4. The Estate

The Estate

Terra

E mily and Tom are sitting side by side on the bed, changed into street clothes—a white tennis skirt and baby blue polo for Emily, and tan chinos with a pastel pink polo for Tom. They're waiting, bags packed.

I frown at them. "You two look fuckin' adorable, you know that? I'm so sorry your wedding got ruined."

Emily stands up, tugs Tom to his feet and shoves him out of the room, popping him affectionately on the ass. "Go talk about…I dunno, football or boobs or something. We need a second."

"Talk about our asses," I say over my shoulder. "He told me he's an ass man."

Tom just shakes his head. "I'm not sure what to say to a guy like that. He makes me feel about six inches tall."

Emily positively melts, hustling over to him and cupping his face. "Baby. I married you. I married you . I love you . I want you . I'm gonna ride your cock tonight, okay? I don't care where we are or who's shooting at us. You and me are gettin' it the fuck on , you hear me? You're gonna put a baby in me and we're gonna be happy."

"You're cool, Tommy," I tell him. "Don't be intimidated. He's just a dude."

"Who looks like a freaking Abercrombie model and takes people out likeCharles Bronson." He sighs. "I'm not intimidated, I'm flat-out scared of him."

"And it takes a real man to admit he's afraid," Emily says. "Go. We'll be out in a minute. Just…you know…don't try to fight him."

Tom laughs at that and exits the room, shutting the door behind him.

Emily whirls on me. "TELL ME EVERYTHING. NOW."

I haul the dress off and start talking as I fish my clothes out of my bag. "He has a magical tongue, he made me come harder than I've ever come in my entire life, including that time I edged myself for two hours with the Hitachi wand." I step into my spare pair of panties—a red thong. "He picked me up, put me on his shoulders, and ate me out like he was dying and my pussy was his salvation."

"Where are your underwear?" Emily asks.

"No clue. He took 'em off and lost ‘em."

"You mean to tell me you've been traipsing around this hotel with your cooch hanging out?"

I snicker. "It's not hanging anywhere, bitch, it's tighter than Fort Knox, I'll have you know. And it's covered, furthermore."

"Was this pussy-eating before or after he shot the three dudes who shot at us?"

"Before. Like, right before."

"So, he ate you, shot some dudes, you ran up here, he shot more dudes, and then he asked how you felt about being handcuffed to a bed. Do I have this right?"

I step into my skirt—it's made of faux crow's feathers sewed onto black leather. It sounds dumb, but it looks badass. My top is a black lace bustier that does truly incredible things for my boobs—I toss my bra into the bag and shove myself into the bustier, and then shrug into my black leather biker jacket.

"Yeah," I answer, "That about sums it up."

"So…you like him."

I wiggle into my fishnet stockings and then zip my feet into my big black Doc Marten shitkickers. "I'm glad I packed these boots," I say. "My whole outfit screams 'I'll kick your ass and have fun doing it.'"

"The skirt isn't exactly practical."

"Maybe not. But it's badass." I spend a second primping in front of the mirror, tucking, stuffing, lifting, and prodding my tits to look their best for Saxon, and then fuss with my hair and reapply my lipstick. "And yes, I like him. But it's a weird kind of like. I mean, he scares me every bit as much as he does Tom. The man was a literal fucking assassin . He's shot like…eleven dudes since I met him? But he says he took a vow to never kill anyone again, and so far, he's gone out of his way to keep it. To the point that it's probably stupid, from his point of view. Leaving guys alive who want to and have tried to kill you? Takes big brass fuckin' balls."

"How's his cock?" Emily zips up my bag and rests her chin on my shoulder. "Pretty big, I'm guessing."

I turn to face her, biting my lip and grinning. "I haven't seen it yet. I've only felt it through his pocket, once, and when he had it rubbing up against me before he put me on his shoulders. But judging by that? Yeah. I'm guessing he's packing some serious heat."

"He went down on you but didn't make you return the favor?"

"I tried to," I tell her. "He wouldn't let me. Apparently, he'd rather wait till there aren't people actively trying to kill us or something."

"A man who has his priorities straight, even when his cock is involved?" She pulls a face. "Sounds like a keeper to me, hon."

"Yeah, and that's what scares me."

