Undertow

4. Conscious Decay

4

CONSCIOUS DECAY

I perch on the edge of a pull-out bed in the den of Julia’s brother’s house.

Adrian, the oldest . I don’t know for sure if he was the one she spoke to in the restroom on our walk, but I’m making that assumption based on the fact that I’m here. Throwing yourself at someone you met an hour ago is strange. Offering them a room in your house, dangerous—unless you’re the predator.

I’ve probed enough since that secret rendezvous to be confident they don’t know I’m a plant from McArthur. If I had to guess, they plan to extract as much information about the rival operation as they can from me. Maybe use me for something more nefarious. But I have no evidence of that. I don’t think they know what to do with me yet. Julia just saw an opportunity and pounced.

Literally.

My heart beats rapidly as I will my phone screen to light up with a text. Merrick hasn’t responded to my S.O.S. and I’m running out of time. How long should it take me to “change and clean up”? Six minutes. I’ve spent ten more waiting for my contact to answer.

I cast a nervous look at the entryway leading to the rest of the house. So far they haven’t come to check on me, but I’m prepared for footsteps at any second. If Julia is going to play the lovesick teenager, then she’ll be a constant shadow at my side. Once I leave this room, I won’t be able to check my McArthur phone again until tonight. By then it might be too late.

Come on, man. Message me back.

While I’m waiting, I check my other phone. The real one even the McArthurs don’t know about. As usual, I skim the terse, formal messages, and linger on the few from Gramps. In one, he’s at the edge of the pool, grinning at the camera while holding up some fruity umbrella drink. I smile and squint at the screen, trying to guess what it is.

What would I have ordered if I were there with him? I’d like to say it’d be something badass like shots of tequila or whiskey. But fuck, if I were free, I’d be all over that fruity shit too. I can’t even remember the last time I consumed alcohol by choice.

My McArthur phone buzzes, and I stash Gramps and his cocktail back into hiding.

Chocolate or vanilla, waits for me in our text stream.

Thank god.

I open the message and write vanilla .

Merrick: Blue sprinkles?

Me: Sounds good.

Vanilla and blue sprinkles. Call him at 2 AM. Shouldn’t be hard to be discreet since everyone else will be on the other side of the house sleeping at that time. With the cameras and alarm system, meeting up in person isn’t an option, but a quick bathroom call shouldn’t be a problem.

What the volatile man does when I drop the bombshell about the change of plans might be, however.

I tuck the phone into the hidden compartment of my suitcase with the other one, and my gaze gets caught on the composition book. The words have been torturing me all day, loud and violent in a head being ripped apart over the last twenty-four hours. But they’ll have to wait, maybe longer than normal depending on how the next few hours play out.

When the old floorboards whine with approaching footsteps, I force away the pinch in my chest, shove my suitcase under the bed, and push to my feet.

Swiping my shirt off the mattress, I face away from the door so I can act surprised.

“You okay?” Julia asks a second later.

I pretend to flinch at her voice and turn with the sleeves tucked around my wrists like she caught me mid-dress.

“Sorry. Yeah. Almost done.”

There’s nothing accidental about the way I stretch to show off as much of my body as possible while I pull my shirt over my head. My low-hanging shorts slip further down my hips in the adjustment, exposing everything I want her to see in this moment.

Her intense stare scorches my skin as I take my time covering up, and she does very little to hide her fascination in the scalding seconds that follow. It’s doubtful she’s acting. She doesn’t think she has to, and I know from experience that once I get my clothes off, the game isn’t even fair. McArthur made it clear from the beginning what my role in his organization would be, and looking the part was never optional. The challenge is getting them to this point.

Well, it’s supposed to be. This cat-and-mouse subtext we have going has changed the rules.

“Geez,” she mumbles. Her hungry eyes are stripping off the shirt I’m carefully molding into place.

“What?” I laugh out.

“Are you even real?”

She waves over me, and I shake my head with a smirk.

“You’re one to talk.”

Her blush has to be genuine as well. No way she’s as good at this as I am. No one is. I was born for this.

“Well, you’re going to have to do a better job of keeping your clothes on if you want to take things slow,” she teases.

