Page 106 of Lucky Strike

“Blades ain’t shit,” he wheezes.

“Swear to God, I’ll end your fucking family,” I snarl, shaking him as he starts to fade. “Give me a name!”

“Fuck off.”

Tristan grabs my arm, yanking me out of the rabbit’s hole I’ve gone down with Ivan. “We gotta go. Alex needs help.”

Panting, I look over to where Finn’s holding Alex up by the door. It’s hard to see where he’s bleeding, because he’s in black, but he’s sagging, his face gray. “Where’re you hit, brother?”

“Left side,” Alex grits out, clenching his teeth.

I return my gaze to Ivan as I climb to my feet, but he’s already dead. It should be a relief. He and Ilya have made more trouble for Saoirse—forme— over the past six months than anyone has in over a decade. He’s still torturing me, though, his words circling my brain like vultures.Your problems are a lot closer to home than you think.

Taking the lead, I open the door and pause. The music downstairs is still going strong. No screams. No one rushing in. Motioning to the others, I start down the stairs, Finn and Tristan flanking Alex right behind me. At the bottom of the stairs, I peek out. No one’s in the hallway, so we continue toward the back exit.

We step out into the stinging, brutal cold, a welcome respite from the cloying heat inside. There’s nobody around, except for the dead security guard, and we disappear into the night.

29.Bria

Now

Iwake to Shelby whining to be let out. Groggy from pain meds and another night of spotty sleep, I rub my eyes and struggle out of bed, breathing through the discomfort. Lucky snores lightly from his side of the bed, where he passed out in the same clothes he was wearing when he left last night.

Walking around the bed, I pause beside him, pushing a dark lock of hair from his peaceful face. Something tells me I don’t want to know what he was up to last night. Cognitive dissonance allows me to love him despite the awful things he keeps from me. The things he does. That love grows and grows like an out-of-control vine, strong and hardy and resilient despite its adverse environment. Lucky stirs, his eyelids moving as if he’s dreaming. Hazy memories of him going down on me come to mind, warming my cheeks.

He's so good at being bad.

Shelby wags her tail hopefully as I move across the bedroom. “Morning,” I whisper, yawning, and then wincing at the pain that simple act produces. Everything is a damn pain, literally. I remind myself I’m lucky to be alive as I shuffle to the bathroom.

By the time I get back to the bedroom, Shelby’s whining in earnest.We never sleep late, so the dogs are used to doing their business early. She licks Lucky’s dangling hand until he groans and rolls over.

“You’d better take her out,” I warn. “Before she pees on the carpet.”

An hour later, we’re hurrying onto the elevator while Liam tells us, through a mouthful of peanut butter toast, all about the finger puppet plays they’re watching at school today. Seeing him this happy and excited about something after the month we’ve had is quite possibly the best feeling in the world.

“It’s folklore!” he says, reaching for his water bottle. “Are you gonna come, Bria?”

“Definitely,” I promise, smoothing back his adorably unruly hair. Little Friends has invited a group of artists from the Wampanoag Nation to put on the play as part of a series celebrating Indigenous People’s month. A vast improvement over the bullshitty “pilgrim-and-Indian” spectacles my public school did when I was a kid, for sure.

Liam nods, running his fingers along the roughness of his cast. He’s been a real superstar at school because of that thing—it’s filled with names and doodles and even a couple of stickers. We actually have a checkup with his doctor this morning to make sure his arm’s healing the way it should.

I peek at Lucky. He has a meeting with the other Saoirse bosses this morning. Liam would probably love it if he came to the play, too, but I think we both sense there’s no point in asking. He’s been distant all morning, texting, a million miles away.

The elevator doors open, revealing our bodyguards. “Good morning,” Terry says, doffing an imaginary hat as Mitch smiles.

“Hi, Mr. Terry! Hi, Mr. Mitch!” Liam says, marching out of the elevator.

“Hey guys.” Lucky’s own smile is tight, forced as he takes my hand. I wish I knew what was wrong. I feel so helpless seeing him like this.

The parking garage is cold, but that’s not what raises goosebumps on my arms. This moment suddenly feels precarious, like we’re on top of a rollercoaster, seconds from the drop. Terry leads the way while Mitch walks behind us, hemming us in. Lucky leads Liam and me to Mitch’s car, helping us into the back seat.

“Have a good day at school, buddy,” he says, buckling the car seat.

“Okay, Dad.” Liam wraps his little arms around his father’s neck. “You have a good day, too.”

“And be brave for the doctor, okay?”

Liam agrees, and Lucky comes around to my side, his storm cloud eyes dreary as he takes me in. “Sorry I can’t come with you guys.”

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