A fist pounds on the door, fit to break it down—Emily screeches and cowers behind me. "WE GOTTA GO, LADIES!" Saxon sounds annoyed.

"We'd better go." I grab her hand and haul her for the door. "I'll update you on all things Saxon, as I can."

I sling my purse across my torso—it's a black leather sack purse with a strap I made out of an old seatbelt from a vintage Corvette. It's not a simple strap, though. There are buckle receivers on either side of the purse, and I took a spare male part of a seat belt and sewed it to the other end of the seatbelt strap so it has two male ends. This way, I can unbuckle it on either side if need be…and, in an emergency, I can unbuckle both ends and use the seatbelt as a weapon…which I've done.

I open the door and run smack into Saxon. "We're ready." I push him backward. "It helps me leave the room if you're not in the way, you brick wall of a man."

He stares at me without so much as blinking for several seconds. "What…the fuck…are you wearing?"

"My clothes?" I twirl, and the leather-and-feathers skirt bells out—it's super thin, supple, expensive leather. "You like?"

"Are those…feathers?"

I smooth my hand over the very realistic-looking and-feeling feathers. "Yep. Not real. But yes."

Saxon just stares. "Fuckin' hot as sin. Weird, but hot." His eyes—very, very reluctantly—leave my chest and skate down to my feet. "At least you've got sensible footwear."

Emily sweeps past me and tugs Saxon down to her by the ear, stage-whispering, "This is where you ask her who made the skirt."

His eyes bore a hole in me. "Who made the skirt, Terra?"

I roll my eyes. "I did." I pluck at my purse. "And this." I point at Emily. "And her dress. Well, I didn't make it, like from scratch—it was a real 20s flapper dress that I modified."

"Modified it my ass," Emily snorts. "You re-made it entirely. Different hemline, all those pearls…"

Saxon frowns. "Wait. The pearls on her dress…you sewed those on? All of them?"

"By hand," Emily says, prim and proud. "She's one of Boston's most in-demand clothiers."

Saxon scratches his haw. "Holy shit. There were like, a fucking billion of them."

I flex my hand open and closed. "Yeah, don't remind me. My hand still hurts." I smile at Emily. "Worth it, for her, though."

Saxon goes to the penthouse door and none-too-gently kicks the bleeding men out of the way. "Watch your step."

I dance around the pools of blood, trying not to see the faces of the men. Now, without memorable faces, I can pretend they're, like, robots or something. Like The Foot from Ninja Turtles.

Saxon herds us onto the elevator, pushing us into the corner and standing in the doorway. "Whatever happens, let me handle it. If I tell you to run, you fuckin' run. Make for outside. If we get separated, go north two blocks and west two blocks, and stand on the northwest corner of the intersection. Wait for fifteen minutes. If I don't show, you're on your own because I'm dead." He stabs the button for the third floor.

I start to point out that I don't know cardinal directions, but Em shakes her head at me. Good point: don't interrupt him when he's about to do hero shit.

The elevator glides down, bumps to a stop on the third floor, dings, and the doors open.

Two men in black suits with white button-downs and no ties are on the other side. Each wields a small black machine gun type of thing, with the stock things that fold up, and thick black round silencers instead of barrels.

Saxon reacts faster than any human being has a right to—his gun flashes up, palm cupping the butt. It barks twice, making Emily scream and then clap her mouth over her hand.

The men stagger backward—Saxon has placed bullets in identical spots on their stomachs, low on the left side. Why there, I don't know. Nothing but the intestine, maybe? I can't imagine there's a good place to be shot, especially in the abdominal area. But what do I know?

He rushes at them, disarming them both, and kicks them to the floor. He takes magazines, or clips, or whatever, from their pockets, and cell phones. Cash. A big folding knife from one of them.

"Get help soon, you won't die." Saxon crouches in front of them. "Best I can do, under the circumstances. Hope you fucks got paid in full ahead of time." He heads for the stairs, slinging both machine guns over his torso in opposite directions. "Come on, down the stairs. Double time."

We fairly run down the stairs. Saxon goes ahead, one of the machine guns held like it's part of him as he sweeps down the stairs. He keeps to the outside, occasionally checking down the middle, keeping the barrel trained on the flight below him.

