Page 152 of Beware of Dog

What little talking and moving she’d managed had exhausted her. Her eyelids grew heavy again, and she looked up at her sister. “Raven,” she said, a helpless plea.

“I know,” Raven said with a sigh, fiddling with the blankets, smoothing them out across Cass’s chest. “You’ve every right to be worried. I’m worried. Toly went with them. God, it’s like we’re war wives together.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. Put on a brave, big sister sort of face. “But Toly went to Louisiana to help Mercy three years ago, and he came back just fine. Albeit with a new loathing of boats, but. He did what was needed and came home to me. We’ve always known this about the club, that it demands frightening and dangerous things of its men.”

Tears welled in Cass’s eyes, blurring her vision, but she said, “Yeah,” as she scrubbed them away with a clumsy fist. “I know.”

“There’s nothing in this world Shep wants more than to come back to you.”

“You know him that well, then?” She sounded petulant, but thought she could be excused this once, on account of being shot and bedridden.

“I do. And so do you,” Raven said, and waited until Cass made eye contact to give a firm nod.

Cass nodded back, though it hurt to do so.

“Now,” Raven said, brisk, and reached for the TV remote on the nightstand. “Let’s find something abominably trashy to watch, shall we?”

Thirty-Seven

“Dude, that sucks.” Brady’s voice filtered through the Bluetooth speakers of Sig’s Mercedes. “Not even for, like, an hour?”

Sig dragged off the last of his cigarette and flicked the butt through the cracked window out into the rain. It had started with a few fat droplets two intersections ago, and now, as he approached the townhouse, it was coming down in whiteout sheets. “Sawridge says no.” He ground his molars. “He says if anybody sees me at a bar, or coming out of a club the week before the trial starts, it’ll look bad. Like I’m not taking the case seriously or some shit.”

“Aw, man.”

The townhouse loomed ahead on the left, the white glowing in the gloom amidst a row of red and brown brick. There wasn’t a parking spot directly in front of it, goddamn it, but one several houses down. He gunned for it, swooping the Benz in front of a minivan trundling the same way. The van screeched to a halt, kicking up a spray of water. Sig flipped the driver the bird through the windshield and killed the engine.

A crackle, and then Brady’s voice was tinny from the phone speaker.

“Yo, you still there? Sig?”

He tucked the phone between his cheek and shoulder and ducked out into the rain, hand shading his face from it. “Yeah. It’s raining like a motherfucker. I’ll call you back.”

“Okay, sure. Let me know if—”

Sig hung up, and tucked his phone into his jacket pocket so it didn’t get wet. The wayhewas currently getting wet. The rain was even worse than it had sounded on the roof of the car.He tugged up his hood, ducked his head, and jogged down the sidewalk toward the front stoop. Puddles had gathered in the low spots, and his Italian boots and the bottom third of his pants legs swallowed up water. Within three steps, his socks squished. His waistband dragged down thanks to the weight of his soaked hems.

Shitty weather to go with this shitty day, this shitty week, this shitty fuckingyear. God. Jamie Simpson hadn’t even been any good. She wasn’t even pretty.

He hated her, for what she was doing to him, for what this would do to his permanent record—his social one. He had no doubt Sawridge would land him an acquittal, but this trial was going to be social murder. His friends would stand by him, sure, the ones whose drinks and gym memberships he paid for. The ones who had ausefor him, like Brady, the asshole.

But the important people, the CEOs, the heads of old money clubs, the bankers, and the celebrities, and the women of the caliber he deserved, as opposed to the dumb sluts he was slumming it with at school…those people would look at him and see a walking scandal, even if he hadn’t done anythingwrong. Jamie had wanted him, he knew she had. She’d just gotten spooked in the middle and couldn’t calm the fuck down. Stupid bitch. He wouldn’t have even made a pass at her if he’d gotten his hands on Cassandra Green.

That bitch…Holy shit, he hated her. Jamie never would have gone to the cops if not at her urging. Would have definitely back off and dropped the charges if Cass and her sister—who the fuck knew she was related to RavenfuckingBlake?—hadn’t paid her a visit.

He wasn’t going out with the boys tonight because of Sawridge’s caution; because of this ridiculous farce of a trial coming up in a few days.

Mightbe coming up in a few days.

Despite the drum of rain on his head, and the water leaching up the legs of his jeans, he smiled to himself. The Tres Diablos had sent his dad a text last night.It’s done. Without Cassandra to egg Jamie on, convincing her to shut her trap and drop the charges would be easy.

What a cheering thought.

Smile widening, he skipped up the front steps of the townhouse, fumbled his keys out with damp fingers, and let himself into the foyer.

It was dark. Shockingly dark, not even the sconces on either side of the hall tree were lit; those were never off. At least not when Mom had been here. She’d been staying with her sister the past few weeks. “My nerves,” she’d said, over and over, while she packed her matching Louis luggage, weepy eyes covered by dark glasses.

What a weakass.

In her absence, Dad had gone broody and quiet. He wasn’t keeping up with the usual things: he’d stopped shaving, didn’t iron his shirts. He ordered delivery for dinner, all the greasy, cheap shit Mom never let him eat. It wasn’t a surprise he’d left the lights off; had probably had a few gin & tonics and passed out in front of the TV upstairs. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. It meant Sig could roll joints on the glass coffee table, watch whatever he wanted on the big screen, have a beer or three, and–

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