11. Micah
Three days after my visit with the inquisitive Tiia Hale, I push out of bed with a flurry of frustration, because she’s still on my mind. Her long, brown locks the first thing I see when I close my eyes. Her siren’s smile, burned into the backs of my eyelids.
Made more special because she so rarely offers a friendly expression.
She asks questions she would know the answers to if she had any affiliations with Wilkes or Pastore—or, well, anyone who exists within the confines of my world.
She’s inquisitive, but she understands the danger she dances with when we’re near.
She knows who I am. What I am. There’s no hiding that. But she forgets herself sometimes and notices another man’s blood on my skin. She demands to know about my wounds, and yet, trembles in fear when I look at her a certain way.
She’s a contradiction within herself. And that contradiction is what makes it damn near impossible for me to let her go.
If she could be forward about whoever she is, about whatever it is she wants, then I could make my moves accordingly. Take her. Or not. Hunger for her, or walk away. Knowledge is power. But she takes my power away by being… her.
Too soft for me to have.
Too hard for me to trust completely.
Striding to my closet with anger pulsing in my blood, I grab out a pair of jeans and stab my legs into the holes, tugging the denim up and working quickly to fix the button.
My missing finger still tries to move. To aid in a task it’s done for thirty-odd years. But pain lances up through my hand when nothing useful happens. Instead, the tip of what remains of my finger taps the steel zipper of my jeans, and that simple, brief contact sends electricity through the limb and into my gut, until nausea rears up and knocks at the base of my throat.
“Fuck.” I switch hands and finish fastening my jeans, then I tear a shirt from a metal hanger, the jangling of what’s left on the rod following me as I stalk back into my room and cross to the door.
I snag my phone on the way past, and my watch from the bedside table. Then, moving into the hall, I nod for Michaels, who stands guard. “Felix around?”
“On the patio, boss. He and Ms. Cannon are taking breakfast outside.”
“Alright.”
I slide my watch over my left hand, careful not to hit my wound, and jog down the stairs of our home. Which, I suppose is a mansion, by all definitions of the word. Too many floors. Too many bedrooms. Countless bathrooms. An industrial-sized kitchen, and a formal dining room that is so large, it could only be described as a ballroom.
“Felix?” I move from the third floor to the second, then from the second to the first. “Lix? What’s that chick’s number?”
“I’m a man in love now,” he calls back, totally at ease holding a discussion from one side of the house to the other. “I don’t know any other ‘that chicks’ anymore.”
“Pussy.” I step off the final stair and start toward the back of the house, where the hall leads to the kitchen, and the kitchen to the pool outside. “Christabelle knows you’re a former slut. And she hasn’t slit your throat yet, despite your shitty past.”
“It’s always an option, though.” Christabelle ambles across the kitchen when I enter, dunking a tea bag in a steaming mug of water. Her hair is already styled for the day. Her outfit, chic and sexy enough to rule a boardroom. “Felix and I maintain a tightrope between love and homicide.”
She makes a direct threat against the man I live to protect, yet I chuckle and keep walking. “Seems us Malones attract a certain type.”
“That other chick.” I stop in the doorway and look through, to my brother sitting at a small iron table, a breakfast spread already plated up, and a cup of coffee perched in his hand. “Ace. The one who hangs out with Michelle Mancino.”
At that, Felix glances up from his paper and regards me skeptically. “You want Sophia Solomon’s number? Pretty sure she’s married, bro.”
“I don’t wanna fuck her.” I head to the table and select a few grapes to nibble on. “She’s connected, and according to Archer, she’s a fuckin’ computer whiz. I want her to run a background check for me.”
“Call Harrison.” He lounges back in his chair, his eyes flickering past me when Christabelle stops in the doorway. “He’ll run your background, and we won’t risk annoying the most powerful fucking medusa in the country. Cordoza’s sweet on those girls, Micah.” He brings his attention back to me. “It’s not good for our health to piss off Cordoza. Especially right now, when we’re the last family standing, and Wilkes is making a dick of himself.”
