Chapter 1
ONE
LIPS
Mounts Bay never sleeps.
The title might belong to New York, but I’ve always thought it was false advertising.
I mean, I’ve barely traveled outside of the Bay city limits, so I haven’t been to the east coast to compare, but it’s never sat right with me.
Maybe it’s the way people say it like they’re bragging about it, like it was something to covet and dream about.
Broadway shows, exclusive clubs, high-profile lives being lived to the fullest…
well, good for them, but shit’s a bit different around here.
If New York is too busy partying and living the good life to bother with sleep, the Bay is an insomniac crackhead on the verge of a blood-soaked rampage.
As the door to the bar swings open and the bouncers throw a man out onto the streets, they don’t even pause at the sound of his skull busting on the asphalt or glance his way to see if he survived the landing.
A pool of blood starts forming around his ears and his chest is barely moving, so I’d say his time is running out.
No one stops to check him.
The Mounty street girls all working around me jeer and cackle at him, a regular, but the more they trade stories, the more certain I am that the world is better off without him.
Fuck, half the girls around me are younger than I am, and they’re obvious about it, too.
It’s a selling point, and fuck if that doesn’t make me want to gut every man who so much as glances this way.
I can’t, though. Not only would it ruin my cover, but the girls here are just trying to feed themselves and their families.
Only one of them knows who I am for certain, but a few of the others have surely guessed.
They’re true Mounties, though, born and bred, so no matter how many nights I show up here dressed like I’m selling without ever taking a john, they see nothing.
It’s not just the fear of the Twelve that keeps their mouths shut, either.
It’s the fact that my mouth is sealed just as tightly, that the one and only time some asshole tried to get rough with one of them, I dealt with him for her without hesitating or payment, and that I haven’t looked down on any of them, either.
I save my disgust for the ones who really deserve it; their customers.
The bar sign is lit up so bright that it’s practically a beacon, but with a name like ‘The Dive’, it’s only fitting that it draws in the worst patrons that the city has to offer.
It’s owned by another member of the Twelve, the Viper, and he runs a lot of his business out of this place.
He started off as a loan shark, but after he won the Game, he expanded his empire to include underground cage fighting, money laundering, and a thriving gambling ring.
This isn’t the type of bar you go to for a round of beers and a good time because nothing good happens here.
I should know; before I went to Hannaford, I was a regular.
Not that I’ve stepped foot into the bar tonight or even this week.
I’ve avoided the place since the Tiger called me about this job, because it’s the type that could get me killed—violently.
That’s par for the course and not something that usually factors into my planning beyond the price I’ll charge, but the streets have changed drastically since I was here for winter break.
The Jackal is watching me.
It’s not just the men branded with his insignia out on the streets dealing that are keeping tabs on me, or even the thugs doing his dirty work extorting so-called protection money from every business within his domain.
I learned how to shake that kind of surveillance years ago, easy as breathing, but now I have a dedicated full-time detail following me around.
At least, they tried to.
Underestimated as always, I’m clearly more patient than those assholes ever suspected.
I ignored them for long enough that they got complacent, then I used the opportunity to slip away and get this job done.
I’m not just trying to blend in with the crowd here, I need to disappear entirely.
Tucked into the alleyway like I am, I’ve melted into the shadows so well that even when a few of the Jackal’s thugs I’ve known for years walked past, they didn’t spot me.
Being a ghost is easier than breathing for me, which is why spying on clients for the Tiger is my favorite type of work.
I’m picky about what I’ll do for him. I’ve made it pretty fucking clear that I won’t take out innocent witnesses just to keep his dirty clients out of prison, and he’s good about finding me work that falls into line with my own moral code.
I mean, I’m a member of the Twelve, so that code isn’t exactly pious, and that’s how I’ve ended up here, dressed like a Mounty street girl at three in the morning.
The bar doors open again and a group of sleazy, drunk assholes pour out.
The girls around me immediately start their hard sell, talking up their services and sauntering off with the men flashing green at them.
A few call out to me, but I ignore them entirely.
Leaning my overheated, sticky back against the brick wall while I’m staring at my phone should be a big enough indicator that I’m not currently selling, but men are stupid.
Only one attempts to approach me, clearly not the type to take ‘no’ for an answer, but three broken fingers later, the message finally sinks in.
My phone vibrates silently in my hand, and I cringe before opening the new text.
It’s three in the morning, Mounty. I’m done waiting. Where the fuck are you? If you don’t tell me, I’ll text the group chat and Avery will lose her shit.
Ugh.
My stomach does a weird flipping thing which should be a reaction to his attitude, but it’s actually at the idea of him worrying about me like this.
Okay, it’s also probably churning at the prospect of having to finally woman up and deal with the fallout after the showdown with the Jackal.
I’d gotten him out of the city and away from the Jackal the second we got out of the car, which was no easy task.
Then I threw myself into all of the work I had lined up to get my finances in order before the start of senior year.
Harley had raged about it, determined to stay with me and have my back, but I stood my ground.
It was only after I pointed out that I was in more danger with him here that he finally backed down and we hashed out a compromise.
He went to visit his mom like he originally planned, staying out of the Bay and very far away from me, so the Jackal didn’t go nuclear while I got some extra safety measures in place now that a target has undoubtedly been painted on his back.
Once I was sure of his safety, he could come back and stay.
A very reasonable plan and, if I was dealing with someone capable of reason, I’m sure it would’ve worked out perfectly.
Harley lasted three weeks.
It was honestly longer than I'd expected, way longer than Avery did, but once the barrage of text messages started blowing my phone up at all hours of the day, it was only a matter of time before, yesterday, I finally gave in. Even after sending him the address and code to get in, I’d told him not to come down today until after ten in the morning.
I wanted to finish up the job and sneak in three hours of sleep, but in typical Harley fashion, he got in his car the moment he got my message and drove down to the Bay from his hotel on the coast. Even with traffic, he arrived before midnight to an empty house.
He wasn’t happy about it, and the barrage of text messages has only gotten worse as the night wears on.
With a sigh, I try to buy myself some time without pushing him all the way off the ledge.
I’ll come back to the house now. I’ll be thirty mins.
Glancing at the mark I’m here for loitering in the gardens across the road, there’s no sign I’m any closer to being done for the night.
I know he’s there for drugs, I just have to wait the dickhead out, and after weeks of digging up leads, chasing them down, and ruling people out, I’m not about to lose this chance.
The job is worth fifty grand with this photo and nothing if I fuck it up now so, no matter his opinion, Harley will just have to wait.
Problem is, he’s not the type to just do what he’s told, and when the phone buzzes in my hands again, I can feel the attitude he’s throwing at me through the screen.
I’m already in the car.
Of course he is. With another sigh, I send him the name of the bar and then glare down at all the skin I’m showing as if there’s any way to instantly fix this.
He’s either going to be a total fucking dick over it or I’ll get a hot make-out session in the car.
I wonder if he’s boosted the car? Shit, with his record, he probably did.
My thighs rub together because I’m fucking damaged and get hot for that shit.
I keep my back pressed against the wall and head ducked like I’m staring at my phone while I wait, but my gaze never leaves my mark.
He’s coming down from whatever high he’s been riding, and his body language is becoming more and more agitated as the night wears on.
I need him to act before Harley gets here.
If he makes a scene, my cover is blown and I will have to find a new vantage point before spending another night out here following this idiot around.