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If hell freezes over and therapy dogs fly backward.
I had too much trauma growing up in my own family to want one of my own.
Her excited words draw me from my dark thoughts as she swallows down her emotions enough to finally shout, “We’re expecting!”
Pride wells in my chest at her words, even though she told me the big news weeks ago.
Yup. Uncle Becks.
That’s gonna be me. Coolest uncle around with a pitching arm that’ll never tire from coaching Little League or softball teams. Garage bays full of vintage cars to cruise my little niece or nephew around the city in.
The room fills with more cheers. The three of us are swallowed up in a cloud of congratulatory handshakes and hugs. I step back from the crowd, letting the expecting couple bask in the attention they deserve. I slip out the back door.
I need air.
I make my way out onto the tree-lined street. There’s a cool breeze in the night air, a welcome break from the heat of the day. The soft glow of the gaslit streetlamps flickers over the sidewalks.
The Village is pristine, high-class, and prime real estate, hidden right in the heart of the city. One hundred days after initiation and I’m still getting used to living in such a posh place.
I’m supposed to be really classy now, but I want a cigarette, bad.
Cool summer nights like this, the taste of alcohol on my tongue, make me crave that metallic smoke filling my lungs, but Boston made me quit.
He knows I can’t back down from a challenge.
We’ve been training together ever since he got with my sister. I couldn’t keep up with him when we were doing burpees, my lungs giving out about ten reps before his. He dared me to quit, to see if I’d be able to outpace him at the gym if I kicked the habit.
Sure enough, I can now outrun him every time we race.
But I never stop craving a smoke.
No one’s around.
With the buzz about the new baby, I won’t be missed for a while. Maybe I’ll just make my way to the street. Bum a cigarette from someone. If I can find anybody. Seems like everyone’s quit or vaping these days.
I want the real thing between my fingers, the soft crackle of the paper burning under that orange glow as I inhale. Smoke swirling into the night air. I move through the double gates, into the quiet street. It’s late. I’ll have to venture down the block toward the nightlife if I’m going to find a smoker to borrow from. I take off in the direction of Gotcha’s, our night club.
Someone stops me, a tug on my arm. I turn to find a familiar face.
It’s him.
Chapter Four
Beckett
Our wary eyes lock in a heated stare. The air seems to crackle with danger. Red hair. Blue eyes. Scar over his eyebrow. Five foot eleven. White shirt. Jeans.
The son of the man I’m meeting. I’m supposed to kill his father. In exactly forty-eight hours.
I feel the color drain from my face as I stare at his. His expression is stoic and unreadable.
A million thoughts race through my mind. Why is he here? Has he been waiting out here for me? Trying to find some way to draw me out from behind the safety of my gate?
Without warning, his hand moves slowly to his waist. My heart races. What the hell is he up to? Will he pull out a weapon? Is he about to do something that will fuck up all the plans I’ve made?
But instead of a gun, he pulls an envelope out of his pocket and hands it to me without saying a word. He keeps his gaze fixed on mine. Do I open it now, or walk away with it? What I really want to do is hand it back to him and go back home.
My fingers trembling—from desire for unacquired nicotine or nerves, I’m not sure—I open the envelope. I see a single yellowed page inside.