Except, she’s not entirely joking. Gaze locked on mine, she steps closer. Everything in her body language tells me she really likes what she saw. That she wants to see it again.

I lift the hem of my shirt several inches, as if checking something on the fabric, then raise it higher when I “find” it. I feel the burn of her gaze on the exposed ridges of my abs. It travels down my inked skin to where the sharp pelvic lines meet the waistband of my shorts.

I give her a few seconds to look before ending the show.

“I said slower. I didn’t say how slow,” I return with a deadly half-grin. I’ve done a lot of damage with that grin.

Heat flares in her eyes, and I try not to think about the damage she could do to me if I’m not careful. That kiss… I’m still haunted by the fact that I can’t definitively say none of it was real.

Her gaze tackles me on the bed two feet away as she closes the gap between us. The hunger is apparent when she creases the fabric of my shirt, drawing a forceful line down the center of my chest with her finger. I chose this shirt specifically because of how it accents my strongest weapon—my eyes.

“Your eyes are seismic,” many lips have whispered at my ear. Except, they don’t say “seismic.” Sexy, mysterious, tempting, dozens of adjectives over the years, all tedious and uninspired. What they mean is treacherous , because once those eyes are trained on you, Montgomery McArthur will own you too.

Julia wants to play me, but I’ve already won.

“The whole family eats at my mom’s house every Tuesday night. You want to come?” Her fingers glide back up my shirt to curve around the back of my neck. I hiss in a breath when she jerks us together.

“As your date or your unemployed charity project?” I ask with a mischievous smile.

She returns it, her hips grazing mine in sweet, intentional friction. Her focus sinks to my lips again. “Both?”

My smile widens into a grin as I lean in for a chaste kiss. Just enough to trigger the ache. Not enough to satisfy it. She exhales a frustrated breath when I pull back and step away.

“Is it going to be weird that you’re bringing some guy you met two hours ago to your family dinner?”

She lifts her shoulder with an amused glint. “Probably. But why do I think you’re a guy who can handle weird?”

I spot her immediately. Mama H , the head of the Hartford clan.

Unlike Julia, the Matriarch looks older in person. The dossier photos were outdated. Silver, chin-length hair tucked behind her ears frames tanned, wrinkled skin weathered by sun and strife, much like the rest of her small kingdom.

I’m careful not to stare as I do a quick scan of the scene to absorb as much as I can.

The house itself is dated but impressive in its size. Two stories, a wraparound front porch, and aged yellow paint give it an inviting look. It’s a deceptive charm, since everything around it broadcasts the opposite. Security cameras watch from strategic locations around the property. Thick vegetation on each side of the building blocks access to the back of the house and forms a natural barrier for privacy—as well as a means of escape.

The single gate connecting the front yard to the back requires an intricate combination. I only caught six of the eleven numbers as Julia punched them in.

There’s no question this is a hub of illegal activity.

We’re in the back now, facing a stunning view of the ocean—a view I’m careful to avoid as I focus instead on the rest of my surroundings. Behind the house, the ceiling of the first floor extends out several feet, creating two stories of outside space. At the ground level is a covered patio, while a balcony lines the exterior on the second. The rectangular inground pool is littered with debris and algae. I only recognize a few of the people occupying the tattered chairs surrounding it from my research.

The entire property has the stately air of an heirloom mansion that was in its prime fifty years ago and remembers it fondly.

“Mama H, this is Everett Shaw,” Julia says, pulling me toward the woman seated at a worn patio table. A tub of shelled walnuts sits beside her folding chair. Another small pile rests beside the bowl in front of her. She continues working on the nut in her hands as her wary gaze brushes me.

“Hello, ma’am. I go by Shaw,” I say, nodding toward her. I’m too far away for a handshake, and she’s made no indication she’s interested in one.

“Adrian said they picked you up at the café,” she rasps through a clench of the nutcracker. Her voice is rough, her tone, matter-of-fact. The crunch of the shell draws her back to her task, and Julia nudges me.

“Yes, ma’am. I… love coffee.”

Julia shoots me an exasperated look, and I return a helpless shrug. I’m still playing na?ve, hapless artist. They need to think I’ll be easy to manipulate and control.

