Hard Up(10)

Still, better safe than sorry. The less she knew, the less she could tell someone else… and that protected her and Callum both.

She turned around, searching the floor. She bent over, giving him a great view of her ass; he was pretty sure she wasn’t wearing panties under those tiny shorts.

When she stood and tossed his phone over to him, he caught it. Checking the screen, he saw he had about thirty missed calls and texts, mostly from Dec.

WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU???

CALL ME

He checked the time, saw that it was very early morning. He decided to text Dec rather than call, opting for a simple: Shot. Safe. Lying low. Call tomorrow.

“Do you want some more Vicodin?” Viola asked him, leaning against the door frame.

“Nah, I don’t like that shit.”

“Bad dreams, huh?”

She had no idea. He watched her for a moment, but didn’t respond. She fidgeted.

“What do we do next?” she asked.

The dreaded question, and him with no answer to give her.

“I need to sleep a few more hours, then we gotta split.” He leaned back on the bed, noticing that the bed smelled like her, a hint of vanilla and spice.

“Split up?” she asked, her brow furrowing.

“No, like… leave here,” he said, closing his eyes. “Let’s talk about it when I wake up, okay?”

He heard her footsteps recede, though he had no idea where she would go. He could cross the entire apartment at twenty paces.

He lied on his back, more than ready to return to sleep.

Instead, her question hung in his mind.

What do we do next?

There was no simple answer. Viola, in the heroic act of saving his life, had put herself in danger. He wasn’t exactly sure who’d sent the hitter to take out the Black Saints, but he had a few guesses.

Valetti. O’Roarke. Ivanov.

All of the names that came to mind were mob bosses, and none of them were guys you wanted hunting you down.

All guys a lot like the Black Saints. In the span of a year, Callum had gone from dedicated spec ops soldier to mob soldier. From saving lives and fighting for freedom, to a life of violent crime as a mercenary owned by the Cúram — the Boston faction of the Irish mafia.

He’d done worse in the service of the mob than he ever had in the military. Worse than the clown who’d shot him yesterday, even.

He did his best to keep a kind of moral code, rising above the guys slinging heroin and coke. The guys who beat up their stripper girlfriends, cheated on their pretty trophy wives, laid the smackdown on broke guys in debt up to their eyeballs…

Callum wasn’t like those guys. Or least, he tried not to be. He only hurt people when he had no other choice, and he never went after their families. Lucky for Callum, being a 6’5” ex-SEAL and showing up with two other big motherfuckers at his back…

That was usually enough to make anyone bow down and submit.

Usually.

Now that the Black Saints had been promoted from foot soldiers to run their own territory…

Maybe promoted wasn’t the right word. They’d been sent from Boston to Savannah, given the sleepy Southern city as their post. As a vital artery in the flow of cocaine and guns from Miami to New York, Savannah was important to the Cúram.

And when the drop houses they used to store and smuggle contraband started getting robbed — the first thing the head of the Cúram did was send his three best mercenaries to handle things. If they succeeded, they’d prove their worth. If they failed…

Well, then at least none of the Cúram’s made men died in the effort.

How far I’ve fallen, Callum thought to himself. In just a year’s time… SEAL to ruthless killer. Following in my father’s footsteps, the very thing I joined the military to avoid…

He forced the thought from his mind, focusing instead on his breathing. In… out… slow and steady…

A little trick from his time in the service. Worked like a charm, every time. Before he knew it, the darkness was pulling him down again…





6





Vi woke from a light doze, startling enough to almost tip over the hard wooden chair she’d leaned up between the counter and the front door.

“Morning,” Callum said, standing a handful of feet away in all his shirtless glory.

And damn, was he ever glorious. A shiver slid down her spine as she examined him, six and a half feet of taut, tanned muscle.

Then there was the smirk on his face. Like he knew just what she was thinking.

Jerk.

“Um, hey,” she said, dragging a hand through her unruly hair as she struggled to her feet, still half-asleep.

Callum turned toward the bedroom, giving her his back. Vi had the unique experience of watching a drop of water roll from his tousled dark hair down his neck, then snake its way down the valleys of his shoulder.