Page 158 of Morally Black Betrothal
“What’s up, fuckstick? You wanna tell me why you’re waking me up at the ass crack of dawn? I just got to sleep an hour ago.” My brother’s voice was tired but alert. He always managed that, even if he was three sheets to the wind.
“I got the girl. Huntington’s on the move. He does anything other than go home, do what I asked.”
There was a long sigh. More fatigue, though when was my brother not tired? Ronan acted the fool, but he had, in some ways, had it harder than the rest of us.
But that was also why Dad had always known he could be trusted with the worst parts of the business.
Why I could trust him now.
“Got it,” he said.
The line went dead. And I turned back to the little girl watching me on the other side of the elevator car.
“Are you a bad man?” Kylie asked.
I blinked. “I don’t know. Do I look like a bad man?”
“No, but neither did that other guy, and he was, right?”
She had a cute voice. The kind that pronouncedr’s likew’s. And she was surprisingly shrewd for someone who came to just past my knee.
Did all kids have the ability to see through the bullshit?
Would mine?
Fuck, I needed to stop thinking like that.
“He is a bad man,” I agreed. “I don’t know if I’m bad or not, but I’m trying to be good right now. Does that count?”
She examined me a little more and clutched her doll to her chest. “Does Aunt Simone think you’re a bad man?”
I swallowed. “I don’t think so.”Even if maybe she should.
Or maybe she shouldn’t.
Wasn’t I trying…for her?
“If you’re good enough for her, you’re good enough for me.” The kid brightened as another idea seemed to pop into her head. “Hey, we should go get some ice cream and bring it home. Mommy and Aunt Simone love ice cream. Then they’ll know you’re a good man.”
“Easy crowd.” I’d take whatever I could get. I still wasn’t sure I’d done the right thing with Huntington, but what other choice did I have? “Ice cream it is.”
36
BETTER THAN ICE CREAM
Simone
THWACK.
The kitchen was filled with bread. Muffins. Three kinds of cookies and two pans of coffee cake. Now I was working on a batch of sourdough croissants, and the puff pastry was taking the brunt of my frustrations via the wooden rolling pin used to beat the butter into the dough.
It wasn’t working.
I’d been stress-baking since Brendan had left the apartment just past six. My nerves were as wired as ever.
No one had slept last night. Well, no one except my sister, and I didn’t want to think about what that meant. Brendan had been up all night making phone calls, issuing threats, and basically doing everything he could to coordinate the exchange set up for this morning.
I’d sat with Selena while she drank enough vodka to fell a horse, then spent the remainder of the night calling friends in Woodstock, acquaintances from high school, basically anyone I could think of who might be in touch with the Huntingtons.
