THEY DID A FEW extra laps, taking the long way around to get to her brother’s place. His old place. After he and Imogen broke up, he’d moved in with her. Imogen was now living with Jagg, her new boyfriend.
The only reason they still had access was Lachlan’s efficiency. He paid rent in advance, and hadn’t asked the landlord for it back after his relationship fell apart. Until the keys were returned, the apartment was still technically Lachlan and Imogen’s. Had her brother returned his keys? She didn’t know. Imogen’s keys? Yeah, the woman gave them to her to return to her brother. She might have, sort of, accidentally, on purpose, forgotten to do that.
Instead she set up a safe house for the woman she’d rescued from the Carlyle fire… yes, the fire she kind of started too.
“Lachlan not ready to give it up?” Strat asked as they traversed the hallway to the apartment’s front door. “Immie’s pretty set with Jagg.”
Yeah, she’d have to be given the waves of turmoil that relationship caused.
“Imogen gave me her keys to return to Lachlan.”
“And you didn’t?” he asked, crouching at the lock. “You don’t have the keys with you?”
“I gave them to Conn.”
Her friend twisted to frown up at her. “Because…?”
She glanced back down the corridor, hyperaware of their illicit actions in the reputable building. “Can we just get inside, then we’ll talk?”
Strat got to work. She’d have to ask Daly to teach her to pick locks. Why Daly? Strat already thought she was a danger to herself; doubtful he’d facilitate adding to her repertoire of unlawful skills. Daly might think the same, but, on balance, he’d be more afraid of Conn finding out he’d refused her anything.
Her friend swung open the door and stood to curve an arm around her, directing her in first.
Breathing out, she turned on the light. “Maybe I shouldn’t have—” There were dishes on the drainer. Why would there be…? A door opened, she whipped around to find another weapon pointed at her. And the bearer… “Marseille?”
The woman’s tension loosened a little. “Sersha?”
“Jane Doe… Shit.”
Marseille swung her aim to land it on Strat.
“No!” she said, leaping in front of him. “He’s a friend, my friend, we can trust him.”
Strat dropped the lock on the door. “Now it’s a party.”
Marseille was still there. Conn hadn’t moved her. He’d have his reasons, but the woman’s presence was turning out to be a dangerous variable.
“Will you put the gun down?” she asked, arms out in front of her as she gestured calm. “Please, Marseille.”
The weapon dropped to her side. In a nightgown, hair loose, she must’ve been asleep… and terrified.
“I’m sorry.” Sersha dumped her bag. “We didn’t know you were still here. Why are you still here?”
“It’s safe here,” Marseille said, putting the gun on a side table. “Why did you come?”
“Because…” Going into the kitchen, she grabbed a couple of things and put them on the coffee table. “Can you get me the med kit from the bathroom, please? It’s—”
“Under the sink. Lachlan showed me.”
Without thought, the woman disappeared into the other room. Her mouth fell open, and her wide eyes rounded to Strat.
Cradling his arm, he came to sit with her. “The cop wasn’t supposed to know she was here, huh?”
She helped him ease his shirt from the sticky wound.
“I told Conn, he said he’d handle it.” And for some reason, that meant sending her brother over? How had that come about? So many questions. “I guess this is his way of… that.” She winced at the injury on his shoulder. “I’d say it’s just muscle, but…”
That wouldn’t lessen its pain.
“So I shouldn’t work out so much, I’m too jacked, that what you’re saying to me?”
Still smiling. Even in pain, Strat was more interested in ensuring she was okay than he was in looking out for himself. Not just physically, but the smile meant to ease her heart’s pain, her guilt’s too.
Marseille came rushing back in and put the kit on the table. “Can I do anything?”
“Boil some water.”
The woman went off to do that.
“I’m nowhere near capable of—”
“Dig out the bullet,” Strat said, “sew up the hole. It’s as simple as that.”
“Says the patient to the reaper.”
He laughed. “Just muscle you said, you can’t kill me. No, I take that back, you, Scamp, if anyone could find a way to—”
“Don’t make this worse.”
