Page 58 of One Love

Chapter Nineteen

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With a Twizzler sticking out of my mouth, I hum to the tune of some old-school Black Sabbath. The speakers are on surround sound, positioned at the sonically ideal spots for my listening pleasure. My office was my playground when we remodeled the casino with Zavier, and as soon as the walls were painted, no one else was allowed to touch it.

I’ve got a total of eight computer monitors on my U-shaped desk with television screens on the wall for the different cameras I tend to keep an eye on.

Usually, I watch Jordyn. With the GPS hidden in her bike, I always know where she is, and when I get worried, I provide aerial surveillance in case she needs back up.

Or sometimes, it’s just because I want to see her tight little ass doing very bad things in the city that never sleeps.

Right now, however, I’m keeping an eye on the house in Cocoa Beach. In other words, I’m making sure Hallie is safe down there in Florida.

For the last three weeks, since Jonathan Gallagher—Hallie’s grandfather—called Jordyn and basically threatened her, I’vebeen keeping tabs on who’s coming and going. I’ve got the street cam on my phone so even when we’re back at J’s place, we check on Hallie on a regular basis.

Every time I get a glimpse of the teen coming home from school, I record the stream and show it to J in the evenings. She doesn’t cry but I can tell the image of her strong, beautiful daughter chokes her up.

So I just hold her, pinch her nipples, and fuck the sad right out of her for as long as possible.

Just as Ozzy starts to sing about warlords taking over the world, I suddenly stand—my chair flying backward and hitting the door—an air guitar poised between my hands as I sing, proud and loud, pretending I’ve got musical talent, playing in front of twenty thousand fans.

On the rare occasion I look up at the screen, what with the head banging and scrunched up eyes—it takes talent to pretend you’re a rock star—I don’t see anything out of place.

Until, that is, with my body arched back during the solo, my fingers flying across the invisible guitar and the speakers making me feel like I’m a fucking god, I see it.

I stop dead in my tracks, dropping my fantasy and screeching back into reality where something is definitely not right.

With three clicks of my mouse, the sudden silence is deafening as I watch a man dressed in a three-piece suit and flanked by three huge guys heading down the walkway straight to the Gallagher front door.

Oh, fuck no.

Using the second keyboard, I zoom in on the image, activating my facial recognition software to make sure I’m not fucking hallucinating.

I’m not.

Fuck.

There is no mistaking that is Ronan Callahan ringing the Gallagher bell like a fucking door-to-door salesman.

Without taking my eyes off the screen, I swipe my phone from the desk and send out a quick text message to J. I’d call, but she’s likely to ignore it while she’s in her capos meeting with Mancini.

Me: Call me

Thirty seconds later.

Me: Fucking call me, now.

Jesus fuck. Do I know anyone in Florida who can run interference? Of course not because I’m not a fucking mobster and don’t have anyone in my life except my best friend out on the casino floor scoping out a good mouth to suck his cock, and my LARPing parents who speak dubious English, at best.

Me: J, THIS IS NOT A FUCKING DRILL

Me: fuck fuck fuck

Shit. I’m calling her. The messages should tell her to fucking answer. It rings four or five times before going to voicemail.

Fuck me, I didn’t realize her capos meeting was a no-phones-on shindig. I call again for good measure because this is a motherfucking emergency.

As I do this, I search the internet for flights down to Florida in case we need to fly down because no one in our immediate circle actually lives there.

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