Lennox (8 page)

“Yeah.” I thrust my shoulders back. “Yeah, maybe we
should.”

Nash’s upper lip twitches, like he was hoping I might fight him
on it. But I only feel more certain the longer I let the words hang
in the air. I think a break is just what I need—time to clear
my head and get over this ridiculous attachment I didn’t know I
still felt toward Lennox.

And maybe Nash can get over his rage.

“Yeah, well. Stay out of my way. And your uncle, too.” He
jams his arms into his driving jacket, and storms out the back door.

I slump back against the counter, drained, and let out a muffled
groan. It was the right thing to do, and I know it is, but as
relieved as I feel, I’m also terrified. Not just for Nash, and
whatever damned foolish thing he’s about to do. But for Lennox,
too.

It’s not my problem anymore. That’s what I try to tell
myself, anyway. If Nash and I are taking a break, then I no longer
have to give a shit what he does. But he still poses a threat to
Lennox. Lennox, who’s already long since paid for his mistakes.
Lennox, who still sets my pulse racing and my breath stuttering with
his dark lashes and lean frame and sad but honest smile. I couldn’t
bear to see him hurt again. He’s suffered enough for a
lifetime. Is he really a monster for life because of one horrible
mistake, like Nash seems to think? Am I a monster for wanting to
forgive him?

Uncle Drazic knocks on the doorway, hesitant. His tanned face is
sagging, exhausted, but there’s pity in his gaze. “Hey,
djevojka
.” He leans into the kitchen. “Wanna
talk?”

I sigh, and grab the plate of fried eggs from the counter and slide
it onto the table. “Not so much.”

Drazic tugs at my bun and drops into one of the kitchen chairs. I
pour myself a mug full of coffee and join him. “Well, too bad,
Ellie. I’m gonna do it anyway.” He grins. “It’s
part of that whole ‘uncle’ thing I signed on for.”

I manage a weak smile, in spite of the anger and hurt still churning
under my skin. “Not like you really had a choice.”

“That’s life. We play the hand we’re dealt.”
He tilts his head toward me. “And I know you haven’t had
the easiest of hands.”

I shrug and take a sip of coffee. I love my uncle as fiercely as I’d
love my own dad, if he were here. But there are some things I can’t
talk to him about. My feelings toward Lennox definitely fall under
that category. Lennox is supposed to be dead to him, after all. No
use feeling conflicted about a corpse.

Drazic grabs a fork and gestures with it toward the eggs. I nod, and
he pulls the plate toward him, then stuffs a bite into his mouth.
“Mm. Delicious.” He wipes a dribble of yolk from the
corner of his mouth, earning him another small grin from me. “All
right, Ellie. I only want to talk about this once, so listen up.”

I set my jaw and brace myself. Is he going to scold me for giving up
so easily on Nash?

Drazic sighs. “You’re not handling this Lennox business
too well, either, are you? Is that part of what’s going on
here?” He wrinkles his brow. “Having Lennox back in town
is tough. It’s tough for me, too, and not just because of how
badly Nash is taking it. But I can’t imagine what you’re
feeling. I know how hard it was on you when Lennox left.”

“Uh . . .” I mean, I can’t deny it.
Uncle D always knows when I’m lying. Something in our Drazic
blood.

“C’mon. Everyone saw how you two were together. Ever
since Lennox came to our crew. I get it,
djevojka
.”

I shake my head. “Look, I promise you, Lennox never did—I
mean, he wouldn’t even consider—”

“Yes, I know. He’s a perfect gentleman. And besides, he
never would’ve betrayed Amber. Although, I could always tell
when they were on the outs, because he’d spend even
more
time around you . . .”

I press my face in my hands, feeling a rush of heat to my cheeks.

“Man, it drove Nash nuts, though, that Lennox had your approval
and he didn’t. Nash never could stand it when Lennox got one up
on him, whether it was a faster time on trials or a pretty girl’s
eye . . . anything.”

I arch one eyebrow. “Really? I never noticed they were so
competitive with each other.”

“
Moj Boze
, Ellie. Are you kidding?” Drazic helps
himself to another forkful of fried eggs. “It’s the main
reason he asked you out, I think, after you turned eighteen. Lennox
had been locked up by then, and it was just one more way to stick it
to him.”

I stare at him open-mouthed. “Seriously?”

Drazic shrugs before answering me around his food. “That’s
how it looked to me, yeah.”

“And you were—
okay
with this?”

“Okay? Please. He asked me for permission, but let’s not
kid ourselves. I’ve always wanted you to decide for yourself
who you are. Who you want to be with. If you didn’t like the
way Nash treated you, well—that’s for you to decide.”

“I guess I did a crappy job of that, then,” I say. The
first sign of trouble between us, and Nash is ready to ditch. My
anger still burns inside of me, both at Nash and myself.

“Not at all,
djevojka
.” He reaches across the
table and pats my hand. Once more, I’m smiling to myself. “It
takes time, but we always find ourselves in the end.”

I snatch the fork away from him and help myself to some of the eggs,
as well. “And what about the crew?” I ask. “What’re
you going to do about Lennox and Nash?”

“Nash is . . . a problem still,” Drazic
admits, looking down. “But I had words with Mama McManus. If
Nash tries to attack Lennox, he does it alone. Now, whether she’ll
honor that or not is another matter . . .”

“You really think he will?” I ask. But then I shake my
head at myself. “I just can’t believe he’s still
this angry.” And that he could toss me aside so easily over
this, though if that’s how he really feels, maybe I should be
relieved.

