Page 112 of Lovely Darkness

We got in around four-ish last night. Sasha was lingering in the breezeway with her arms crossed. Waiting for me, I guess. But I wasn’t in the mood to deal with her. I pointed Wendy to the stairs and we just peaced out.

I understand why Sasha probably hates me. What Santos did was shitty. More than shitty, it was evil. And I’m really not the type of man who believes that whole ends-justify-the-means shit, but in this case, I kinda believe.

Of course, that’s because I want to justify it. I want to remind her that everything he and I did benefited her.

Look at her house.

Look at her family.

Look at her stability.

She’s not living in her truck hunting down little blonde girls. She gets up every morning, makes breakfast for her kids and husband—one of said kids being mine—then she kisses her handsome husband goodbye before he goes off to his crappy, but safe and far, far away from danger FBI field office.

And like hel-fucking-lo? How does she think he got assigned to that cushy job? I mean, I get it. Running the dark-ops witness protection program in Fort Collins, Colorado, is the epitome of boring and he probably hates it. But he’s FBI now, whether he wants to be or not. There’s no way out after all the things he’s seen and all the things he knows.

He could still be under the thumb of his shitty stepfather. He could still be in DC working with the Company assets—who are everywhere in that town, by the way. The whole place is owned and dirty.

Jax Barlow should be thanking me for his boring babysitting job in the dead center of flyover country.

You’re welcome, Jax.

Then Sasha drops her kids off at their safe, little private school all dressed up in their matching private-school clothes. She has coffee with Rook, and Ashleigh, and Veronica. She goes grocery-shopping, goes home and cleans her house, picks her kids up from school, kisses the husband when he comes home, and places a slice of meatloaf next to his potatoes on his dinner plate.

They help their kids do homework, put them to bed, then have a glass of wine, fool around a little, fall asleep. Wake up. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

It’s the fuckin’ American Dream.

And she’s living it because of me, and my evil brother, and our ability to make the hard choices when no one else wants to.

Sasha makes me tired. And all her silent accusations make me defensive.

She should just try to imagine how much worse it would be if Santos and me hadn’t gotten her and Jax out the trap he set for her in Kansas.

She should try imagining what her life would be like if I hadn’t walked away in Santa Barbara and left her with James and Harper. I’m the one who made sure she went to Ford. James only thinks it was his idea.

No. He didn’t just wake up one day and say, “I think what I’m doing here is wrong.”

I planted that seed.

I’m the reason she got Ford and Ashleigh as parents. I’m the reason she has two brothers and sisters. Hell, I’m just gonna take credit for Merc, too.

It was all me, babe.

Deal with it.

“What the hell are you thinking about?”

Wendy’s words jolt me out of my silent introspection. We’re sitting at the dining room table waiting for breakfast. Apparently, McKay takes meals seriously. And since we all pretty much did our own thing yesterday, he’s insisting on a family breakfast before we begin unfucking his friend’s seriously messed-up mind.

“What?”

“Your face, Nick. Jeez. Are you planning someone’s death?”

“What?” I laugh the word out this time. “What are you talking about?”

“You have that look on your face.”

“What look?”