Page 18 of Lucky Strike

“Fine.” She shrugs. “She lives here. So what? Do you still have feelings for her or something?”

Wisps of a memory start to surface, but I force them down. “No, Maeve.”

“Then, what’s the problem?”

I take a long swig of beer, trying to drown the thoughts swimming around my brain. The thought of Bria being in such close proximity to thefamily business, the one I chose over her years ago, the one I’d never want her to know the extent of, makes me feel vaguely ill. “You’re notlistening. I lived a fucked-up life. I don’t want her getting tangled up in it.”

Her eyes soften. “Conlan.”

"You know the shit that follows me, the kind of people I have to deal with. I can’t have it on my conscience if something happens to her.” I nod my chin at Maeve. “You don’t even want to be around it yourself. Why would you want anything different for her?”

“What about Nola?”

“What about her?”

“She works here. You don’t seem too worried about her.”

I shake my head. “Nola grew up around the life. It’s not the same.”

“I think you’re making this more complicated than necessary,” she says. “If you don't want Bria to know anything, then don't tell her. Maintain that distance.” When I hesitate, she goes for the kill. “Who else can you trust like that? Really trust? Think about it.”

Liam comes sliding into the kitchen in his new socks. “I’m ready!”

“Those socks are the coolest,” gushes Maeve, swinging him into her arms. She plants a kiss on his cheek that he promptly wipes off. “Come, let’s get your shoes on.”

After they leave, I go up to my office. Bria’s résumé is sitting on top of a pile of paperwork on my desk, compliments of Nola. I leaf through it. It’s like zipping through the past few years of Bria’s life, a neatlycondensed overview of her education and experience. All the info I’d ever need to determine whether or not this woman should watch my kid. CPR, first aid, and water safety qualifications. Fluent in ASL and Spanish. Studied child psychology and early childhood education in college.

There’s the number of years she’s worked as a nanny, and all of the families she’s worked for. With references. Looks like the first one she worked for was the Kents—friends of my parents. Mom must have set that up.

Unlike Maeve, and apparently my parents, I haven’t kept up with Bria over the years. Whenever I did hear about her from my sister, it sounded like she was doing well. I might have missed her in weaker, more nostalgic moments—yearnings for a younger, simpler time—but I knew I’d made the right choice in letting her go.

Having her back in the picture is unsettling, but maybe inevitable, too. She’s my sister’s best friend, and my family has always loved her. Maybe I’m the lone holdout, here. I scan the rest of the résumé.Cared for a child on the spectrum. Well-versed in handling food allergies. Taught each of my charges to ride a bike. A smile, unbidden, makes its way to my face. Liam’s been asking for a bike.

Bria is so (over)qualified it’s almost a joke, and if she were anyone else, I probably would have given her a chance. But I can’t trust just anybody, regardless of how skilled and experienced—I need a special person for a special situation. Someone who knows how to keep their head down, their mouth shut, who can look the other way. Who doesn’t ask too many questions. Someone who’d never, ever tell.

Mom knows Jessa Kent from her college days at Northeastern. They still send Christmas cards to each other every year, though the Kents are as far from this life as can be. Jessa’s phone number is listed first in references, so I pick up my phone and call her.

Few things irritateme as much as being left on read, not having my calls returned. The only reason I’m even bothering with Bria Grant at this point is because I’m desperate. That, and I was a dick the other day. It’s not her fault Maeve pulled that stunt.

Pulling up to the building listed as hers on the résumé, I park on the curb and get out. Unfortunately, there aren’t any names listed on the callbox beside the main door, so even if someone let me in, I don’t know which apartment is Bria’s. Getting back into my car, I debate whether or not I should text Maeve and ask.

Outside, dark clouds gather in the sky. Looks like we might finally have our first big summer storm. Fuck it, I’ll just text Maeve. I can’t wait here all day. But then a girl on a bicycle coasts by on the sidewalk, gracefully dismounting a few feet away. It’s Bria. I watch her wheel the bike to the building’s entrance, my stomach dipping like it did a couple of days ago when I found her in my house.

Bria Grant is pretty no matter what she has on, but today she looks like a wet dream in a cropped shirt, shorts that show off her sleek, honey-toned legs, and purple sneakers. My chest tightens. My cock twitches. I turn the a/c vent toward my face, needing a cold blast back to reality. Can I handle having her under my roof, day in and day out?

She reaches for the door to her building, and I jump out before she can disappear on me again. “Bria.”

6.Bria

9 years ago

We were on our way back from dinner, huddled against the evening frost, when Maeve slid her arm through mine. “I was thinking, I’d love if you came home with us for Thanksgiving. What d’you think? Would your mom let you?”

I savored the possibility for a moment, considering. I’d planned on taking the train back to New York for the upcoming break. Taya would be home, too; we usually went to Uncle Manny and Auntie Jada’s for Thanksgiving dinner.

“You probably miss home, though,” Maeve said, probably mistaking my silence for reluctance.

“I do, but not as much as I did in the beginning of the school year,” I admitted. “I’d love to go home with you. I’ll ask Ma, see what she says.”

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