“I’m not looking to piss her off. I want to ask her for a favor.”
Grinning, he shakes his head and picks up his coffee. “Owing powerful people favors is also bad for your health. Harrison is good at what he does. Ask him.”
“He’s decent,” I allow, tossing a grape into my mouth. “He’s not Ace.”
“I won’t tell you what you can and can’t do.” He sips, lazily at ease before the start of a new day. “But I can strongly advise you against making stupid mistakes. Ace isn’t someone you want watching over your shoulder. And she sure as fuck isn’t someone we want to be in bed with.”
“Who is Ace?” Christabelle Cannon, Cannon Daily heiress and information hound, saunters onto the patio. She may as well have a fucking pen and notebook in her hand. “Felix. Sweetheart. Who is this powerful, amazing woman you speak of?”
He sweeps his arm out when she’s close enough, mischievous as he drags her onto his lap and drapes her across his knee. Instantly, his lips find purchase against her neck. “I know when you’re asking because you’re jealous, Darling, and when you’re asking because you have a new headline in mind.” He nips at her neck and elicits a groan from the back of her throat. “Now I know the look in your eyes when you’re both jealous and writing a story. It’s an interesting combination.”
“I’m just curious!” She presses her hand to his shoulder. Almost as though to shove him away. But I see no pushing. I see no fight. “I’m allowed to ask questions. And you say she knows Michelle Mancino?”
My phone trills, surprising me, when I’m pretty fucking sure I had it set to silent overnight. Ignoring the other two and freeing the device from my pocket, I bring it up and study the screen, frowning at the unknown number flashing back at me.
I could let it go to voicemail; I often do. But curiosity has me answering and bringing the device to my ear. “This is Micah.”
“Tell Ms. Cannon to stop talking about me.” Sophia—aka Ace—puts a bite in her tone, setting my temper on edge, and sending my eyes shooting across to an acutely attuned Felix.
He no longer nuzzles Christabelle’s neck. Flirting time is over. He watches me instead, and prepares for war.
“She’s part of the family now,” Soph concedes, “so I’m being cool about it and giving a warning. But there’s no way on this fucking earth she’s writing an article about my sister and walking away with both her kneecaps.”
My throat burns dry as I study a dangerously interested Christabelle. “How do you know what we’re talking about in the privacy of our own home?”
“Because I’m better than Harrison at everything. Actually,” she scoffs low on her breath, “I’m better than everyone. Tim and Archer acknowledge I have ears everywhere they go now. Don’t be an outlier and make this weird. What do you want?”
“With you?”
“I heard my name, Malone. But I’m kinda busy over here living my own life. Keep Cannon out of my business, and I won’t be forced to visit New York.”
“Where is your life, specifically?” Strolling to the table, I pull out an iron chair, the feet scraping against concrete tile, then I sit down. “Address? Town?”
She laughs. That’s it. A snicker that tells me everything I need to know. “Last chance to tell me what you want. Then I have significantly more important things to get back to.”
“Tiia Hale.” I glance away from Felix, his stare flashing when I speak her name. “She works for Jakeline Colby’s Antiques. She’s twenty something—late twenties, I’d guess. An alumna of Brown University. She mentioned having a brother and both parents, but I don’t have names. Mother is of Hawaiian descent. Father is Latino. Tiia was born and raised here. I also want you to run down her friend Roscoe. You’re gonna need to?—”
“I need to nothing.” Soph sits back in her chair, the creak of her movement my only clue. “That was a cute bio, Malone, but it seems you and Archer think I’m your P.I. for hire. That’s not how these things go.”
“But you’re?—”
“Good? Yes, yes I am. But I’m also busy, and fortunate enough to have already amassed my wealth, which means I don’t need the work. I help the folks I deem worthy. I’m not for sale.”
“But—”
“Call Harrison. You want a background check on some chick because you caught feelings? You’re jealous she has a boyfriend named Roscoe? Which, by the way, is a weird fucking name. Either way, it’s not my job. I have zero desire to help you. But I will stomp on your family if Cannon runs a story on my sister. Shut her down, or you can expect a personal visit from me.”
