Page 15 of Forbidden Girl

“It would be safer for me if I weren’t involved at all, but okay,” I mutter beneath my breath.

He raises an eyebrow at me, folds his hands, and leans across the desk. “What was that?”

Shit. “Nothing.”

He clears his throat, straightens his teal tie. Nice color. That’s something I’ll give the man, he’s an impeccable dresser. I can’t remember the last time I saw him in anything other than a three-piece suit. His eyes bore into me, green and intense—I inherited that gaze and those eyes from him. From what I can recall of her, the rest of me is all my mom. “Don’t create a problem where there isn’t one. Be there, keep an eye on things, and leave as soon as it’s done.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t take your Jeep. Alistair’s Porsche is in the garage. Grab the keys from the rack on your way out.”

Now I’m confused. “If Al’s back, why am I?—”

He slams his palms against the desk. “Just do what I’m telling you to do, goddamn it!”

If he were anyone else, I wouldn’t let him get away with raising his voice at me for no reason. Parental privilege. “Can I go now? I gotta change.”

“Yes. Call me when it’s done.”

“I will.” I turn to leave, but only go a few paces before he stops me.

“Where’s your gun?”

I run a hand over the empty holster at the small of my back. “In my car.”

“Why is it in your car and not on you?”

“Because I had no intention of shooting the woman I was with last night?”

He lets out a sound that’s sort of a laugh, but not really. “You never know who might intend to shoot you, though.”

And whose fucking fault is that exactly? “Makes sense.”

“I gave it to you to keep on you, so keep it on you.”

“Alright.” I nod and try to escape again.

“And bring that idiot friend with you.”

He means Ben, not Merrick. Merrick’s been my best friend since we were in first grade, and my father likes him so much he had hoped for a long time that we’d get married. The whole gay thing quashed that idea, but it worked out just fine for his grand plans in the end, with Elisa Rossi being into women and men.

Ben is Alistair’s son. He’s exactly two weeks younger than me, so we were brought up in this twisted circus together. Al was smart, though. He never wanted Ben to follow in his footsteps. Ben’s a hopeless case, dying to make his bones regardless of his dad’s best intentions. “I’ll text him right now.”

Meet me at the marina in forty-five. Cool?

He replies immediately.

Cool.

I hate doing shady shit in broad daylight. I feel so exposed. Not that it matters who sees what here; my father owns the Charlestown Yacht Club. It was a smart investment on his part—it operates like a legit business with members and dues, a fancy swimming pool and spa, a restaurant open to the public, a function hall, one hundred boat slips open year-round to any rich bastard who can afford it. It’s how my dad launders his drug and gun money. He’s a clever criminal. Today the dock area is closed for a few hours under the guise of dock repairs. Anyway, Tuesday mornings aren’t peak business hours. I guess even wealthy people have to work.

I watch through the windshield as Ben careens into the marina parking lot like a NASCAR driver who just snorted an entire 8-ball of blow. I wouldn’t be surprised if someday he narrowly avoids taking out a crosswalk full of children on their way to school, plus the crossing guard and a few parents. Windows down, music blasting, he drifts his Mustang into the open spot beside me.

“Hey, asshole”—I hop out of Alastair’s Cayenne and slam the door harder than I’d intended—“this isn’t Fast and Furious. You’re gonna fucking kill someone.”

“My bad, Mom.”

“I will punch you in the face.”

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