Page 16 of Forbidden Girl

He smirks. “Why do you have my dad’s car?”

That’s a good question. “It’s more spacious than my Wrangler.”

“Must be a big haul.”

I shrug. “You know I don’t ask questions.” Even though I should.

He nods. “Which slip is it today?”

“Sixty-nine.” And before he can fall apart laughing like a teenage boy, I add, “Act like you’ve gotten laid before, you child.” He contains himself and falls into step behind me.

There’s a black 40-foot yacht waiting for us at the end of the slip. It’s one of my dad’s fleet, registered in the Bahamas to some shell company or another, an evil genius move if ever there was one. Two crew members are hitching it to cleats on either side and the captain, John, is overseeing them from the deck. “Hey, Rowan!” He hops onto the pier, then continues in his musical accent. “It’s been ages. Look at you, you’re all grown up!”

I smile at him, taking notice of the salt and pepper that’s sprung up in his curly black hair since the last time I saw him. He’s one of the few genuinely kind people in my father’s employ. I bury the thought of what would happen to him if he were ever caught in international waters smuggling shit for my dad, and say, “Bring it in, old man.” He wraps his arms around me and lifts me off the ground with a huff. I imagine this is how he greets his kids, with big papa bear hugs. Must be nice. We make some small talk. The weather in Nassau is hot and the tourists are insufferable. His family is doing well. Mine is… chronically unwell, but I say, “Dad’s fine,” then get down to business. “You have some cargo for me?”

“I do.” He whistles at the crewmen. One jumps back onto the boat, the other positions himself at its side to receive. The first guy unloads a hand truck, the second sets it up. The process repeats seven times until the dolly is loaded.

“All set,” he says.

“Great.” I turn to Ben, palm open.

He looks at my hand. “What?”

“Empty your wallet.”

“Why?”

“Because my father is your father’s boss and that means I’m yours.”

He pouts as he removes his fat billfold from his back pocket. As expected, he’s carrying around stupid money, twenty-dollar bills in a purple bank strap, which he slaps into my hand.

I give the stack to John. “For you and your guys.”

John’s a proud man, not a stupid one. He doesn’t argue. “Thank you.”

I nod and say, “Take care of yourself.”

John whistles again and the crewman pushing the dolly starts up the pier.

“It’s the white Porsche. Make a right into the lot, first row,” I call to his back.

Once he’s out of earshot Ben whines, “That was two grand, Rowan!”

“I know. How many times have I told you not to keep that kind of cash on you? It’s conspicuous. Get a bank account and debit card like a normal person.”

“But they’re traceable.”

“Yes. However, the IRS doesn’t give a shit about deposits smaller than ten grand. Stop being an idiot.”

He shakes his head, but he’s grinning. “Okay, lesson learned, Mom.”

“Call me that again, I dare you.”

“Mom,” he repeats, then takes off running.

“You punk-ass little b—” I snicker and chase after him. I catch him at the top of the ramp leading to the parking lot, but rather than punching him as promised, I shove my fingers into the sides of his ribs. “Tickle attack!”

“Shit, no!” He swats at me. He’s always been ticklish. And I’ve always capitalized on it to keep him in line. He’s screeching like a little girl, and I realize as he grabs my wrists that he hasn’t changed at all since we were kids. He’s still the same dopey fool with the loud, annoying laugh. None of his bones ever turned mean. I have no clue why he wants to be a gangster.

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