Page 65 of The Thief
He starts to leave, but I catch his hand.
"Freddie?"
"Yeah?"
"Be careful. Whatever you're planning, whatever you have to do, just be careful."
"I will."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with the memory of his touch and the weight of promises we both hope we can keep.
CHAPTER TEN
freddie
I'm an idiot.
That's the only thought running through my head as I drive aimlessly around Dublin at half past midnight. A complete fucking idiot who pushed too hard, too fast, and probably just destroyed the best thing that's happened to me in years.
The look in her eyes when she pulled away—scared, vulnerable, like I'd cornered a wild animal. Christ, what was I thinking? Taking her upstairs, pushing for something she clearly wasn't ready for.
Selfish bastard.
I pull into my flat's car park and sit in the dark for a moment, trying to get my head on straight. I can't afford to be distracted right now, not with everything that's happening. But all I can think about is the way she felt in my arms, the way she kissed me back before reality crashed down around us.
The way she asked me not to go.
My phone buzzes. Stephen.
"Bit late for a social call," I answer.
"Need to talk. My place. Now."
The line goes dead before I can argue. Stephen's not one for dramatics, which means something's happened. Something important enough to drag me across Dublin at this hour.
I start the car and head toward Stephen's house, which is located on the outskirts of Dublin. He wanted as much privacy for him and Jessica as he could get. The house is locked up tighter than Fort Knox. Not that I can blame him. The shit Jess went through was fucked up. Thankfully, her father is dead now and can't hurt her again.
For Stephen to call me at this time of night means that whatever he's learned about Sullivan or Trace, it can't be good news.
Stephen's pacing outside when I get to his house. Never a good sign.
"That bad?" I ask, settling into the chair in the sitting room.
"Depends how you define bad. Tell me about tonight first. How'd it go with the girl?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you look like a man who's just fucked up something important."
Perceptive bastard. He always could read me too well.
"Nothing to tell."
"Right," he says as he moves to the kitchen, returning moments later with two glasses of whiskey. "That's why you're sitting in my living room at one in the morning looking like someone shot your dog," he says as he hands me a glass.
