Jhene
EIGHT
Sharing a bathroom with a boxer who breaks bones and buries bodies for a living is about as fun as it sounds.
It’s ten p.m., and unless Killian Rourke has developed a sudden case of amnesia, he knows damn well it’s supposed to be my turn. I’m actually starting to suspect he does things specifically to annoy me.
What better way to run off a houseguest than to irk their nerves until they’re desperate to leave? Maybe it’s some reverse psychology trick to get me to agree to moving upstate.
Call me paranoid, but I put nothing past my new roommate.
I’m standing in the middle of his cramped studio listening to the sound of water spray against the shower tile, and I consider if it’s even worth pointing out the violation.
Mornings are his. Evenings are mine. It was the only way two loners who very much prefer their own company and can barely stand each other could survive in this studio without someone ending up strangled.
Yet here I am on my day off, listening to him use up the lukewarm water that was supposed to be mine.
To put it mildly, the past few days have been… an adjustment.
Living with Killian Rourke means dealing with his before-dawn wakeups and the constant residue in the sink from the many protein shakes he drinks.
It’s developing the ability to interpret the difference between his regular grunt and his irritated grunt and knowing when to look the other way when he comes home with fresh bruises and blood staining his clothes.
We exist around each other more than with each other.
It’s exhausting in a different way than sleeping in shelters or in the backroom of the pub was. Even more than living in the Raguzins’ orbit for so many years.
Probably because I’m used to being ignored. I’m used to folding myself into corners and trying my damnedest to go unnoticed.
There’s nowhere to hide when you’re sharing a five-hundred-square-foot space with another person.
The water shuts off, and I hear him moving around in the bathroom.
A minute later, the door swings open and he emerges in a cloud of steam, wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants that hang low on his insanely sculpted hips.
Seriously, if you googled Adonis belt, Killian could be used as the answer on the search results page.
My face warms up, and I divert my gaze to the brick wall. One of the deep cracks in the brick suddenly feels like it requires my undivided attention.
…at least that’s what I tell myself.
The obvious truth is Killian does have a nice body. He drips masculinity as he strides out of the bathroom with his broad, tattooed shoulders and the six-pack abs and effortless confidence.
There’s a rough quality about him and his looks that admittedly does something to the female part of my brain—completely against my will.
It’s how unruly his dark hair is, often touching his brow, and how his flawed nose that’s obviously been broken several times only adds more character to his face. The same for his jaw that’s wide and angular and framed by thick scruff.
He’s tall and shredded, the kind of body that comes from hours in the gym. Hours on the street working as an enforcer for the Irish mob.
His muscles—from the firm pecs on his chest to the well-defined lats and traps on his back and delts on his shoulders—contribute to his V-tapered torso and large, solid build.
The way he walks, he knows it.
Killian carries himself like a man without fear. A man with the swag to know nobody in their right mind would ever fuck with him.
Exactly why I’ve busied myself with the brick wall, trying my damnedest to ignore how little beads of water still gleam on his chest and his dark hair is slicker than usual against his scalp.
Men terrify me. They make me nervous and my heart race.
…but that doesn’t mean my body doesn’t naturally react when around one that’s attractive. Even one as rough around the edges as Killian Rourke.
“Bathroom’s free,” he grunts, rubbing a towel over his damp hair.
“I noticed,” I answer, arms folded. “I also noticed you were in there during my time.”
“Your time?”
“Evenings. We agreed.”
He tosses the towel onto his bed—Killian’s not exactly the kind of guy who properly folds things—and shrugs in answer.
“Consider tonight an exception. Had a messy job today.”
I make the mistake of glancing over at him. The damp sheen on his chest only highlights his hard-packed muscles and elaborate tattoos and the roadmap of scars he’s acquired over the years. I never thought I’d be the kind of woman to find scars attractive…
More heat floods my face, and I whip my head back toward the opposite brick wall.
“I wouldn’t call getting covered in blood a job,” I mutter.
“No?” he asks, a vague tinge of amusement to his tone. He reaches into a dresser drawer and pulls out a T-shirt. “That’s my ideal kind of job.”
“That’s unsurprising... and not exactly legal.”
“One man’s law is another man’s suggestion.”
I shake my head in disbelief, unsure how to even respond to that. Instead I remain silent, my reaction to most things in life.