“He just got fired from The Palmetto Grande,” she explains.

This gets the older woman’s attention, and her dark eyes probe me in the silence.

There’s something cold and menacing in her stare. It’s not the soulless composure of Montgomery McArthur, but stormy and distrusting, like she’s looking for a reason to explode on me. Funny how they both make my skin crawl for opposite reasons.

“Did he now,” she says coolly. It’s not a question, and somehow I sense she already knew all of that.

With the slightest tick of her head toward the open chair across from her, she issues her command. Julia squeezes my arm, urging me to obey. Once I’m seated, the woman resumes cracking, and I shudder at the violence with which she wields that tool. It could just as easily be a knuckle or toe in the metal grip, and her demeanor probably wouldn’t change.

“What’d you do for them?” she asks without looking up.

“Bartender.”

“How long you work there?”

“At The Palmetto Grande? Only four months.”

She looks up, her gaze sweeping past me to Julia and Adrian. There’s no question they had a conversation about me prior to this meeting. This introduction is staged.

“You ever work at any of their other properties?” she asks, returning to her cracking.

“Several.”

Right answer.

“For how long?”

“In total? About three years.”

She reaches for another handful from the bucket. “You got people, Shaw?”

“No, ma’am. My parents died when I was seventeen.”

Died.

I clench my jaw against the sting of the truth about my parents. Telling this lie is second nature, so why is it causing problems now?

“You been on your own for a while then, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

First real truth of the evening.

Her hand stalls on the nutcracker as she studies me. “So you probably know how to take care of yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The second truth.

The woman’s eyes lock on mine for a beat. I feel Julia’s stare as well but don’t acknowledge it.

“Why’d you get fired, son?”

Julia issues a silent warning beside me. No more games. You need to confess.

I pull in a deep breath. “I saw something I wasn’t supposed to,” I say quietly, allowing the hint of a waver in my voice. I want them to think I’m nervous. Hurt, maybe even scarred by what happened. It’s been ages since I’ve cared enough about anything to wound me for real.

Not since New Orleans.

“What did you see?”

“Well… um…” I look to Julia in an obvious plea.

“He’s scared, Mama H,” she explains quickly. I notice the way she meets her mother’s gaze for a silent conversation. Mama H scans me again before nodding.

“We can talk later,” she says to me. “Enjoy dinner. Lincoln is making his famous ribs and twice-baked potatoes. Julia will get you a towel if you want to use the pool.”

A tug on the back of my shirt indicates this interview is over, and I twist back to find Adrian and another man standing behind me like a security detail. Fist locked in my shirt, Adrian drags me up and guides me away at a steady pace.

Once we’re a safe distance from the table, his hard expression softens into a smile. He shakes me by the collar before letting go. “She likes you.”

“Really?” I ask skeptically. “I thought she was going to use that nutcracker on me.”

He laughs and slings an arm around my neck. “Nah. If she didn’t approve, she wouldn’t have invited you to stay. Come on. I’ll introduce you to everyone else. You don’t mind if I borrow him, right, Jules?” Her irritated look says she does, and Adrian’s grin widens. “We’ll give him back by bedtime, promise.”

“Asshole,” she mutters, shoving him. “Sorry for these cavemen,” she says to me.

By the way she scours me in the silence, she’s definitely picturing me naked right now. It’s exactly what I want, and why I offered a glimpse of what could be early on.

The problem is, my own brain takes off on a perilous detour as well.

Things I want to see.

Taste.

Explore.

Deny.

It’s too soon to sleep with her. Not until I talk over the latest developments with Merrick—and not until I get these strange impulses under control.

Over the next hour, I play my role to perfection. With each introduction, I log more information about the other members of the family and their relationships with each other. My flirting with Julia is merciless, punctuated by pockets of sincere conversation that have her hooked and drawing me in to more intimate discussions with the others.

By the time food is served, I’m surrounded by new “friends.” With every story and new acquaintance, I’m secretly evaluating, calculating, and planning my next move. I also watch for clues about their intentions for me.

“Hey, I want to show you something,” Julia says once she manages to break me away from a conversation with her cousin. We were halfway through an exhaustive list of every glass bead available for artisanal jewelry-making.