She cleaned around the wound, trying to find the edges and figure out how the hell she’d do this. Hurting her friend would break her heart. Like she’d said his would be if the McDades revoked their need of his services.
Where would she be if Strat hadn’t been the one with her? Daly would have skill, Hock, Snuff… But Strat didn’t blink, he spotted their tail, knew how to tear up the streets and lead them exactly where he wanted them. The length and width of that alley were no coincidence. She’d bet it was no coincidence the shady parking lot was there either, in the dark, far from cameras and prying eyes. Filled with cars he could easily jack.
She forgot just how long, and how deep, he’d once existed in this underworld.
“I’ve got it,” Marseille said.
“Pour some into a long, shallow dish, it’ll cool quicker.”
“Is that like seventh grade chemistry?” Strat teased, and she glared, fine, anything to keep them both from falling apart.
“I need a couple of clean towels too.”
Otherwise she’d wreck the couch, owned by… someone. Not her. Marseille went into the bedroom.
“Who are you pissed at?” Strat asked.
Shifting, she opened the med kit her brother kept well stocked. “This’ll probably hurt.”
“It will hurt, I’ve done this before. Answer me, who are you pissed at?”
“Why do you think I’m pissed at anyone?”
“If it’s supposed to be a secret, tell your face,” he said, extricating his arm when she tried to distract herself with it. “Your brother? Your boyfriend? Or the girl?”
“I brought dark ones,” Marseille said, delivering the towels.
With their hostess just standing there, their conversation couldn’t continue. Thank God. Strat was right. She didn’t know why, but rage simmered in her belly. Cleaning his wound with the water, catching it with the towel, concentrating kept her mind from racing.
“Okay, this is the hard part. Marseille, you have any liquor?”
“That’s my girl,” Strat said, sinking into the couch. “Bring on the booze.”
“There’s scotch.”
Marseille went toward the kitchen as her eyes met Strat’s.
“He be pissed?” her friend whispered.
“Better Scottish than American.” Again, she shrugged. “We just won’t tell him.”
That was holding onto the hope they’d see Conn again. Pretending this was all okay, that they could joke and enjoy each other, comforted both of them. Probably more her.
Strat squeezed her leg. “He’s fine.”
Damn, the man didn’t even need her to speak to know her mind. Marseille came over with the alcohol, holding the open bottle out to—she intercepted it and gulped some before giving it to Strat, the guy who was supposed to be, you know, injured and in need of dull senses.
“Okay, breathe in, old man.”
“You’ve done this before?” Marseille asked, looming over her shoulder.
“No guts, no glory, right?” Confidence went a long way, yes, but she’d never fool Strat. “I’m good at improvising. We’ll be fine.”
She wasn’t the one bleeding.
To his credit, Strat made little sound and hardly flinched. And to hers, she didn’t breathe. Helping her friend was paramount, it wasn’t time to be squeamish or nervous… or terrified. Still, it didn’t feel good to be rooting around inside him looking for—
“Got it!” Holding it up between the tweezers, triumphant, her relief vanished when blood trickled down his arm. “Shit.”
“Oh, God, what is—that’s a lot of blood.”
“It’s not a lot of blood,” Strat said to Marseille, snatching the gauze from the table. He pushed her away to apply pressure himself. “Get the needle.”
“Sewing kit.”
Prepared didn’t cover it. Lachlan had a sewing kit right there in the med box.
After she splashed some alcohol over the needle, Strat moved the gauze. She took a deep breath.
“Are you okay?” Marseille asked. She didn’t even know which of them the woman was talking to. “Do you want more liquor?”
The bottle was thrust into her peripheral vision.
“No more,” Strat said. “I’ll have to drive later.” They could crash there, except Conn would eventually get word she wasn’t around. Then what? He’d tear up the city if she didn’t put herself in front of him. “And I might not be done shooting.”
Her friend wasn’t the macho type. Refusing wasn’t his way of showing his toughness, it was a signal the danger may not be permanently gone.