“Wait—”
She hangs up, cutting me off and leaving me with my brother and his fiancée staring at me in morbid interest.
Frustrated, I fist the phone and press my free hand to my face, squishing my cheeks and crushing my eyes closed. “She said if you run a story on Mancino, we’re all dead.” I lower my hands and meet Christabelle’s stare. “Mention Michelle Mancino in the Cannon Daily, and you’re toast.”
“You pissed her off!” Felix drops his head back and groans. “Dammit, Micah! I told you not to do that.”
“I didn’t make her my enemy. She listens to every fucking thing we say, and she heard Christabelle ask about the family.” I toss my phone to the table and startle the sleeping dog awake, so a single, furry brow lifts on his forehead.
“She said to shut it down, or she’s coming to fuck us up.” I look to Christabelle and glare. “I know you’re into pushing buttons, but I suggest this not be one of them. Soph isn’t someone you wanna test.”
Intrigued, she looks to Felix, who corroborates with a nod. “Don’t touch.” Then he brings his focus back to me. “She’s not running your check?”
“No. She told me to call Harrison. Who, by the way,” I pick up my phone again, “is not someone I’ve talked to her about. She listens to everything.”
“It’s kinda spooky,” Felix snorts. “She’s powerful and untouchable.”
“So she’s, like…” Christabelle straightens on Felix’s lap, picking up a croissant from the platter and opening it to pick at the meat and cheese inside. “She Cordoza’s?”
“Friend of Cordoza,” Felix murmurs.
While I unlock my screen and hit dial on Harrison’s name, he fills her in.
“Michelle is like an adopted kid to Cordoza. Not officially, since she’s a grown-ass woman. But he loves her anyway. And Ace is Michelle’s sister. We say there are just two original families left in New York, but really, there’s a third. A silent fucking partner who watches over everyone and works in stealth mode.”
“They’re mafia?”
“They’re actually more… anti-mafia.” He snickers. “They don’t accept anyone’s shit.”
“Harrison speaking.” My call connects and drags my attention to the phone in my hand. “How can I help you, sir?”
“Background check.” I push up from my chair and stalk toward the pool. “Tiia Hale. You already know most of what I know. Workplace. General age. I want you to go as deep as you can manage—and take another pass at Roscoe too. I wanna know who the fuck he is, and why he thinks he can lock Tiia away whenever he feels like it.”
“Sir?” Silence hangs for a beat. “He locks her away?”
“Run the check and get back to me. How long will you need?”
“I’ll get started right now. I could have a fair amount for you within the hour. The rest will come over the next couple of days.”
“Alright.” I look down into the crisp blue water, then to my left, to the oversized puppy who stretches out on the warming concrete. “Send me what you get as it comes in. I wanna know everything.”
Pulling the phone from my ear and killing the call, I turn at the water’s edge, only to find Felix and Christabelle staring.
“Shut up.”
“Dude,” Lix rolls his eyes. “Just go and fuck her already. It’s all looking kinda sad at this point.”
“I’ve never reacted to a woman the way I have to her. Something isn’t right.”
“That’s called lust, little brother. It’s closely related to love.”
“No, it’s called intuition. I’ve spent my whole fucking life not dying. It’s not my cock that’s stirring when I look into her eyes.”
Well… it is.But it’s not only my cock that stirs.
“If I’m wrong, then I’m wrong. I’m man enough to admit it. But if I’m right, then I’ll have saved all of our fucking lives. Again.” I drop my hand into my pocket and start back toward the house. “You can thank me later. In writing.”
Felix snorts.
His endless ability to brush shit off is a habit I’ve always puzzled over. How, when he knows what he knows, and carries the load he does, can he be so fucking blasé about the world? When he has so many targets painted on his back, and a price on his head that brings visions of a hunter’s kill, stuffed and mounted on the wall… How can he smile and love and live and frolic around the city, knowing his enemies hover close by?
I’ll be long dead and buried before I understand how his brain works.