Besides, I’m not sure I can rationalize with a man who shatters kneecaps for a paycheck.
I’m not sure I can even rationalize with myself how so far he’s the safest option I have. Says a lot about how fucked up my life has become.
Killian tosses the T-shirt over his shoulder and says, “If you’re not showering anytime soon, then I’m gonna shave. It’s time to trim this beard some.”
“Actually,” I say suddenly, turning around, “I was thinking we could talk about Eva.”
His jaw tightens, his shoulders going rigid. “What about her?”
“What about her?” I repeat, incredulous. “You said you were going to help me get her back. That was the deal. In the alley, remember? ‘We do this together?’”
“I remember.”
“Then what’s the plan? It’s been days, Killian. Every time I try to bring it up, you give me the runaround.”
He scrubs a hand over his jaw, the thick scruff rasping against his palm. His expression has turned weary, as if he’s trying to figure out how best to let me down.
“There’s a lot that needs to be sorted out first,” he says. “Clan business. Tensions with the Bratva. I can’t just snap my fingers and make shit happen.”
“Clan business? Right. Because your mob politics are more important than my sister.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what it sounds like.”
His eyes flash dangerously, the dark blue reminiscent of a thunderstorm. “I’m working on it. These things take time. There’s planning involved at every level. You seem to think it’s as easy as storming into Bratva territory and demanding they hand her over.”
“How long does planning take? A week? A month? Eva doesn’t have that kind of time. Every day she’s still with him is another day he could—”
I cut myself off with a shuddering, frustrated breath. The rush of emotions when I talk about my baby sister is too much; it attacks me at once and makes it difficult to even articulate myself.
Killian’s harsh features ease up slightly, as if he recognizes how I’m feeling. He runs a hand through his messy, damp hair.
“I gave you my word we’d work to get her back,” he drawls huskily. “I’m a man of my word. You’ll have to trust me on that, alright?”
Before I can decide how best to answer—or even whether to—my backpack vibrates from the far corner of the room.
I cough loudly to cover the noise. Killian pauses on his way to the bathroom, head tilting in my direction as if he’s questioning what he’s heard. If it was just my cough or something more.
Then he seems to decide it’s unimportant enough to probe and disappears into the bathroom. The door clicks shut behind him and I release a breath.
I give it another second or two, waiting until I hear the faucet running before I move.
Three quick strides and I’m at my backpack, digging through the clothes and toiletries until my fingers close around the cheap burner phone hidden at the very bottom.
The screen glows with a single text message from a number I know too well. It sends cold dread surfing down my spine every time it appears.
Behave yourself, Myshka.
Do not think to run from us.
We will always find you.
I’m suddenly dizzy as I quickly delete the message then delete it again from the trash folder. I shove the phone back into the depths of my bag and bury it under everything else, as if that could somehow make it less real.
The bathroom door opens again and Killian reemerges with a scowl. “Damn water is already ice cold. I’ll have to address it again with Ms. Pileggi. You’d think in the twenty-first century warm water wouldn’t be a fucking luxury to come by.”
I hum in answer, trying to look casual as I swing my arms.
He pauses between me and the bed, his gaze sharpening. “You good?”
“Peachy.”
He grunts—his version of acceptance, I’ve learned—and then he’s grabbing at the rollaway bed. It’s his night to sleep on it while I take the real bed.
He flips on the TV and seems to check out for the rest of the night, watching ESPN recaps in his moody, introverted silence.
I sink onto the edge of the bed and settle my nerves with deep breaths, all too happy to let him. It gives me a chance to remind myself that I have to focus on Eva.
I can’t let myself ever become distracted.
Whatever it takes to get her back, I’ll do it.
…even if it means playing a game where I don’t know the rules.
Tom has no problem giving me as many shifts as I ask for. He’s more than happy to have me working the pub floor while he occasionally wipes down glasses behind the counter and then disappears to the back for a nap.
But money’s money, so I take whatever I can get over the next few days.
Though it’s still not much, my chest swells with pride when I have enough cash to stash inside an old shoebox I find.
It’ll have to do for now until I can rescue Eva and truly start a new life.
You would think I’d open a bank account—it would be the first in my twenty-three years—but bank accounts leave paper trails. Paper trails are one thing I can’t afford right now.