He had taken two bullets this summer when his name had landed on that list of obstacles for Anthony Hugo’s crime syndicate in the DC area. After a few hairy months, Nash had managed to pull himself out of a downward spiral with the help of the stunning, monogamy-averse Lina.
While he’d convinced her to let him put a ring on her finger, I was still attempting to convince her to work full-time for me. She was smart, devious, and better at managing people than she gave herself credit for. I’d win eventually. I always did.
I dropped down on the couch and opened the laptop to the camera footage. “Here,” I said, angling it toward the brothers.
“Perfect,” Knox said.
“What are we watching?” I asked.
“Narrowed it down to Shawshank or Boondock Saints. Your choice,” Nash said.
“Boondock,” I answered automatically.
Knox cued it up while Nash poured the bourbon. He distributed the glasses and held his aloft. “To Simon. The man all men should aspire to be.”
“To Simon,” I echoed, keenly aware of a fresh stab of grief.
“Think Sloane will be okay?” Nash asked.
I crossed my arms and pretended I didn’t get that nagging little rush whenever someone mentioned her name in my presence.
Knox shook his head. “It’s a tough loss. She held up today after Luce here force-fed her a burrito.”
Nash’s eyebrows rose as he cut a look in my direction.
“Not a euphemism. It was a literal burrito,” I explained.
“Sloane would break his euphemistic burrito in half,” Knox predicted with a smirk. It disappeared quickly. “Naomi thinks she’s gonna have a rough time and try to hide it.”
“And Naomi is usually right,” Nash pointed out.
“Let me know if there’s anything she needs,” I said, automatically distancing myself from the responsibility of looking after her.
Knox smirked. “Like a burrito?”
I glared at him. “Like moral or financial support that can be provided from a distance. My burrito wants nothing to do with Sloane Walton.”
“Yeah. Keep telling your burrito that,” Nash said, picking up his phone. He winced. “Great. Lina just texted. The girls are making margaritas.”
Knox put down his bourbon. “Fuck.”
3
Margarita Talk
Sloane
Istomped through the snow, cutting across Lucian’s driveway and then my own. As always, conversations with the infuriating man left me eternally irritated. Over the years, we’d done whatever necessary to avoid each other. Yet today of all days, I’d ended up alone with the man not once, but twice. It was amazing we’d both survived.
I let myself in the front door and shrugged out of Lucian’s glorious coat. I hung it in the entryway closet and kicked off my boots while thinking about a shower and pajamas. I didn’t want company. I wanted a quiet night during which I could let out all the messy emotions I’d managed to—mostly—keep locked down all day long.
I opened the glass doors of the study just off the foyer. For years, it had served as Dad’s office. I’d intended to turn it into a library or reading room when I moved in but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. There were a lot of things I hadn’t gotten around to doing.
It was a cozy space with a coffered ceiling and large bow window that protruded out onto the front porch. There was a freestanding desk and rickety set of box store bookshelves behind it. The room still felt like him. There were still a handful of photos and awards on the shelves along with a dusty set of law journals.
I sat down in the chair behind his desk and managed a watery smile at the familiar squeak. I could always tell when a case was bothering him. He’d lock himself in here after dinner to pore over files and think while rocking back and forth, back and forth.
I switched on the desk lamp. It was a hideous yard sale find featuring a faded woven shade that was constantly shedding threads and a heavy brass base etched with fanged merpeople. My mother insisted it was a travesty of interior lighting. Dad insisted it cast adequate light and was therefore perfect.
That was my father. Always finding the good in even the ugliest places.
The rest of the desk was bare except for an outdated calendar blotter and an empty pen holder. There were colorful sticky notes dotting the calendar page.
Pick up dry cleaning.
Order anniversary flowers! Bigger this year!
Tell Sloane about that book.
I skimmed the tips of my fingers over his choppy handwriting. Grief was a thousand tiny knives behind my eyes. Tears welled, and this time, in this safe space, I didn’t fight it when they began to fall.