We exit on the first floor, in a hallway. It looks like any other hallway, extending in both directions seemingly endlessly. He takes a split second to orient himself and then drops into that crouch-walk soldier dudes all use when they're planning on shooting people.

A room door opens, and a pale, overweight, middle-aged man with a towel around his waist appears, a room service cart rolling ahead of him. He halts, eying Saxon and his two machine guns and his pockets bulging with machine gun clips.

"In," Saxon barks. "Stay in."

The man leaves the cart and vanishes back inside, the door hitting the cart with a loud rattle.

We move ahead down the hall. I hear sirens, finally. A door opens again, this one a service door, emitting a hotel worker pushing a cart. Saxon grabs the door and holds it.

The maid opens her mouth, but Saxon digs in his pocket and pulls out a hundred-dollar bill. "You didn't see us."

"Okay. I no see." She vanishes the money and glances down the hallway toward the lobby—the direction we were going. "I no see the men in lobby, either. But they no pay. The pindejos hit my culata ."

"How many?"

" Ses ? Ocho ? Many. All guns." She points at the machine guns. "Like this." She frowns. "They beat up manager. Put gun in mouth. They are bad men."

Saxon nods. "Yes. Bad men. Mucho malo . Stay away."

She nods. "They look for you?"

He nods and gestures to Emily, Tom, and me. "And them. They're innocent."

"Bad men. I know bad men. You are no bad man." She glances both ways and then produces a keycard from some pocket of the cart. "You go back door. Left. Always left. Big trucks for towels. You hide."

Saxon gives her another hundred. "Thanks. Gracias, muchas gracias ."

She takes it. "I no see. Adios."

We jog down the service corridor, and Saxon leads us. We make a few wrong turns and have to backtrack several times, but eventually we push through a door with a red exit sign above it and emerge outside, in a covered delivery area. As the woman told us, several large trucks are unloading and loading supplies, men with dollies coming and going, others huddled around cigarettes.

When we appear, all conversation and activity halts.

"Need wheels." Saxon holds up several fanned hundred-dollar bills in one hand, and the gun in the other. "Gonna get 'em one way or another."

A tall, lanky, scraggly-bearded white guy steps forward. "I got wheels. Ain't anythin' fancy, but it'll get you gone."

Saxon trades cash for keys, with directions as to where the car is parked. "I'll park it behind Mick's Garage," he says and gives the man an address I recognize as being on the border of one of the wealthiest Boston suburbs. "Can't promise what condition it'll be in, though."

"I know Mick," the man says. "Just don't leave no guns or drugs in it. I'm on probation."

"That I can do."

The car in question is a late 90s Cadillac El Dorado. Huge and green, with lots of rusting chrome and acres of green velour. The engine catches with a hearty, V8 rumble.

"What's she runnin'?" Tommy asks me.

"Rev it," I tell Saxon, and he guns it. "Original NorthStar V8, 4.6 liter."

Saxon quirks an eyebrow at me. "You know engines."

"My dad is a car guy. Construction just pays the bills—his real love is cars. He taught me, whether I liked it or not. I could be a mechanic if I wanted to."

"Hot." Saxon jerks the car into gear and pulls out of the alley, turning onto the main road…just as a huge black SUV squeals to a stop in front of the hotel, disgorging six more men with guns. "Fuck. Won't be long before they get an update on my location. Hold on, this is gonna be a fun ride."

And, indeed, it is. He drives like someone with evasive driving training, squealing around corners at high rates of speed, last-second braking, aggressively dodging and weaving through traffic, all on main roads…with sirens howling all around. Apparently, the attempted murder-fest in the hotel attracted a little attention.

And then onto a freeway, where he drives 65 in the slow lane. Police cars fly by with lights and sirens flashing, and big black SUVs slide past as well.

He exits the freeway and the big old Cadillac floats us along one tree-lined suburban road after another, turning at random but always heading in the same general direction. Eventually, the houses grow larger, the lawns greener and wider and deeper, and the driveways longer and windier. And then the properties stop being houses with lawns and start being estates , with gated drives and manicured fields and elaborately trimmed bushes and mansions with wings and turrets and shit. The kind of estates that have names on gold plaques on the stone gate posts and the occasional guard hut.

