8. Mal #3
I dissect that—all of it.
Kings .
Rebel Kings. The bikers who used to run this town when they weren’t at war with rival gangs. The gambling, the smuggling, the fencing. Most of it done from the back door of the dodgiest boozer in town. “So the Joker doesn’t host lock-in poker games anymore?”
“Fuck no. We’re legit too.”
“How’d that go down with the locals?”
“No one likes change. But they got over it. Jack doesn’t take any shit, and Skylar?—”
Sol snaps his mouth shut.
Awareness floods me. Agitation. And not just because any mention of Skylar’s name leaves me dizzier than any fucked-up heart ever could.
The Sol I grew up with didn’t keep secrets. He couldn’t—he was honest to the bone, and I fucking loathe that something has happened to him to change that. Something that taints Skylar with the same sorrow. “Finish the sentence, Sol.”
Sol shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
It does. But I don’t know how to articulate how much or why—not yet. “All right.” I move closer, and I do it fast, giving him no time to evade me. “Then tell me what the fuck’s going on with you and this boat.”
I have Sol backed into a corner in every sense. He has nowhere to go, and he’s smart enough to know it.
He scowls, an unnatural expression on his sunny, friendly face. “Nothing’s going on with the boat.”
“Liar.”
“Mally, leave it. Please?”
“Why?”
“Because it doesn’t fucking matter!” Sol growls. “This shit has been happening for years, and it’ll keep happening after you’re gone. So what the fuck do you care how it ends?”
Anger doesn’t come easily to a man like Sol Bosanko. I see the regret in his deep brown eyes before he even feels it. And the desperation it came from. He slumps against the cabin door I’ve backed him into. His head drops and I’m not immune to how awful it feels to see.
Bosankos are tactile. Fearless with their affection. Like Vinnie, who I still love as much as Jack loves Sol. And I love Sol too. He’s been a brother to me since I was too young to know which way was up, and I want to help him.
But he has to let me.
I drop my hands on his shoulders, forcing him to meet my gaze. “I’m not the same kid who walked away from this place fifteen years ago. Now tell me, so we can work together putting it right.”
Sol isn’t soft. He’s not weak. But he knows me , and lasts less than a minute before he rubs his face in defeat. “It’s mackerel season.”
“So I hear. What does that mean?”
“Means it’s wild out there with no overlords controlling the waters. Makes idiots braver than they have any fucking right to be.”
“What does that mean for you ?”
“Means it doesn’t matter where I fish, someone wants to kill me for earning a living.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. I narrow my eyes. “Who?”
Sol’s nose flares as he takes an inhale, considering his options. “The Couch boys got a new boat at the start of the year. It’s bigger than the one I have left.”
“What happened to your other vessel?”
“Got torched when the lifeguard base went up.”
“At the same time?”
Deep distress lines Sol’s face. “It was moored close by and they set it to go off like a bomb. Took the base down with it.”
“You were the target?”
“I’d say so, as I was fucking asleep on it at the time.”
“What?”
“Drunk and asleep,” Sol elaborates. “I staggered down there after closing time to fetch my phone. Passed out on the deck. If I’d been in the cabin, I wouldn’t have got out.”
Fury, cool and efficient, grows like vines in my gut. “You think they knew you were there?”
“Honestly? Probably not. No one else did—and they still don’t. Not even Oscar.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want Jack to know. Or the Kings. And definitely not Skylar.”
The urge to repeat the question is strong, but inexplicable. To Sol, at least. He’s not going to buy that I don’t get why he kept this from Jack. Or why I’m so interested in why he kept it from Skylar.
I skip to the next burning question. “Why are they coming for you now?”
He grimaces. “Lots of reasons.”
“Lots, eh?” I suppress the urge to flick his forehead. “Pick some.”
Sol sighs. “For starters, I’m the fucking best. I’ve been out there longest—I was born out there—so I know all the secret spots.
All the cycles, the behaviour patterns of the fish.
It’s a rare day I don’t catch the most for a boat this size, even if I get pushed out of where everyone else is trying to go. ”
“And these Couch boys don’t like that?”
“They don’t like me , and they’re making up for lost time.”
“From when?”
“From when my family had protection.”
“Right. So who ? As in, who was protecting you?”
“The Kings.” Sol spreads his hands as if it all makes sense. “They didn’t run the waters, but they had enough influence that I was protected by default. Then they went legit and it left a vacuum—it left chaos, and unless I want to buy a gun and start shooting people out of the water, I’m fucked.”
He’s ranting by the time he’s done, but he’s laughing too. As if firing a weapon is the fucking joke, when it’s probably one of the only things I’m good at. And these Rebel Kings, man. They aren’t here anymore, but somehow they’re everywhere I turn. “Why did the bikers vouch for you?”
Sol purses his lips.
I nudge his foot. “ Tell me.”
“I have history with Cam.”
“You too?”
“Who else is there?”
“Skylar, according to Jack.”
Wry humour fades from Sol’s rueful gaze, leaving nothing but dark shit in its place, though it’s a fragment of the shadows I’ve seen in Skylar. “That’s a different kind of history.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, I lost my dude virginity to Cam O’Brian when I was seventeen and he’s been good to me ever since. Skylar’s ties to the Kings are something else.”
Something I can already tell that even if he knows, he’s not going to spill, and I can’t force him.
Not without invading Skylar’s life, and I’m not going to do that.
I can’t make sense of how I feel about him.
Skylar. It makes no sense . But I do know that anything so deeply fucking personal has to come from him because he wants me to know, and that’s not going to happen.
I step back from Sol before my best intentions evaporate. I consider what he’s told me and the agitation still crawling on my skin. “How long have these Couch bastards been coming at you?”
Without me crowding him, Sol shakes out his shoulders, curly hair falling into his face. “I told you already. They’ve hated me for years, but only found their bollocks since Porth Luck stopped being a hub for organised crime.”
“Has it escalated recently?”
“Maybe.”
“Don’t be vague now. We’ve come this fucking far.”
Sol glowers again, with more edge this time. “They don’t like that I reported them for dumping trash in the sea. Or that I bagged it all up and chucked it over their fence.”
I shoot him a dry look. “Okay. When did this happen?”
“Last summer.”
“And they’ve been coming at you ever since?”
“Whenever they catch me alone on open water.”
“Not when Oscar’s with you?”
Sol snorts. “Would you?”
“Aye, I would.” Oscar’s big, but I’ve already figured out I’d rather fight him than Skylar. There’s lots of things I’d rather do with Skylar?—
“Yeah, well, that’s you.” Sol derails my errant thoughts before they get started, speaking around another heavy sigh. “These idiots aren’t SAS operators.”
“Neither am I.” Anymore. And I absorb that reality as I weigh the odds of an enemy I haven’t seen with my own eyes yet. “They come at you on dry land too?”
“With your brother around?”
“Just trying to figure out what level of idiot we’re talking about here.”
“Bottom feeders. There’s just more of them than there are of me. I’ve been waiting for them to jump the cove walls and burn this boat too.”
Not fucking happening.
I scan the horizon, assessing the tide. Survey the boat and the cabin Sol sleeps in when his job keeps him at sea for days on end.
I’ve never been much of a sailor, but the endless ocean calls to me in a way solid ground rarely has, and I make a decision.
“Take me to sea and show me these fucking pricks.”