“Micah?” Mary, the woman who is the closest thing to a maternal figure we’ve ever known, steps out from behind the kitchen counter, her white sneakers as clean as the day she bought them, and her plain black dress, sharp and uncreased—unlike her aging face. She carries a small plate in her hands, and extends it forward in offering. “You need to eat.”
“I have things to do. I’m not hungr?—”
“Eat.” She practically slaps the plate to my stomach, and smirks when my breath cuts short.
Her hair is graying, and her wrinkles, multiplying. But the cunning in her eyes is as sharp as ever. She’s no softly spoken weakling.
Which has always been interesting to me.
Five sons, from five different wombs. Timothy Malone the Second chose women he would eventually kill and bury. He didn’t love them. He didn’t even humanize them.
But then there’s Mary. She’s been in his employ since before our conception, and admits to a sometimes-romance with the prick.
It’s possible she was the one and only woman he ever loved.
Or at the very least, tolerated enough not to murder.
“You’ll eat.” She places my hand beneath the plate before taking hers away, forcing me to hold it or let it clatter to the floor. “Then you’ll take a day off to relax. I don’t recall the last time you just… sat still.”
“I sit still at least once a day.” I look down at the sandwich she prepared for me, potato chips crushed between the slices, and bologna holding everything together.
“Hardly a nutritious meal,” she titters. “But it’s a start. And the bread is whole grain.”
“Thank you.” I lean in and press a kiss to her cheek, her skin softer than tissue, but the muscle making it puff as she smiles.
“I’m heading to the gym in a bit to work through some energy. Then I have meetings back-to-back until dinner. This might be the only meal I have time for.”
Her jaw firms, when I know she’d rather loosen it and spit some nasty words my way. “I’ll pack you a lunch to take with you. If you want to act like a child, then I’ll send you to work with a lunchbox… just like a child.”
“I’ll be sure to grab something.” Chuckling, I fist my sandwich and keep walking. “No need to threaten a man. Hey, Felix,” I call out. “We heading to Harlem today?”
“Yeah,” he shouts back. “I’ll be ready within the hour.”
He steps into the kitchen, grinning when I hit the stairs and glance his way. “We’ll be kinda near Colby’s, huh? Wanna stop in and spend more money on shit we could build in the back shed?”
“Uncultured.” Shaking my head, I jog upstairs to make fast work of my carb-loaded breakfast. It won’t help me when I hit the gym later, but it’s good enough to hold me over for now. It’s also the tastiest trashy food I’ve ever known.
I climb four flights of stairs, passing men whose sole job is to stand guard and protect the house in case of a breach, then I stalk into my bedroom, casting a glance to the Mongolian warrior’s chest, sitting elegantly atop the Queen’s desk.
Folks could buy an entire house with the money I’ve spent on those two items alone. Families go hungry, and people lose their homes to foreclosure, but here I am, spending oodles of cash, purely because I want to be near a woman whose eyes hold secrets.
So many of them.
So much intrigue.
I set my plate on the end of my bed—not on the desk, which I’m too afraid to fuck up—and choke down the last of my sandwich before ducking into the bathroom and stripping off my jeans.
It’s time to shower. Change. Try to think of anything, anyone, other than the beautiful woman whose existence hounds me. She turns up in the clubs I manage. The stores I shop in. She haunts my dreams. And when I toss my boxer shorts aside and step into the cool sluice of shower water, she’s the reason my cock is hard.
Fuck me. She’s under my skin. And if her background check pops in any way other than she’d have me believe, then under my skin is exactly where she wants to be.
Men like Wilkes come at their enemy head-on: noisy, violent, and with obvious intentions.
But women… they sneak in with sex. Siren’s eyes, and lips of sin. They dance their way closer instead of stomp, and whisper sweet nothings while they fuck a man, until he’s willing to give her his soul.
Over the spray of the shower, I hear my phone beep with incoming texts. I consider digging it out from where it’s buried, deep in the pockets of my jeans on the tile floor, to scan the contents. Could be information I need. Or someone unhappy with the current world order. Could be Harrison, already bringing me intel.