After trawling through one such neighborhood for several minutes—in which we pass by the same estate several times—we finally crawl to a stop some ten or twenty feet from the estate he's driven by at least four times now. He leaves the huge old Caddy in gear, idling, and watches for almost five minutes.

His expression is shut down, opaque, but he's tense—I can see it in his muscles, in the white-knuckle grip he has on the steering wheel.

"Where are we?" I ask, not quite whispering. "What is this place?"

"Hell on earth, wrapped in expensive packaging." He says this, and then growls, a long rumble in his chest. "Fuck it. Nothing here but ghosts anymore."

He pulls up to the gate, lowers his window, and punches in a six-digit code on the panel. The stone posts are ten feet tall, the black wrought iron gates more like twelve, and the wrought iron motif continues as a fence extending in both directions for what looks to be nearly half a mile. Jesus, that's a lot of metal. Just the fence costs more than I've ever seen in my life, and probably more than my father, mother, and I have ever made, combined.

The driveway is a black ribbon winding this way and that, lined by towering trees in full leaf, creating a cathedral-like tunnel through which the sun shines in dappled, rippling patches. Beyond the trees, acre after acre of grass, mowed in neat stripes of darker and lighter green. Off in the distance, I spy a white gazebo on a hilltop, a cobblestone path meandering from the house—a castle, more like—to the gazebo. We round a bend and crest a hill, and a gargantuan barn appears a few hundred yards off the driveway, which forks toward it. White three-row horse fence creates square paddocks enclosing dozens of acres each. Horses graze in one of them, black ones and white ones and dapples and reds and all sorts of colors.

A figure moves in the paddock containing the horses, throwing hay here and there from the back of a UTV driven by someone else.

"Is this yours?" Emily asks, her voice quiet and intimidated.

"Fuck no. Belonged to my parents. Now I guess it belongs to my brothers and me. I dunno. None of us give a fuck about it." Saxon snorts. "This fuckin' place. Jesus."

I glance at him. "If your parents are both gone…"

"Who takes care of the place?" He gestures at the horses. "It runs itself. My folks' estate, meaning their total net worth as left in the will and all that shit, is so fuckin' vast and old that the upkeep of this place is taken care of. The groundskeepers, the stable hands, the house staff, they're all still here, doing their jobs, getting paid, even though Mom and Dad are dead and in their graves and I and my brothers aren't here and won't be here except occasionally."

"So you're rich as fuck, then," Tom says.

Saxon tips his head to one side. "Nah. See, for one, there's rich, and there's wealthy, and then there's old money—generational wealth. This?" He sweeps a hand in a broad gesture. "Been here for goin' on three hundred years. The property, I mean. The estate, in this case, meaning the acreage owned by my family. The house is only like a hundred and ten years old, I think."

"Oh, is that it?" Emily snarks.

"Hey, I hear ya, but there are cabins and staff quarters on the property that are older than the country itself. My family, meaning my ancestors, have lived on this land since before the Revolutionary War. So, when I say old money, that's what I mean."

"No shit?" Emily says. "And you don't care about it?"

Saxon sighs. "I mean, I don't think any of us will sell it, mainly because it's worth so much that it'd take like a fuckin' decade to sell. I'm not sure where you'd even start pricing it, honestly. Several hundred million, probably, at a guess. It's not just the land, or the house, or the barns, but the history. It's our legacy." He growls. "Fuck, it's complicated, okay? Our father was a goddamn monster. We all hated him. And I mean, truly and deeply hated ." It's funny—his street-wise persona and accent slips, here. He's more well-spoken, a little more proper. I don't think he even notices. "Everywhere I look, there's a memory of my dad being a fucking abusive tyrant. But there's other shit, too. Mom."

He shakes his head. His jaw clamps shut and he says nothing else as we finish the drive to the house.

It's massive. Like something out of Bridgerton or Downton Abbey, all white stone and black wood trim, arched doorways and a slate roof and the kind of glass that's so old it has bubbles in it—some of the windows are stained glass, possibly taken from an old church. The driveway circles in front of the mansion, with a huge marble fountain in the middle, a Greco-Roman replica of a naked woman pouring water out of a pitcher.

The steps leading up to the main doorway feature six-foot-high stone lions captured mid-roar.