“I didn’t know there was so much to know about beads,” I say as we enter the house and start up a flight of stairs.

“Apparently there is for hot guys who are complex and interesting.” Her eyes narrow at my grin. “Don’t take that the wrong way.”

“What’s the right way to take it?”

She bumps my shoulder with hers, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Smartass.”

“Fair.”

She shakes her head in amusement as she leads me into a room several doors down the hall. As soon as we step inside, something pinches in my chest. No way she shows me this unless part of her feelings for me are real.

“Wow,” I say, looking around the large room.

The violet and black time capsule from a decade ago is sprinkled with artistic reflections of a teenage girl. This has to be her childhood room.

“Welcome to the lair of fifteen-year-old Julia Hartford,” she says with a laugh.

“She seems really interesting.”

I scan the space with appropriate awe. It doesn’t take much to muster that reaction, because there is something fascinating about this mix of sterility and art. Every item seems to be meticulously placed—almost like a staged magazine photo—and yet, slight pockets of individuality disrupt the severity.

A shelf of composition books draws my attention, and a rush of familiarity has my blood pounding harder as I cross toward it.

“Journals?” I ask, waving at the row of worn notebooks.

By her smile, I’m about to get rocked again. “This is what I wanted to show you.”

She moves beside me and plucks one off the shelf. A soft expression lingers on her face as she flips through it, clearly getting lost in old memories.

“My collection,” she says, almost reverently.

She hands the open book to me, and I glance down to see a list of what looks like song titles with comments after them. Variations in the ink and lettering indicate these were written at different times. A closer examination reveals what appear to be annotations with time references.

“All We Ever Needed” has “0:41” jotted beside it with a note that says, “the run on heart. ”

“Your song scavenging,” I say reverently, scanning the rest of the page.

I feel her excitement beside me, her joy at finding a confidant. I’m not even acting right now. I scan the line of books to the end of the row. There must be at least a dozen of them.

“You’ve collected this many pieces of songs?” I hear the wonder in my voice, but she doesn’t know it has nothing to do with the collection and everything to do with her. I’ve never met someone who micro-tunes beauty like I do. For me, it’s words. How just the tiniest phrase can take my breath away with its surprising imagery or syntax. I once read a book that used the phrase “insignificant harmony” to describe scattered thoughts, and it took me a week to get over it. I ended up tattooing it on my forearm. Left one, beside the wolf fangs cutting into my skin.

“I know it’s weird.”

“Weird? It’s amazing,” I say, paging through the rest of the book. “Can I see the others?”

Her smile is genuine as she nods. Like me, she’s probably not used to other minds who understand her “weird.”

“Have you ever done anything with this?” I ask.

“Like what?”

I shrug. “Put it in a database and publish it online or something. There are probably a lot of people who’d love to share this with you.”

“You think? Is that what you do with your writing?”

She didn’t mean it as a slap, but her sincere question stings just the same.

“No,” I mumble, returning the book to its place. I love that it has a place. My words are an entire symphony of insignificant harmonies. They have to be. Hoarded and hidden where no one can ever find them.

“You okay?” she asks, concern etched in her expression.

“What? Yeah, of course.” I force a smile and brush my fingers over another black spine. This conversation is getting too dangerous. This moment .

A knock startles us out of our unexpected intimacy, and we snap our attention toward the door. Adrian sticks his head through the opening.

“There you are.” Surprise flashes on his face before he covers it up. “Mama H wants to talk to us.”

It’s not an option, and I sense Julia’s tension beside me.

“All of us?”

They exchange a grave look, and Adrian nods. “Yep. Bring your new boyfriend.” His tone is light and teasing, but it doesn’t feel that way in the stiff energy of the room.

“Hilarious.” Julia’s smile is forced when she turns to me. “You up for a quick chat?”

As if there could be any answer besides “ yes.”

“Sure. I mean… do you know what this is about?” I ask Julia.

I’m back to playing the anxious pawn, and part of me is relieved to bury the glimpse of my true self that intruded on the previous moment.

Something dangerous stirred in that connection. Something that was supposed to be dead.

“Nothing to be nervous about. She probably just wants to get to know you better,” Julia lies.