Page 156 of Dirty Padraig: Dirty Dusters

It’s an overcast kind of day, so there aren’t too many people around to take in the female biker who’s turned up to spoil the scenery at their respectable family boating lake.

Picking up a handful of stones, I gently skim them across the water’s surface.

I pick up some more and keep on going because I don’t know what else to fucking do. What do you do when you find out you’re responsible for the death of the man you loved? I fall to my knees as I suddenly forget how to breathe. The guilt is overwhelming. How the fuck can I ever come back from this?

How the fuck do I tell my son that I’m responsible for his daddy’s death?

The lump in my throat releases as a sob, followed by another and another, as my packed-away grief slowly unravels, this time infused by immeasurable guilt. It’ll be too heavy for me to ever pack away again. I know the weight of it will eventually destroy me.

Ace killed.

Eoin almost killed.

Fin targeted.

All because of me.

If she was going to be stuck in a loveless marriage facing a lifetime of solitude and misery, then it was only fair that she affords you the same courtesy.

I ignore my phone as it vibrates in my pocket. What are they going to say? It wasn’t your fault. Bullshit. It was all my fucking fault.

I don’t move from where I’m sitting on the ground, my head resting against the seat of a hog that isn’t even mine. Eventually, I pull the handset from my jacket.

Missed calls from Dylan and Eoin. I’m not sure why the latter would expect me to speak to him. Surely, he’s got good old Candice on speed dial these days.

I message Dylan.

Jaine:Can you send me a synopsis of the data?

Dylan:For any reason in particular?

Jaine:I want to run it past Nate and see if he needs anything else.

Dylan:Give me ten minutes.

Jaine:And Dylan.This stays between us.

No matter what I do, I can’t bring Ace back, but at least I can seek retribution for him, Raf, and Abel.

* * *

“Jaine,I was pleasantly surprised to hear from you.”

I lean against the doorframe of his apartment with my arms folded. “Pleasantly?” I raise an eyebrow. “What you’re trying to say, Nate is that when you passed me your business card with your personal details on, you never expected me to put them to any use,” I smirk.

“Something like that.” He smiles warmly.

“I hope I’m not disturbing your evening plans?”

“Nothing I can’t postpone until another time.”

It’s my guess he’s having to put off the next in a very long line of hook-ups. Rumor has it ever since his Ivy League wife divorced him for allegedly fucking a teenage cheerleader, he’s been playing the field.

Only women of suitable breeding and fit to be seen on the arm of the District Attorney, of course. Nate takes his public image extremely seriously—no more cheerleaders and, at forty-seven, definitely no more teenagers for him.

“Do come in.” I watch his eyes drift slowly over my leathers as he motions for me to step inside.

“I’m a biker, Nate, but then you already knew that.”

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