CHAPTER SIXTEEN

TROY

THE IDIOT ARRIVEDin the middle of the night, just when Flynn Van Horn threw up all over my Derby shoes, crawling on the floor toward the wooden table at the end of the hideout cabin and trying to get to the phone on top of it.

“Damn junkie,” I muttered, stepping over his puke to open the door for my employee. Brock stood on the other side, looking stupidly smug. His car lights were still on, illuminating the hills around us.

Originally, my dad bought this place, in the middle of The Berkshires and faraway from civilization and Boston, to spend time with Robyn. When I inherited it, I used it mostly to take care of business. And right now I had a junkie to detox, only I didn’t know shit about shit when it came to rehabbing a drug addict.

But that’s what I had Brock for.

Flynn’s father, George Van Horn, had insisted that his son could not attend a regular rehab facility, where someone could find out about his loser spawn. I took him to the cabin because its walls swallowed the secrets of my clients. They were soaked with them, big and small, dirty and crazy. Secrets everywhere. The blackmailing mistresses I had to deal with. The coercing gang members I had to throw out of town. The rich people who needed to disappear for a while. I swear, if these walls could talk, Boston Metro Police would have enough work for the next three centuries.

“I said one hour, not nine.” I flashed my teeth angrily, and Brock pushed past me, walking into the cabin with his kit. He was looking all kinds of chirpy. What the fuck have you done now?

“Where’s our little patient?” he asked.

Just then, Flynn began to gag, reaching up for the table and trying to struggle to his feet. He fell flat, facedown and the sound of a bone cracking filled the air. I shook my head and sank into the squeaky yellow sofa my dad’s mistress picked. She had a horrible taste. Cozy braided rugs all throughout, a small, wooden kitchen and a bunch of deer heads mounted on the log walls. The cabin looked like a perfect place for a Stephen King character to murder his victims.

“I’m going to die!” Flynn yelled, just as Brock squatted down to take a look at him. He hovered over the frail kid and spoke to him calmly, explaining what he was going to do in order to determine his physical situation.

In truth, I believed Flynn. From the moment I stepped into his rundown apartment and yanked him off of his junkie girlfriend while he was trying—and failing—to nail her in their dirty sheets, he’d been shaking, purging and crying uncontrollably, muttering throughout the whole car drive to the cabin that he was sick and needed his next fix. I wasn’t a doctor, but the fact that he was blue didn’t leave me optimistic about his physical wellbeing.

“He needs to get to the hospital,” Brock announced, getting up on his feet from Flynn and yanking off a pair of disposable black gloves. “Immediately.”

Snarling, I kicked a nearby footstool.

I couldn’t take Flynn to the ER, and Brock knew that damn well. I was paid to handle him quietly and discreetly. Failing wasn’t an option. Never was in my line of work.

As if on cue, Flynn passed out on the rug, a trail of puke running from the side of his mouth and pooling beneath his cheek. Nothing but watery fluids. His eyes were shut and a coat of cold sweat began to settle on his damp skin.

“Oh, fuck me.” I kneeled down, pressing two fingers to his neck. He was still alive. The pulse was there. It was faint, but it was there. “No hospital.” I jerked my head to the heroin addict. “Do it here.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“His dad would rather he be dead than getting well in a public hospital. We don’t make the rules,” I fired back.

“He could have a heart attack,” Brock argued, quiet and stern, staring down at me from where he was standing, leaning his shoulder against a wall. “We can’t just give him Imodium, a hot bath and a peanut butter sandwich. It’s risky. I don’t want it on my conscience.”

Frustrated, I rubbed my knuckles against my cheekbone. Taking two steps toward him, I wrapped my hand behind his neck and jerked him closer to my face. We were nose to nose now. “Your conscience is already tainted, pretty boy. Just do as you’re told.”

Eyes narrowed, we stared at each other before he shifted, moving sideways and walking back to Flynn. He unzipped his duffel bag—AKA his detox kit—and took out a syringe and a small bottle. I looked away, out the window, closing my eyes as I inhaled deeply. I heard Flynn gasping and Brock fiddling with plastic and pill bottles.

Yeah, rich kids had the tendency to screw around with the hard stuff, and Brock knew how to detox. At least he was good for one thing.