A side door opens and an elderly man marches to us—I say "march," because his gait is stiff and precise and proper, military. He's tall and thin, with white hair in a precise side part. He's wearing a full-ass tuxedo.

He rounds the hood and opens Saxon's door. "Mr. Saxon, welcome." His voice is almost a Transatlantic accent, not quite British, but almost. "You've missed Mr. Silas by a matter of hours."

"Oh yeah? And Sol?"

"I've not seen him since before the funeral, sir."

"Silas took a car?" Saxon asks.

"Yes sir. The DB5, sir."

"Figures. He always did like that one." Saxon unfolds from the car and the butler or—whatever he is—opens my door next. Tom and Emily don't wait, getting out on their own. "Listen, Graham. You need to hire some additional security. And I mean real security, not rent-a-cops. Dudes that used to be military—armed, and not afraid to pull the trigger. Anyone who's not me, Silas, or Solomon, shoot them. Don't ask questions. Don't ask for ID. Don't warn them. Shoot them in the fuckin' skull. You got me, Graham?"

Graham nods, once, and pulls a cell phone from his inner suit coat pocket, finds a contact, and calls it. "Gerald? Graham. Increase security to code red. Immediately. Re-vette all staff. Excellent. Thank you."

Saxon nods. "Great. Now, next order of business." He nods at Emily and Tom. "I want an expense account in their names arranged. Cap it at…" he eyes them, thinking. "Two mil a year, in perpetuity. Is that doable?"

Graham does mental calculations. "Yes, sir. You and your brothers have hardly touched your expense accounts, let alone your inheritances. I can draw from yours, with your permission."

"Done. But I want it hidden. Shells and fronts and shit, and make sure taxes are taken care of before they see it. Get fancy with that shit."

"I'll put Edward on it, sir." Graham sends a text and then returns his attention to Saxon. "There is more, sir?"

"Yes. I'm gonna need the Daytona, and the papers for it. Enclosed delivery, with a discreet driver, hired for silence. Send it to this address." He rattles off a New Jersey address. "For myself, I want something new and powerful that won't stand out." A pause. "The Cadillac we came in I want sent to Mick's and have him fix it up like new, on my account."

"The last purchase your father made was an armored Range Rover, a coachbuilt vehicle. It's rated to withstand automatic weapons fire, I believe, but looks very much like your average Range Rover."

"Perfect. Gas it up and bring it around." Saxon turns to Emily and Tom. "Where do you want to go?"

Emily is just staring, open-mouthed. "Wait, wait, wait. Can we go back to 'expense account' and 'cap it at two mil a year'?"

Saxon smirks. "My way of apologizing."

"Yeah, I gathered that, but can you…elaborate? Like, what's an expense account, and what does two mil a year mean?"

Saxon arches an eyebrow. "It means you and Tom will, by the end of the week, I'd think, have a joint bank account. In it, you will have two million dollars, after taxes, per year. For the rest of your lives. Each year, it will refresh. If you spend all two million, or one penny, doesn't matter. You need more, just ask. No oversight, no daily limits. Yours, free and clear, to do with as you like. If you want, I can have Edward, our family money man, handle it for you. Meaning invest so it multiplies. It's what I'd recommend. In five years, you'll have a hefty retirement nest egg. In ten, you'll have generational wealth."

"But…" Tom stares. "How? Why?"

Saxon claps him on the shoulder. "I fucked up your wedding. I can't give that back. But what I do have is access to more money than God. Look around, man. My personal annual expense account is at, fuckin'…eight mil? Right, Graham?"

"Six, sir. Four, after I divert the funds for your friends."

"We can't take two million dollars a year from you, Saxon," Emily protests.

Saxon chortles. "You can, and you will. That's just my personal allowance. I don't use it. Never have. My brother and I ran away from home and lived in a car rather than use family money. And then we went to work for The Cabal. I made serious bank in my years with them and spent very little of it. Plus, I get paid insane money now, and spend none of it. I could fund your expense account from my own personal account from the money I earned myself and never feel it. But I like using Cabot family money for this because, for one, it's just sitting there doing nothing, and two, my money is blood money, earned by hits, and I doubt you want that shit on your conscience. And three, using family money gets you access to Edward's financial wizardry, which I can't provide."

