Page 47 of Bedding Rose
“I’m thinking fifty grand for the bounty,” Dad leans back in his chair, a freshly cut cigar and a lighter in his age-spotted hands.
I hate that we have to spend a cent on finding Gary, but dangling a big carrot is the quickest way to get results. “Sounds good. I’ll spread the word,” I agree. “If we need, I know a guy who can create a deep fake video of Ambrose abroad too.”
“It’s settled then,” Dad gives me a grim grin before shoving the cigar between his lips and lighting it. The orange glow and the soft scent of the tobacco fill me with a nostalgic sense of comfort and I nod.
I think we have it worked out, I really do though a tiny bit of guilt scratches at me over the fact that Mint’s been fingered for the job and we’ve got a traitor in our midst who’ll have to be rooted out. I should have noticed. But I’ll fix this. And I’ll ensure that Gary’s screams echo for years, so that no one ever double-crosses me again.
But now that those issues have been addressed, there’s one more I need to discuss with him.
My father leans back in his desk chair, crossing his pale, tattooed arms, the ink the only remaining evidence of his stint in the clink thirty-odd years ago. He and I look nothing alike. I got my mother’s complexion, her eyes, and he would say, her attitude. But he and I share a ruthless streak that’s as black as coal.
Dad kicks his feet up onto the side of the desk, thinking we’re done and we have everything settled.
I clear my throat before broaching the topic. “I need to tell you about an unrelated complication,”
“Shit, Ang, that ain’t enough for one night?” he asks, running a hand through his gray-streaked hair, wrinkles forming at the corners of his hazel eyes.
“This is good news. About a girl.”
“A girl?” His expression and demeanor immediately morph into curiosity.
“Thegirl,” I clarify.
He puffs on his cigar, inhaling and then exhaling a perfect smoke ring, watching it hover in the air for a second before looking back at me. “You sure?” In our world, it’s dangerous to bring anyone in. If they’re in, they’re all in.
Rose and I have only had a few encounters since things have shifted between us.
But this feeling in my gut … it’s unlike anything else.
I nod once.
“She know?” He doesn’t elaborate, but his meaning is very clear. He wants to know if this girl is aware of all the things we do.
“Not exactly—”
He starts to shake his head but I cut him off because I don’t want to hear him tell me to let her go and find someone who’s already in our circles. I wouldn’t listen, but it would piss me off to a level of lividness that I’m pretty certain would cause a rift.
“It’s Rose Dalton.”
“Fuck!” His curse is violent and sudden—utterly unexpected.
My hackles rise in response and I immediately go on the defensive. “Don’t rule her out just because—”
“No, no, it’s not that.Dammit.Your mother called it five years ago.” He shakes his head ruefully, a slight smile crossing his face. “She said you’d be gone for that girl the moment you grew up and got your head on straight. Now, I owe her a fucking tennis bracelet.”
I join his laughter—relief and joy bubbling and fizzing inside my stomach like a soda. “Don’t act like you can’t afford it, old man.”
“Don’t act like she isn’t going to hold this over my head for the rest of my life,” he retorts, flicking the ash from the tip of his cigar into an ashtray.
“She will. She’s really good at that,” I reply fondly.
He points at me with the hand holding his cigar. “If you’re sure about this, and she’s sure about this … you’re going to have to bring her into the loop. Carefully, though.” He drops his feet from the desk and leans over it, closer to me, the lamplight painting half of his face and leaving the other half eerily shadowed. “If she can’t deal, son, you know what will have to happen.”
My stomach bottoms out, and I suddenly wish I’d swallowed my words and kept this shit from my father, because he basically just said—without so many words—that if I let Rose in and she can’t handle us, she’ll have to die.
ROSE
Isit, perched on the edge of our leather couch in our formal living room, fingers digging into the seat, back uncomfortable and ramrod straight. Enrique and I sit in shadows, because the room is dark except for one lamp over in the corner that’s always on a timer since Mom’s events often run so late. It’s casting sideways light upon us as we stare up at our prowling mother. My perspective only emphasizes the spot where Mom broke her nose when I was ten. Took a rec-league softball right to the face. She’d had it reset, but there was still a bump if you knew where to look for it.