But I pump soap into my palm instead, then wrap it around my cock and groan.
I want five minutes without New York sitting on my shoulders.
Five minutes to think of Tiia Hale, and have the risk simply… not exist.
Outside these walls, she’s a potential threat to me and my family. Because, fuck, my intuition rarely steers me wrong. But inside this shower stall—when I’m all alone, and Felix is safe, and Tiia has no clue I think of her—I can visualize sinking my cock deep inside her pussy and taking her body the way I want.
In the safety of my own home, I can think whatever the fuck I want, and let my imagination sprint wild. I can picture slamming her to the wall and knocking a little sense into her, the way I’ve wanted to since our first run-in. I can shake her until she tells me her truths, but I can also have her.
Body. Heart. Soul.
Because in my imagination, no one I love will be hurt because of the choices I make.
Five minutes.
I slide my palm along my shaft, and draw a pained moan from the depths of my chest.
Five is all I need to take the edge off and make it possible to get on with my day.
“She’s coming up clean, boss.”
In the car in the middle of Harlem, I take a call from Harrison, and flash my only remaining middle finger at my brother, who insists on grinning to spite me.
“August fifth birthday. She turned twenty-nine just a couple of weeks ago. Her parents are popping up as normal, respectable, legal citizens, and her degree from Brown University looks legit, too. She got a double, boss: Art History and Economics. No marriages on file, no children, no legal snafus. She’s been working for Colby since the start of this year, and before that, she was contracting her time to various businesses in the same field. She seems to have a skill for finding unique and exceptionally expensive artifacts. Rich folks hire her to acquire items for them.”
“Furniture and shit?”
“Yeah. But the antiquey kind. They say they want something dating back to the thirteenth-century, and it’s her job to locate it. Or maybe they have a collection of coins, but they’re missing one or two key pieces; she hunts them down and facilitates the purchase. She has a driver’s license, but no car registered to her name. She moved into her apartment in January, around the same time she started working for Colby.”
“So she made some big moves at the start of this year…” I look out the tinted window as a trio of kids ride past on bikes. “I’m not so na?ve as to ignore the timing. Wilkes popped up around then, too.”
“I see no connections to Wilkes in her file, sir. She’s traveled rather extensively in her twenty-nine years, but most often, it was on a client’s dollar. They wanted her to find the Holy Grail, so she flew out in search.”
“She been to England?” I nibble on my bottom lip. “In the last eighteen months?”
“She has,” he sighs. “But she went nowhere near Nottingham, and didn’t cross paths with Wilkes or his people. Frankly, sir, we could stretch anyone’s connection to make it fit, if we wanted to. You and I have both been across the Atlantic in the last few years. Your brother practically runs New York City, and the things we trade in are…” He clears his throat. “Similar. Anyone on the outside could say you and Wilkes are working together, too.”
“He’s made threats against my family.” I glance across, and scowl when Felix reaches for a cigarette, pats his breast pocket, and growls upon finding it empty. “The only time Wilkes and I will work together is when I have him in the bunker, and he begs me to stop peeling the flesh from his bones. Did you run Roscoe too?”
“Yep.” He taps a keyboard, indicating he’s in an office somewhere. “Roscoe Jones is a thirty-two-year-old, unmarried, childless construction worker with no legal past to speak of. No arrests. No drama. He drives a five-year-old truck and pays no alimony. He’s American by birth, and has no weird credit rating issues. He’s just…” He shrugs, the movement of his clothes audible. “Normal, boss. He’s at Hale’s place a fair bit, though.”
“A fair bit? How often?”
“Like, five nights out of seven. Most often, he walks into her building with a takeout bag. That other friend, the woman they hang out with, she comes along, too.”
Jazzy.
“Do they spend the night?”
Silence hangs, a pregnant pause that eats at the lining of my stomach and leaves my throat almost burned by the acid.
“Harrison?”
“He… stays sometimes. Not always. But a night here and there. Jaz doesn’t—maybe once or twice in the last eight months.”
“Fuck.” I bring the phone from my ear and meet Smith’s gaze in the rearview mirror. “Take me to the East Village.”