“How was Red’s first day?” I asked, not because I cared, but to remind him who she belonged to. My eyes remained fixed on his car outside the cabin, the headlights still on, illuminating the cold rain. I liked it when it was cold in the summer. It was like the universe was on my side.

“Why don’t you ask her?” Brock sounded amused. “Thought you were on good terms.”

I turned around to face him, and he motioned with his head for me to help him move Flynn onto the sofa. I took him under his armpits and Brock took his feet, and we laid his limp body on the yellow couch. Brock strode to the bedroom and came back with a blanket, swaddling Flynn like he was a baby.

When it was all done and dealt with, Brock took a seat on a stool near the couch and dropped his head to his hands. Lighting a cigarette, he threw the still-burning match toward Flynn. The match jumped on the young man’s skin, putting out slowly against his bare wrist. Flynn was too out of it to feel the burn. Yup, Brock’s good-boy façade always cracked around me.

I wasn’t Catalina, Maria or Red. I was an asshole, just like him, and he didn’t need to impress me. I already knew who he was. He was like the first scene in David Lynch’s Blue Velvet, the insect underneath the well-kept lawn. That was Brock. A cheesy, Hollywood smile disguised the outside, while he was rotting beyond repair inside.

“She came back pissed off. From Miami, that is,” he said, his eyes on the floor. “Tell me you’re not abusing her in any way, because I told her I would keep her safe.”

He told her what? What business did he have butting into my shit?

“And if I am?” I taunted, leaning against the countertop of the galley kitchen. “What if I made it my mission in life to make her miserable? Don’t pretend like you have any power over this, Brock.”

“Oh, but I do.” He lifted his head, blowing a plume of white smoke directly in my face. “Don’t forget I have the key to your can of worms. I know exactly why you married her. What you did to her mother. In fact, I know enough about you to want someone as innocent as her to stay the hell away from you, but since what’s done is done, let me explain myself slowly.” He blew another cloud, grinning behind it. “Harm this girl and I’m giving away every single secret you have to the highest bidder. And you and I both know the competition would be tight. Got it?”

Was he fucking threatening me? Did he forget who I was, what I could do to him? Did he forget he was on my payroll, that I paid for his wife’s fancy shit, for his son’s school and for all those goddamn, David-Beckham-wannabe preppy clothes?

Not thinking clearly, and perhaps not thinking at all, I charged at him, slamming my fist straight into his face. He didn’t see it coming. The sound of my fist against his bone filled the air. Brock dropped his cigarette on the floor and stood up, swaying. He balled his fist and tried to throw a jab my way. I dodged it, and he fell on the floor, still dizzy from my punch. His nose bled all over the floor as he lay there, grunting. He rolled into a fetal position when I stood over him, took my handkerchief out and wiped his blood off my hands. Squatting down to my colleague so he could hear me clearly, I tipped his face up with my finger, looking him in the eye.

“I wouldn’t threaten someone like me when it comes to my secrets. Remember, the reason my secrets are so extreme is because I do extreme things. You don’t want to mess with someone who does what I do. If you think you have some kind of leverage on me…” I snorted a laugh, my hand snaking to the front of his neck, wrapping it around his throat firmly. “Well, it’s a mistake that could cost you a lot. More than you’re willing to pay.”

“Fuck you.” Brock spat blood toward my face, missing it by mere inches. His eyes were watering and his pretty face completely fucked.

I let go of his neck and offered him a casual smile, lifting the burning cigarette he dropped on the floor and tucking it back between his lips. I patted his shoulder like we were old friends. “Good talk, buddy. Now, turn off your fucking car lights. You’re gonna be here awhile.”

Slamming the bedroom door behind me, I sighed into my chest. We were going to spend some time in this shithole trying to help Flynn, but that didn’t mean I had to tolerate the idiot. A sudden urge to smash someone’s head into a wall washed over me, and I took the list from my pocket, observing it again.

1 – Billy Crupti

2 – Father McGregor

3 – The asshole who hired Billy?

The shit storm Paddy stirred in my life recently had made me dig up my original goal. It was easy to get lost in life when your quest was to avenge death, but make no mistake. Getting my hands on the person who had my father killed was still my first priority, still what made me tick.

Balling the yellow paper in my fist, I tucked it back into my pocket. I was close. Knew I was close. Felt it in my bones.

And I was going to show no mercy.