“Sure,” Stan said with a nod. “Pool and pussy.” He lifted his glass. “And drinking. Want one?”
Archie lifted his good hand in a pass gesture. “Can’t. Got a big meeting.” He glanced at the glass of Crown Royal in Stan’s hand. “After, though, sure. That’d be great.”
I waited until Archie went through the door into the hallway. I spared one glance toward Stan, who had turned his attention back to Brittany as the song ended.
I walked into the john to the tune of Livin’ on a Prayer.
I usually didn’t believe in destiny, in fate, in any luck I didn’t create for myself. Life was a series of events, and I usually felt in control, even under cover. Archie was a wild card. Would he view this as a chance coincidence, or did he actually have enough brainpower to add a few numbers and get the right result?
I got my answer when Dougie’s two-way squawked around midnight. He told me to head to Richie’s office.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
When I stepped over the threshold, I felt as though I’d been dropped into a remake of The Usual Suspects. The gang was all here.
Butch, the one-trick pony, was performing his usual stunt of holding up the wall. The four bruisers I’d encountered throughout the last few days sprawled on the sofa and chairs, and Richie held court from behind that massive mahogany desk, the king of all he surveyed. Archie Dee darted around the room, passing out bottles of beer like we were all friends having a barbecue.
My eyes caught Richie’s. Unlike Archie, Richie didn’t wear his enthusiasm on his sleeve. Those dark eyes just peered into mine like he was trying to read my deepest thoughts. I practically felt him prodding through my recent memories—hooking up with Archie at the pool hall, my afternoon with Hannah, my phone calls with my father, the office on South Wabash, and finally talking with Stan tonight.
As I took a beer from Archie’s hand, he flashed me a smile. “I was telling Richie about Rack ’Em Up.” Archie shook his head. “What a coincidence, huh?”
My throat dried up. I drained half the bottle in a gulp. Jesus fucking Christ.
“I also told him how nice it was you offered Hannah a ride today. You know, because you saw her uptown and all.”
What a fucking nightmare. I drained the rest of the bottle.
“Sit, O’Shea,” Richie barked. “I want you in on this.” He paused and gave me a hard glance. “If you think you’re man enough for a challenge.”
“Don’t worry about me. I can handle myself.” I found the only empty seat and sat.
Richie sat forward in his seat. “I have a few things to go over before tomorrow.”
Chapter Eight: Hannah
Despite what Richie had told me, I knew he would never keep his word. He would use any
infraction to raid my possessions again. My courier services wouldn’t matter at all. It was just a way to control me, to make me cautious about any move I made and to hold any information I heard to myself. Who exactly did he think I would tell about his business? It wasn’t like I ran in circles where illegal activities were frowned upon. I didn’t even have a circle, and that admission made something die inside of me.
I longed to go downstairs and talk to Danny. His offer of help this afternoon had touched my heart, even though I knew they were only words. He could do nothing to help me—not with my life, my finances, or with Richie’s dominance. I’d been trapped the moment my father’s will had been read. Everything to Richie, nothing to me.
My future rested in my hands alone—and I’d finally figured that out.
I sat at my desk and stared at my collection of flash drives. Courses I’d already completed in business, hospitality, human resources, marketing, and my half-finished course in accounting. My future rested in these pieces of plastic. Yes, I knew the lessons by heart, but these drives were tangible proof of the progress I’d made toward someday owning my own restaurant. Not a strip club or a fancy five-star place. I wanted a tavern or a neighborhood bar and grill, something friendly and fun, filled with nice people who cared about other nice people. Lately I’d been toying with the idea of an Irish pub, but that was probably Danny’s influence. O’Shea’s Pub had a nice ring to it, but there were those dreams again coming up to bite me in the ass.
Still, these little pieces of plastic were my talismans, symbols of my hopes for the future. I hated that Richie had even touched them. They’d become insignificant to me now, tainted somehow, but I would keep them because they offered a bit of camouflage for what really mattered now.
I swept them up and put them all into my purse, along with another one. Richie could never be trusted, but he was often impulsive. He’d forced me into playing a part in his latest endeavor so he could gain back control of my life, but I never blindly walked into anything. Richie thought he saw everything, but when it came to me, he wore blinders. I was just Hannah, his day-shift manager, a woman like so many others in the neighborhood, to be used, abused, ignored, or forgotten.
He was wrong about me.
I knew what he planned, and I knew who was involved. I’d read all the messages. I’d kept copies of all of them, both for myself, as well as passing the information on to someone I thought I could trust. No matter how things went down, I had proof of this conspiracy in case I needed leverage for something in the future.
Richie continually underestimated me. For a smart man, he really wasn’t all that bright when it came to me.
Chapter Nine: Danny
As I hit the sidewalk in front of the club, I glanced up at the windows of Hannah’s apartment. A dim light shone through the window shade. Four thirty in the morning and she was awake. Part of me wanted to go back inside and up those stairs. The other part said I had work to do and couldn’t allow distractions.