“Uh oh,” Felix taunts. “It’s go time.”
“Shut the fuck up.” I set the phone at my ear again. “She home now? She with Roscoe?”
“No, sir. Well, yes. She’s home from the shop, according to CCTV, but no, I didn’t see Roscoe go in. So either he’s been there all day, or she’s there alone.”
I look down at my watch, mumbling, “What time is it,” despite the fact I’ll answer my own question in just a sec. “Quarter past five. She split from work pretty quick.”
“Word on the street is Jakeline is a right bitch to work for.” He stops for a beat and chuckles. “I’d be out of there on the dot, too. You heading to her place?”
“Yeah.” I swallow, moistening my throat and glancing out the window as we move through traffic. Either I watch the cars surrounding us, or I look into my brother’s taunting eyes and deal with his smug satisfaction. “I wanna talk to her. But keep running your checks, and I’ll call you back later.”
Dragging the phone from my ear, I kill our call, only to hit another name and dial. As soon as the line connects, I bark out my orders.
“Stovic? I need you in the East Village now. Michaels, too.”
“Yes, boss.” I hear the faint thud of boots on the floor as our soldier moves through our home and prepares to do as he’s told. “Everything okay? You told us to stay at the house.”
“Everything’s fine, but I need to bail, and I don’t take comfort in leaving Lix alone while Wilkes is out here making a dick of himself.”
“Excuse me. Hi.” Leaning forward, Felix smirks. “What the fuck am I? A child in need of a babysitter?”
“Worse. You’re a child in need of a bodyguard.” I bring my focus back to Stovic. “You and Michaels can both ride with Lix. Leave the car for me. I’ll come back later.”
“Yes, sir.”
“ETA?”
“On our way out the door now. We’ll be there before six. Want us to bring Jasper so you have someone watching your back?”
“No, don’t worry about Jasper. But bring us food. Enough for two. Make it Italian and garlicky. Not too many mushrooms. She’ll like that.”
“Uh…” He clears his throat, as uncomfortable about this as I am. Felix is the guy to make a scene when women are around. Not me. Not ever. “Sure thing, boss. We’ll be with you within the hour. Watch your back till we arrive.”
“Yep.” I kill our call and look across to a leering Felix. “Shut up.”
“You like her!” He laughs, loud and obnoxious and suicidal, if only I didn’t care so much about keeping him alive. “You’re literally the only one making this awkward. Boy meets girl, boy smacks girl’s ass and sticks his dick in her. It’s really not that scary. If you need a step-by-step guide on how to fuck a woman, I can?—”
“You can shut your mouth before I lodge my fist in your throat and teach you just how deep you can take it.” I look across and meet his eyes. “You’re funny sometimes, Lix. You’re my fourth favorite brother. But right now, she,” I point toward the window, though we both know she’s not out there, “is off-limits. I don’t want to hear you talk about her. I don’t want you making lewd jokes about what I can do to her. And when this all blows up and turns to shit, I don’t want you anywhere near me. Because shit’s gonna get messy, and I’d really like for you not to be in the firing line.”
“You’re so fucking sure it’s all gonna go to shit.” He settles back and drops his legs wide, haughty, knowing his relationship is secure and his woman is… well, homicidal, sure. But, like me, she has a vested interest in keeping him alive.
Tragically, there would come a point when we’d miss him.
Eventually.
“It’s not as big a deal as you think it is,” he rumbles. “You like her. Let it happen. And for the love of fuckery, bring her around the house at least once. You make it weird, never having a girl in your bed.”
“Archer brought Jill around the house.” My heart thunders in my chest, too fast, too heavy to justify the situation. “She was destroyed, raped, and murdered. She wasn’t even eighteen years old. You brought Savvy around the house. Our old man got to her, too. He had five sons, to five women, and not one of those women survived to talk about it. So no…” I bounce my knee to work through some of my repressed energy. “I won’t bring her to the house. I’m smarter than that.”