Tom swallows hard. "Two million dollars a year? Forever?"

"That's the idea. Once all this bullshit settles, with my death or otherwise, you'll be able to buy a nice house. Pay bills. Go on vacation. Quit your jobs and live in a villa in the Caribbean drinking mojitos all day, if you want." He snaps his fingers. "Enough of that. I need to send you two on a honeymoon. Somewhere far away from here. Paris? Tahiti? Reykjavik? Pick a place. Where have you always wanted to go?"

Emily and Tom lock eyes. Communicate silently. "I've always wanted to just sort of bum around Europe and the Mediterranean," Emily says. "No plan, just go wherever."

Graham speaks up. "Might I make a suggestion, in that case, sir?" Saxon flips a hand, and Graham continues. "My niece lives in Rome and runs a private tour company. She can provide a full-service exploratory tour of anywhere, complete with transportation, translation, room booking, the works."

"Perfect," Saxon says. "Do it. Pay her from my account and make it worth her while."

"Um, small problem," Tom says. "We don't have passports."

Saxon shrugs. "No worries. The guy I'm seeing today can handle that. Better if you're on fakes anyway, just to be absolutely sure this shit doesn't find you."

"I'll arrange it," Graham says. "I can have the jet ready in about an hour."

"The jet?" Emily says, eyes wide as saucers.

Saxon smirks again. "Private jet. Private airfield. Private pilot."

Emily looks at me. "Are we in the fuckin' Twilight Zone?"

I'm speechless, and can only shrug and shake my head.

"Meantime, Graham, get these two whatever they want to eat and drink. Set 'em up in the library. Terra, unfortunately, you and I got business to tend to. Unless you'd rather kick it with Tom and Emily? Safer for you, if I'm honest."

I swallow hard and eventually find my words. "No." I have to clear my throat. "No. I'm with you."

"Tare," Emily says, eyes watering. "Come with us."

I shake my head. "It's your honeymoon, for one thing. But really, I…" I look at Saxon. "I gotta see this through. I can't explain why, but I do."

She hugs me and whispers in my ear. "You can tell yourself it's all about the dick, but you and I both know better. He's the real deal, honey. If you can hold on to him and you can both come out of this alive…?" she kisses me on the cheek. "Tell me all about it, okay?"

An attractive older woman with salt-and-pepper hair in a neat chignon appears, wearing a gray power suit. "Madam, sir. If you'll come with me, I have refreshments in the library."

Emily jumps. "Who are you? Where'd you come from? How'd you get here?"

Saxon laughs. "Best to not ask questions, Emily. It's proprietary house staff magic. I can't explain it either."

Em and I hug, and then I hug Tom. "Take good care of my girl, yeah? Put a baby in her. It's what she wants more than anything."

"I know," he says. "I've got it covered." He snickers. "Or, uncovered, actually."

I shove him. "Gross. TMI."

He laughs. "TMI? You've told me intimate details of your boy toys' dicks, Terra. That's TMI."

"Shut up. Go eat fancy food. Take my girl on honeymoon. Fuck her senseless. Have fun."

"Be safe, okay?" He looks at Saxon. "Keep her safe, man. She's like a sister to me."

Saxon just nods. "I've got her."

He's got me.

Tom and Emily seem to think that's answer enough. And, I suppose, it is.

They follow the magically appearing woman inside, and I hear Emily oohing and ahhing before the door closes.

Alone with Saxon and Graham, I let out a breath. "Thank you, Saxon."

"For what?"

"Taking care of my friends." I swallow hard. "They're more like my family than anything."

"Yeah, I can tell. That shit is more valuable than anything money can buy. But what money can buy is safety and security. What Graham didn't mention that I happen to know is that his niece's tour company also employs serious security."

Graham's smile is thin, and dangerous looking. "They'll be closely but discreetly guarded. I doubt they'll even realize they're being protected."

"Perfect. Just make sure Elise gets a king's ransom out of it, yeah?"

"She's not hurting, sir. Her business is very successful." Graham forestalls Saxons' protest. "But I will see to it that her normal fees are tripled." He looks at me, then. "And for your…companion, sir?"

