybody the fuck out and shutting down early tonight.”
A chorus of boos and hisses fill the air, mixing with the song that, until today, I used to enjoy so much.
I throw up my hands and glare at everyone. “Hey, if no one plays it again, we can all go on with our night. If you’re intent on fucking with me, then you’re ending everyone’s evening early.” The crowd silences, and I catch the smirk playing on the lips of the man I’ve been thinking about non-stop since he was practically dragged out of the bar by his friend in the early hours of the morning. I offer the patrons a small bow. “I'm glad we can reach an understanding.”
That went better than expected.
It could have caused a riot. Still might if I end up having to follow through on my threat. Smitty will probably fire me, too, since I don’t have the authority to close this place, but sometimes threats are required to make things happen.
I peer down at the sticky linoleum floor now several feet below me. It was easy enough to pull myself up onto the bar, but I hadn’t considered how I would get back down. I can do the ladylike thing and ease off of it and onto one of the stools and then to the floor but jumping looks like much more fun.
“Need some help, sugar?”
Christ.
His deep, gravelly voice washes over me, sending a wave of electric current rolling through every limb. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see him or hear that voice again, or that my reaction to him would still be the same. Maybe I was just horny last night, but nope…Nicki might have been right. I might just be a slut because something about this man drives me wild when I know absolutely nothing about him other than he likes beer and ink and has a killer smile.
I look down at him, and that smirk he’s been wearing since our eyes locked has spread wider. It softens what could be a terrifying man—his ink and size are intimidating. But not to me.
He reaches up and wraps his massive hands around my waist. The heat of his touch radiates into me, and I bite my bottom lip to keep from groaning or whimpering or saying something equally as embarrassing.
Stay cool, Gabs.
The corner of his mouth twitches as he easily lifts me off the bar and sets me onto my feet. We’re so close, our bodies almost touch. I press my hands against his huge, muscled chest. His warm scent—a mix of sweet bourbon and leather—encapsulates me, and despite being surrounded by drunks in a bar on a floor sticky with stale beer and “Don’t Stop Believin’” still blasting from the jukebox, it’s only the two of us for a second in time.