“The old man is dead.” He pats his chest again. Jesus, smoking is purely a trauma response for him at this point. A habit to hide his nerves. A crutch to escape the past. “He’s gone, and no one else alive can hurt us. Arch has brought Minka around, and Christabelle has all but moved in. I can’t count the number of women Cato has brought to the house, but they have all survived. Even Tim is all tangled up in one woman. The curse has been lifted,” he claps my knee. “It’s okay to love now. I swear to you, once you decide she’s yours, she becomes all of ours. Which means we all go to war for her.”
“My options, as far as I see them,” I pick his hand up and push it away, “are that she’s a fucking plant that Wilkes has put in our lives. Which is a problem I’ll deal with. Or she’s completely innocent, in which case, she deserves better than to be dragged into all this. If you love a woman, Lix, you don’t pluck them out of obscurity and drop them onto a battlefield they never created. Tim might be circling and obsessing over that one chick, but he hasn’t crossed the line. And we both know why he isn’t claiming her.”
“Because he’s a pussy too.” Grinning, he looks out the window and avoids meeting my eyes.
If he did, he might be forced to do a little soul-searching, and realize that he, too, brought a woman to war.
The only difference is, she’s already seen a little of the front line. Before him, before their love, she had already been exposed.
That creates a loophole, I think, that allows him to continue forward with his relationship.
“So, you’re bringing her dinner?” Change of subject. “Garlicky Italian? She’s not gonna make out with you if she has smelly breath. Women are funny about that.”
“Are we fucking teenagers?” I drop my head back, thunking it against the headrest, and exhale. “I am not taking food to her in hopes of making out, Lix.”
“So you’re going there to interrogate her?” he counters. “Always the extremes for you. Did you bring your pliers and the tire wrench? She might talk if you get aggressive.”
“I wonder what I need to do to make you stop talking?” I close my eyes and simply breathe, as Smith brings us across the city, and from one borough to another. “If I thought falling in love and settling down would help mature a guy, you’re living proof I was wrong.”
“You act like I’m a bother,” he teases, “yet, you choose to keep me around. People lie, Micah.” He reaches across and smacks my chest with the side of his fist, inadvertently striking my recently broken ribs and drawing my eyes open with a violent snap.
Though, I keep my thoughts to myself, which means he remains oblivious to the pain that ricochets through my body.
“People say things, bro. Things they deem socially acceptable. Like, Christabelle, being New York’s darling, of course told me she hated my guts and to go nut myself. Because those were the words society would want her to speak.”
He snickers. “Well, maybe not the words, but the sentiment. Yet, beneath all that shit is a heart that beats for me. Same with Archer. He tells us to fuck off and get out of his life at least once per conversation. He left us more than a decade ago, and I haven’t done a lot to make him happy since showing up on his doorstep. But he crossed the country and stood with us to bring you home after Pastore tore you to pieces. And Minka? She is downright homicidal, I swear. But she calls you to make sure you’re healing alright, and she takes my calls at least seventy-five percent of the time.”
He links his fingers and dangles them between his legs. “Even that sweet little thing Tim is in love with says she can’t stand me. But she wants Tim more than she wants to live, and a woman who truly hated me wouldn’t stick around to love my brother.”
He glances across, his dark green eyes burning into mine. “See? People lie. Because they think it’s expected of them. Maybe you should keep that in mind when you’re standing at Tiia’s door, and she tells you to beat it. She knows exactly who you are, which means she knows the world we operate in. Normal, healthy people don’t relish the idea of fraternizing with men like us. So she’s gonna be inclined to tell you to go.” He shakes his head. “Doesn’t mean she’ll mean it.”
“So, your advice, as my older and allegedly wiser brother, is to push my way into a woman’s apartment and convince her that she wants me to stay, even if her words are telling me to leave?” I scoff. “I know what you say makes sense in your brain, but have you ever stopped to consider what everyone else hears when you open your mouth?”
“Why would I?” He flashes a wicked smile as we pull up outside an apartment building that stands twenty or thirty floors high. “I’m not them. I don’t have their ears. And, like you said, it makes sense to me.”