Kellen
Burke squints at me over his menu and says nothing.
The restaurant bustles. I sip a whiskey, think about putting it down, but take another longer sip instead. I drain half the fucking glass and motion at the waitress for another. She brings the bottle and tops me off, and I grab the whole thing before she can walk off with it. I leave the whiskey on the table, shoved to the side. Burke says nothing, only keeps on squinting.
“Why the fuck are you staring at me?” I snap and clench my jaw after, wishing I could get my temper under control. This is an important meeting and letting my emotions overwhelm my sense won’t do a damn thing for my cause. I wonder what Tara would say, if she were here.
And instantly wish I hadn’t thought of her.
These last two weeks without her have been like lying in a bed of hot lava.
Burke motions at the whiskey bottle. “I’m trying to decide if you’re self-destructing or self-medicating. Either way, not great.”
I shake my head and drink down half my glass. “Fuck off.”
“You’re the one that called me here, remember? I don’t need this fucking meeting. It’s much better for me if I never talk to you at all, you know that, right?”
I take a deep breath and let it out. Burke’s right. He didn’t need to show up, but he did out of respect, and I appreciate that. Even though he was Hugh’s man up until a couple weeks ago and he’s a real fucking shithole bastard, I still appreciate it.
“All right, you’re here, so let’s talk.”
Burke shrugs and lowers the menu. He grabs the bottle and tops off his own drink. “You’re not going to like what I have to say if you make me start.”
“Where’s Hugh?”
“That, I don’t know.”
“Does anyone?”
“Sure, people know, but they’re all loyal to him and aren’t telling me.”
I grunt like I got kicked in the shin and take a sip. “He’s still got people loyal to him after all this. Fucking hard to believe, putting your life on the line for a little piece of trash like him.”
Burke nods slowly. “There are a lot of folks in the family business that think you’re a loose cannon. God damn it, you killed Cormac, your own fucking uncle. That’s a big deal.”
“He kidnapped my wife. He threatened to murder her.”
“Where’s the girl, anyway? Speaking of her? Nobody’s seen her since all that shit went down. You’ve got a real interesting story about what Hugh and Cormac did to her, but there’s no fucking proof. For all I know, you cut her throat and tossed her into a shallow grave so she couldn’t tell the truth and now you’re making up some story to try to save face.”
I grip the glass so hard it might break.
The last two weeks have been trying. More than trying—it’s been a nightmare. I can barely sleep, barely think. My bed feels like a prison. All I do whenever I’m beneath the sheets is picture Tara there with me, and whenever I do that, I instantly start to hate myself.
And hate her.
The poisoner.
The liar.
I opened my heart. I melted the layers of ice I kept preserving myself all these years. I let her in and thought we might have something real.
It was all fake.
And still I dream about her lips and hips and breasts and the way she moaned in my ear and all the sounds she made, from her laughter to her gasping orgasmic screams. I still smell her, even now, even in this restaurant. She’s a ghost, haunting me. I want to get rid of her and I can’t.
At least Albert found her so we can void that damn contract and be done with that legal headache.
“Tara is visiting her father in Florida,” I say quietly, leaning forward. “Which is the story I’m telling people. The truth is, I sent her away because it’s too fucking dangerous with Hugh running around feeling like he wants to get revenge.”