“You… you were shooting?”
“Do you have a way to contact Lachlan?” she asked Marseille while still sewing. “A number you call or…?”
“Uh, yeah, I… I’m only supposed to call in an emergency.”
In a static beat, her eyes met Strat’s. With the needle still in hand, propped on Strat, she gestured at the medical supplies and blood stained… everything, unable to hide her incredulity.
“What do you think this is?”
Getting angry with Marseille didn’t help the situation. Conn. Trouble. Danger. All she could think about was her man. Wasn’t so long ago she’d gone through the same thing after he was shot. If she wasn’t killed by a wicked Byrne, high blood pressure would end her.
Self-conscious, Marseille disappeared into the bedroom.
“Go easy,” Strat said in his forever calm father voice. “Woman just woke up to this.”
“We all just woke up to this.” Clenching her teeth, the frustration didn’t go anywhere. “Didn’t we just get over the last time I lost him?”
“You never lost him, kid. And, I’m sorry to say, this is the life.” The one he’d told her it wasn’t easy to live. “It ends this way, one day, for both of you.”
She couldn’t doubt the wisdom in his eyes. “I’m destined to be dead in an alley somewhere?”
“You won’t get dead, not so long as I’m around.” He’d proved not only his skill, but his commitment to her too. “Ire’s not so easy to protect.”
Marseille came in, phone at her ear. “Yeah, they just showed up and I—”
“Is that my brother?”
“Your brother?”
Finishing with the needle, she knotted it and cut the string. She’d dress the wound after getting an update from the man who’d raised her.
“Give it here.” Snatching the phone from Marseille, adrenaline drove her mood. “What is going on, Lach? Why have you—where are you?” Checking he wasn’t in imminent danger took precedence over complaining. “Are you still with Dad?”
“How did you end up there? Everyone’s going crazy. Terrified to tell Ire you’re missing.”
“I’m not missing just… temporarily waylaid. Where is he?”
“Still at the club, last I heard.”
“Last you heard? What does that mean? Last you heard?”
“What happened?” He ducked the question. “Tell me why you’re with Marseille.”
“It’s a long story,” she said, pushing her bangs up from her face. “Strat got shot.”
“You shot him?”
The exclamation was meant to wind her up, trust her brother to be her brother.
“I didn’t shoot him.” And she wouldn’t tell her cop brother what happened to the real shooters. “He’s doing okay, I patched him up, but I want him to see the doc. Are you at the mansion?”
“You’d be okay with that? With me being there?”
“Lach, I don’t even know where to begin,” she said, breathing out. One battle at a time. “You’re safe?”
“I’m safe. Get to the mansion before Ire finds out his guys are hiding your disappearance from him.”
Did it count as hiding anything? If Conn was still caught up with whatever was happening at Stag, no one would interrupt his line of concentration. It wasn’t hidden news, just deferred until it was relevant. Which it never would be because she wasn’t missing.
“Did the Byrnes show at the mansion? Is it safe?”
“It was when I put Dad there. Don’t know now, I’m on the road.”
“On the road? I thought you were safe? Where’s Dad?”
“At the mansion, locked up tight, where I left him.” And her questions about that situation would have to wait for another time. “I’m on my way back there.”
“You were at the mansion and left? Where did you go?”
“Back to Stag.”
“Why?” To help or make some arrests? “Niall asked me to track you down. Easier than I thought.” She smiled. “Meet me at the mansion.”
“But what if—”
“If there was a problem at the mansion, Niall would’ve told me to avoid it. Instead he told me to get you there, to Ire’s suite. I’m guessing you know where that is. Can Strat drive?”
“I can drive.”
Except maybe she shouldn’t with their current vehicular situation.
“Put him on.”
And in her melee of madness, she handed the phone to her friend.
“Yeah,” Strat said, frowning for a beat before laughing. “Yeah, you got that right… I’ll take care of it.” He hung up. “Get your shit, we’re going.”