Chapter Twenty-Seven
The dream of the crows came back. I hadn’t had it since our first night in Vermont. I liked to think it was because Dane was subconsciously protecting me. When I’d seen his crow tattoo, it had felt even more like a sign.
I was supposed to be with him.
He was mine. I was his.
But the dream was different now. Everything vivid. The damp, cold earth. The dirty clay smell of the loamy forest mixed with the intoxicatingly crisp and distinct pine. The dusky twilight sky in hues of periwinkle, lilac, and blush. The distinct circle of black birds, racing above the branches.
Something new crept into my awareness: deep breathing. The rough feeling of canvas against my skin.
Cold panic crept into my veins, freezing me in place. A loud ting burst me out of my nightmare. Dane’s arms protectively snaked around me in the late-morning light, holding me closer as he continued to sleep.
Another ting went off, and I realized it was my phone. I groaned, escaping his clutches while rubbing my eyes. My phone had ended up on the floor in last night's tryst. Unlocking it, I squinted at the text.
Dom: You’re fucking a felon.
I yelped, sliding out of the bed to crouch over my phone.
Dom: I dug up all this info and needed to wait for some record requests to come back.
A picture came through, a baby-faced Dane pulling his best Blue Steel face in a mug shot. Then another one where he looked crestfallen with a black eye.
I peeked up over the edge of the bed, seeing the man I cared so much for in a new light. A shiver ran down my spine. I snatched Dane’s white shirt and pulled it on as an impromptu nightgown.
Me: Tell me everything.
Dom: He’s nonviolent. Looks like he got caught over a decade ago with a fuck ton of weed, a gun that wasn’t his, and a stolen car. He was transporting it across three different state lines—Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Maine. He was barely 18.
Court reports streamed in along with a news article talking about a drug circuit out of Boston around the same time as the arrest.
Dom: They linked him to several stolen cars. He’d fix them up for other people in this elaborate theft ring. He was sentenced to 6 years and was released after 3 because of good behavior. Looks like he has some cousins in Boston who were involved. It was like a chop shop situation.
Dom: After he got out of prison, he stayed at an address in Boston that is unofficially linked to the Irish mob.
Me: Real funny.
Dom: I’m not fucking with you. Same address, same family name.
Dom sent over a Reddit page talking about it, including a historical photo of several men sitting on the porch from the early 1900s. That particular segment of the mob in Boston allegedly disbanded in the 1960s, but I guessed old habits died hard.
I drew in a deep breath, peeking another glance at Dane. He was sprawled out, fast asleep on his back, his beefy arms sprawled wide. He looked so peaceful and innocent, his face relaxed with sleep.
Me: Thanks, Dom. I’ll be home in three days.
Dom: On the bright side, this felon is a fucking smokeshow. Look at that fucking V-cut right below his abs. Jesus Christ. I just know this fucker has 10 pounds of swinging dick and a bucket of balls.
With his text, he sent several photos from tattoo conventions and ink magazines where Dane had been a model.
I let out a puffing little noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob, stirring Dane.
Reaching for the 8-ball on the stool next to the lamp, I rolled it across the bed hard enough to wake him.