My stomach is in knots. The kind that sends anxiety spinning into your head and bile surging up the back of your throat.
There’s not much that gets under my skin and even less that worries me, but every time I look at my sister, Rose, it’s in the background, nagging at my conscience like a bird pecking at a tree. Knowing this is the last I’ll see her for who knows how long makes the sensation stronger.
It isn’t the first time I’ve gone undercover, but it is the first time since it’s been just the two of us. Since I tracked her down off the back streets of Chicago and finally—fucking finally—got her ass clean and set up in my apartment.
“Hungry?” she asks, lifting a brow at me and plopping a hand on her hips.
“I could eat.” I shrug, tapping my fingers on the round wood dining table as I watch her flit around the tiny kitchen. She fidgets as she pours boxed pasta into a pot and runs her bitten nails through her deep-red hair.
“When’s the last time you met with your sponsor?”
Her body jolts and she places her hands against the lip of the white stove, dropping her head with a heavy sigh. “Don’t start, Nick.”
“I’m not starting anything. I’m just asking.”
“Well, stop asking,” she snaps.
My chest pinches and I frown at her, my eyes moving from the freckles on her face, down to her protruding hip bones, although not as prominent as they once were, then to the scars and faded marks scattered between her fingers and up her arms.
She grabs a wooden spoon from the drawer to her right, the other utensils clattering as she shuts it harshly. “I can feel you investigating me. Quit it.”
The corner of my mouth lifts and I reach up to rub at my jaw, the stubble scratching against the pads of my fingers. “Listen, kid…”
“I’m three years older than you.”
I grin. “Semantics.”
She laughs, shaking her head as she turns back to the stove and stirs the pasta.
My stomach tightens, my brain trying to push the words from my mouth when I don’t want to say them. There’s not much I care for other than work, but if there’s anything I do, it’s right here in this room, and leaving her all alone for an undetermined amount of time makes nausea churn in my gut.
“I’ve gotta go away for a while.”
Her shoulders drop. “For what?”
My tongue runs over the front of my teeth.
She hesitates. “For work?”
I nod.
Her head bobs, fingers shooting up to her mouth where she nibbles on the ends.
Blowing out a heavy breath, I stand up, the wood chair legs scratching against the ugly parquet floor, and I stride toward her. “That’s a disgusting habit.”
She stares up at me, her lips twitching into a ghost of a smile. “Yeah, well… I’ve had worse.”
Scowling, I lightly slap her hand from her mouth.
She lets out a soft chuckle, spinning back around to keep stirring the pasta. “Lighten up, Nick. If we can’t joke about the past, we’ll never move on. Besides, the humor helps me.”
“Humor’s supposed to be funny.”
“Not my problem you’ve got bad taste.”
I move fast, reaching out to grab her and draw her into me, locking her neck beneath my arm and rubbing my fist on the top of her head.
She screeches, bringing the wooden spoon up to smack at my arm. “Let me go, asshole!”
Amusement warms my chest and spreads through my limbs as I release her, smiling as she curses and straightens her hair. Glaring at me, she walks to the small pantry on the left wall and reaches up on her tiptoes to grab a jar before moving back to the pot.
The lighthearted air twists and turns with every second of silence until it starts to press down on my chest.
“Will you be able to come by still?” she asks.
Something lodges in my throat and I swallow around the lump. “I don’t know.”
She nods her head and turns back to the stove, mixing in the tomato sauce. I stay silent, not knowing what else to say, and hoping she’ll be okay while I’m gone.
“I want a lawyer.”
Zeke O’Connor’s voice is gruff and low; raspy as he spits the words across the metal table in the small interrogation room.
“Sure.” I grin, leaning back in my chair until the front two legs tilt off the ground. “But we’re just a couple of guys having a conversation, yeah?”
His golden eyes narrow.
“Unless…” I sigh, running a hand through my hair, feeling the slight waves bounce back into place after I do. “Nah, never mind.”
His jaw clenches.
“God, don’t start that shit, Woodsworth,” Seth groans from beside me. “You know I can’t stand it when you ‘never mind’ like a woman.”
I point a finger in Seth’s direction. “You’re a sexist fuck. And I’m just trying not to scare the guy.” I toss my hand haphazardly in Zeke’s direction, noting the way he sits forward slightly in his chair, as if he’s listening to our conversation without wanting to admit it.
Zeke’s leg jitters so fast it shakes the foundation of the table. “I don’t wanna be a fuckin’ rat, man.”
“Well…” I blow out a breath, grabbing my leather jacket off the back of the chair as I stand up. “It’s either us or jail.”
“Yeah,” he grumbles, running his hand over the bright-auburn bun on his head.
“You could always take your chances,” Seth pipes in. “I’m sure your dad’s got connections, right?”
Zeke’s eyes grow dark, his fingers tap, tap, tapping against the tabletop.
“Oh.” Seth smacks his head. “That’s right, I forgot. My bad, man.”
“Forgot what?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
Seth presses his lips together as he glances at Zeke before turning his attention to me. “His dad died in prison.”
I nod, bringing up my hand to rub at my chin. “That’s right.” I turn to look at Zeke. “What was it? Stabbed forty-seven times and found hanging in the showers?”
His chin quivers, his large hands curling into fists.
I whistle, shrugging my jacket on my arms. “Hope they don’t hold a grudge.”
“Fine,” he spits. “I’m in… I—but you gotta understand. If this gets out, if this shit goes bad? They’ll kill me.”
“Then don’t fuck it up.” I rest my knuckles on the tabletop and meet Zeke’s golden gaze. “Now tell me about Dorothy Westerly.”
