Page 59 of Forbidden Girl

“I need to verify that this information is real.”

“Show up tomorrow night to the address I gave you and you will. Shit is going to pop off, I guarantee it. But make sure not to bust your nut too quick or they’ll scatter like bedbugs when the lights go on.”

I hear him suppress a snigger. “It would be helpful if I had your name, at least.”

My name. It holds such power. I can get anything I want with my name, move mountains, strike fear into the hearts of big, strong badass men. I wonder if it can summon the full force and fury of the United States government, or if it can save me from them. “I’m… someone close to the Monaghan family.”

He either puts me on mute or is rendered speechless. The silence goes on and on. I consider hanging up until he says, “Miss, thank you for the call. Rest assured you’ll be treated as an informant and, as such, granted protections under the law.”

He’s alluding to immunity from prosecution and the witness security program. Have to catch me first. I’m not going anywhere, jail or into hiding, unless I want to. “Just be there.”

The trap is set. Time to prime the prey. I toss back the rest of my espresso martini and think about ordering another—not because I want one; it’s just an excuse to procrastinate. “Fuck it.” I slap some money on the table, not bothering to ask for the check.

Jules makes my pitch to my father more believable via pictures of Calloway’s holdings. That’s what sells him on the idea of ripping him off, more than my words. Upon first glance of them, he goes so bug-eyed I think they might burst right out of their sockets. He’s covetous yet still dubious. “Why are you telling me this, and how did you get these?”

“I’m telling you for three reasons: First, things between you and me have never been good, and I want that to change. I was hoping a father–daughter heist might be the thing that does that, you know, since I’m too old to take fishing or play catch with.”

He snorts. “What else?”

“Second, Calloway isn’t like you. He’s controlling, doesn’t let his wife or daughter have money or lives of their own. They can’t take a shit without their bodyguards. You’ve been responsible for that all these years, but it’s gotten worse since your fucked up assassination attempt on a day of mourning, you psycho.” I don’t pull my punches because I will forever be seething over it. He averts his gaze from mine. “Anyway, that’s also how I got ahold of the pics—Jules gave them to me. She wants out from under Calloway’s thumb and figured if we can hit him hard enough, he’ll go out of business, then she and her mom will be free of him. I can’t be with her, but I haven’t stopped loving her and I want to help her if I can. Third, if the Monaghans have that arsenal, we control where it goes. I have no idea who Calloway’s selling that shit to, but if I can keep innocent people from being slaughtered like fucking livestock, then I’m going to. Maybe we can do something good for once and sell it to Ukraine. You already ship cars there; you have contacts.”

“You’re a real bleeding heart, kid.”

“Caring about people isn’t a weakness. And what do you give a shit, as long as you’re making money? You’ll make more money from one night’s work than you do in a year. And you’ll royally screw Calloway without having to murk him. It’s a win-win.”

He rubs his chin in contemplation. “It is. But tomorrow night is too soon, and we have a small window. We couldn’t move that much product in a couple of hours.”

When Callum Monaghan says no, he means no. He didn’t say no. There’s room for persuasion. I’ve been watching and learning from Jules, studying her playbook. I’m far from a master manipulator, but taking a small shot at his toxic masculinity might do it.

“So, we fit what we can on a box truck and burn the rest. There’re two guards at the door, no cameras, no alarms. You’re telling me if we bring in Jeremy, Ryan, and Matthew, the five of us can’t handle two guards? Two guards for grenades and Kalashnikovs. C’mon, it’s a cake walk. Unless you’re afraid or something.”

He leans across his desk, intensity radiating throughout his entire being. I got his back up. He has to prove he’s got balls. “You calling me a coward?”

“I’m asking if you’ve finally met a risk you’re scared to take. That doesn’t make you a coward, it makes you a normal person.” If there’s anything my father loathes more than being perceived as yellow-bellied, it’s being seen as normal. His self-adulation won’t allow his crown to be askew.

“Let’s put that motherfucker out of business.”

Got ya. In roughly thirty-six hours, my life begins anew, sans my father and Calloway. “I’ll round up the minions?”

“Do it.”

I don’t call Jules to let her know it’s on. Rather, I wait across the street from her house with my back pressed against an ancient oak tree—using its plush summer leaves and the night as cover—until I see the lights in all the rooms go out one after the other. I’ve never been inside, but I know her bedroom is on the second floor at the back overlooking the garden. She’s told me how much she loves having breakfast on her little stone balcony, watching the kaleidoscope of butterflies that her mom’s coneflowers, aster, and zinnia attract.

I approach the black steel fence surrounding the property with an abundance of caution until I’m sure the flood lights mounted on the house aren’t automated. Then I lift the latch on the gate and tiptoe the rest of the way down the drive, into the yard.

The soft glow of a bedside lamp lets me know she’s still awake. I should find some pebbles to throw at the panes of her French doors, but I’m not in the headspace to be sensible. I’m feeling reckless in my bones. I could die tomorrow night; I’ve got one last big, romantic gesture in me before I go.

The lattice leading up to her balcony is metal, covered with ivy. “Fuck, I hope it’s not the poison variety,” I whisper to myself before starting my ascent. I’m not a fan of heights. Never have been. I wouldn’t be climbing a goddamn garden trellis for anyone but her.

Hopping over the balustrade to safety feels like the greatest triumph of my life. I fist-bump the air like an idiot, then tap on the doors. They swing open with more ferocity than I expect. Her eyes go wide. She murmurs, “Are you insa?—”

I cut her off with a kiss. A desperate one. She deepens it, frees my hair from its ponytail and slides her fingers into it. Gentle. Everything about it and her. I don’t know how she knows that at this moment I’m so incredibly, terrifyingly fragile inside, but she does.

She doesn’t stop kissing me until she’s guided me to her bed, and even then, only to disrobe me. She does this gently, too.

Once I’m naked, she sits me at the edge of the mattress and drops to her knees, not bothering to lose a single piece of her own clothing. “Don’t take your eyes off mine,” she says.

I nod.

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