Saxon looks at me for a long, long time. Weighing options. "Dad's name?" He asks me, eventually.

I shake my head. "I don't want him dead, Saxon."

This earns me a bark of laughter. "Jesus, woman. I'm not gonna take care of him like that, shit. I'm gonna set him up with help you don't have to pay for."

I choke. "He's my responsibility. No."

He gently pinches my chin between my forefinger and thumb. "Wrong. You're the kid, he's the adult. What's his name, sweetheart?"

"That's all you need? A name?"

He nods. "That's it. First, middle, last. I'll handle the rest. Or, Graham will."

"Padraig Sean Connelly." I swallow again, but my throat is dry. "He's at Willow Acres. It's a group halfway house."

"Is it any good?"

"No, it's a shithole, but it's all I can afford."

He nods. "What's his poison?"

"Alcohol. Pills. Meth. Crack. You name it, he's been addicted to it. Latest bout was pills and booze."

"You could leave him in the shithole. Serve him right, from what I'm piecing together."

"Tempting. But…it's complicated." I sigh.

"He paid up there through the month?"

I shake my head, cheeks burning. "No, I…I'm behind. I put him through rehab first, and that cleaned me out. I've got a few commissions coming through soon, but until I can work on them…."

"Let's leave him there for now. Graham, you—" Saxon realizes Graham is already on the phone, handling it.

My eyes sting. "I don't need your money, Saxon. I can take care of myself. And my father."

"Of course you can," he says. "But you don't have to. You're not alone anymore."

The stinging turns to burning. I shake my head and walk away—I don't know where I'm going, and it doesn't matter. My feet take me off the blacktop and into the grass.

Away, just away. Anywhere, just away.

Half-blind with tears I refuse to let fall, I find myself at a fence, eyes blurred. I fight the tears, shaking all over with the effort.

Something warm washes over me, a hot breath smelling of grass and life. A wet nose nudges my hand. I look up, and a pair of deep, dark, wide brown eyes regard me— a horse. Big, mostly white with a brow blaze on his or her nose, and two brown socks.

"Well, hi there," I murmur. I duck and peek—she's a girl. "Hi, girl. You're pretty, huh? I always wanted a horse."

She nuzzles me again, and I pet her nose. Her ears prick and swivel, and she nods at me. Nuzzles me. Whickers gently.

I hear an engine behind me, and then brakes, and then a door opening and closing.

"That's Petsy." His voice is close, and soft.

"Patsy?"

"No, Petsy, with an ‘e.' She's an attention whore." he laughs. "Scratch her chin."

I do so, vigorously scratching under the horse's chin, and she extends her head flapping her lips and rolling her eyes, whinnying comically—the more I scratch, the sillier she gets.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he says, after a minute.

My laughter at Petsy's antics subsides. "It's not you. Or, well, it is. It's just complicated."

"I get it. Nothing fucks with your head so much as family bullshit."

"Got that right," I growl and shake my head. "I don't want to talk about my father."

"Don't have to."

"Do these people after us have my name or whatever?"

"Not yet, but they will. We gotta get ahead of that. I need to see Luka. Get this tracker out of me."

"And then?" I turn and look at him. "I'm not here to tell you what to do, but it seems to me like if you're always reacting, you won't ever get ahead. If you were asking me, which I realize you aren't, I'd tell you to figure out how to get ahead of them."

Saxon nods. "You're right. I have some ideas, but until I can stop them from tracking every move I make, nothing will make a difference. We've been here too long as it is. Time to go."

I give Petsy one last chin scratch. "Bye, girl."

Saxon takes my hand and leads me to the car, a shiny black Range Rover. "After this is handled, no matter what does or doesn't happen with us, you can come here and ride whenever you want. Shit, take your pick, and that horse is yours. God knows they need someone to ride them."

"You don't?"

He shrugs as he starts the car. "Nah, not really. Not in years. Used to love it, though."

"Well, maybe you can love it again. With me."

He nods. "Maybe. Maybe."

Hot and cold. The man is complicated as fuck. Terse, streetwise, hard-eyed, quick to shoot one second, passionate and erotic and sensual the next, and then distant and tense after that. I can't keep up with the man.

And that's saying something—usually, it's men who can't keep up with me.

What am I getting myself into?