“Troy is a wound that he never let scab over,” Drazic
says. “But right now I think Nash is just looking for an
advantage. He got in some good hits on Lennox after last night’s
race—I think that’ll help him calm down.”

I swirl the fork around, gathering up the last of the eggs. “And
what about Lennox?” I ask softly. “Can you ever forgive
him?”

Drazic sighs. “He tore up my crew. Our family. I can’t
forgive him for that.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, but I shouldn’t be surprised. It’s
Drazic’s code, through and through.

“And if Nash does anything to tear us up—really tear us
up—you better believe I’ll treat him the same.”

Lennox

I pick up the pool stick and almost want to weep with relief. Long
sticks, heavy balls, arguments, betting—believe it or not, pool
isn’t exactly something we were allowed to play in prison. I
missed it almost as much as I missed driving. And thanks to the
McManus clan, I’m once again free to do both.

Well. I scrub a piece of chalk against the tip of my cue and glance
over at my pool partner. “Free” is definitely a relative
term these days.

Rory McManus scrubs at his too-sharp jaw and eyes the table. He’s
the physical inverse of his brother, Sean, who is a major reason I
survived life on the inside. Hollow-cheeked where Sean was soft and
kind, sneering where Sean always found a way to smile. Rory seemed a
little slow that day I drove my piece of shit Camry out to meet him
and Mama McManus farther down the ridge to see if they’d be
willing to work with me. But every now and then I catch him looking
at the people around him with this sharp, vicious glint in his eyes
that warns me that there’s a lot more going on under the hood
than I realize.

He leans over the table, lines up his shot, and breaks. The balls
scatter wide at the far end of the table, and two drop right into the
pocket. Solids both. He points toward the six ball with his cue,
then, wordless, indicates the pocket he’s aiming for. I nod to
accept his call. Then he sinks the six ball in, calm as can be.

“That was some mighty fine driving the other night,” Rory
says, as he walks around the table. His teeth click together as he
surveys the lay of the game.

“Thanks.” We’re in a semi-private section of the
pub, but I try to keep my tone low, all the same. Not that it matters
much, I suspect. The McManuses probably own every damn person in this
bar. I roll my shoulders back, trying to loosen up. “You loaned
me a mighty fine ride.”

Rory gestures to the four ball and the far corner. Lines up, but his
angle is off; the cue ball skips to one side. He snarls, his smooth
face suddenly contorted in rage, and lets loose a sharp swear. Grips
his cue with both hands like he’s about to snap it over his
knee.

I take a step back. If this were my old crew, Jagger acting up or
Nash snapping at me, I’d tell him to chill the fuck out. That
it’s just a game. But we don’t have that kind of trust.
And outbursts like this aren’t about to instill it.

Then, just as quick as he flew into a rage, he’s all calm and
easy smiles once more. “Go ahead.” He gestures to the
striped thirteen, not far from a side pocket. “That one looks
ready to pop.”

I nod and move to line up my shot, but my stomach is turning inside.
Something about being this close to Rory McManus feels a little too
much like swallowing poison.

“Yeah,” Rory drawls, “the Mustang’s a beaut.
Pieced her guts back together off of some cars we nicked down in
Taos.”

I cringe at how casually he’s referencing grand theft. Mama
McManus owns this pub, I know, but still—it’s one thing
for everyone to know something, but quite another to say it out loud.

“Taos is a fucking gold mine,” Rory continues. He’s
hardly paying attention to the game or the shots I’m
indicating. Is he just enjoying hearing himself talk, or is he
waiting to see if I’ll try to cheat him? “So many
goddamned yuppie tourists just begging to get fleeced.”

“Mmhmm.” I make the most non-committal noise I can. I’m
not about to indict myself—not with my parole officer lurking
around every goddamned corner—but I need the McManuses too much
to disagree. Once they vetted me, Mama paid off my grams’s
long-overdue medical bills without batting an eye. “Sounds like
a good time.”

I miss my shot, and shrug it off. Rory snorts to himself and circles
the table like a hungry predator. Once more, I can’t believe
I’ve let myself get mixed up with this creep. He’s a far
cry from Drazic. From Elena . . . But any chance I
might’ve had with her was blown three years ago. She was sweet
to offer me her forgiveness the other night. But it wasn’t hers
to give. Not while Alexander Cartwright holds one leash on me, and
Mama McManus holds the other.

God, but she grew up so gorgeous. As if I’d had any doubt. That
silky dark hair, stubborn tilt to her chin, and then the nervous way
she let her fingers dance across my skin—Fuck. Even in the
darkest, loneliest nights in prison, I never imagined her quite like
this.

“The yuppies, though . . .” Rory
interrupts my thoughts of Elena with his smug tone. “They have
their uses. Especially those spiritual vision quest types.” He
easily sinks the three ball. “They act all high and mighty, but
really, they just
loooove
to get high.”

Suddenly, I have a terrible feeling where this painful conversation
is going.

“All right. Eight ball. Here we go.” Rory hunches over.
Tests his angle a few times. Tests it again. I lean against my stick,
trying my best to act casual. But I know what’s coming. I know
what’s coming, and I know I have no fucking choice but to go
along with it.

The eight ball misses the angle and rolls harmlessly to a stop in the
middle of the table. Rory shudders again with rage and tosses his cue
to the far corner. “Fucking cocksucker.” He picks up his
beer and pounds it, then turns back to me, all smiles once more.
“Your turn, man. You could clean up right now and win this.”

But I very much doubt that’s what’s about to happen.

“Twelve,” I say. “Side pocket.” I knock the
twelve in, even though I can feel the tremor in my right arm. Old
nerve damage from the crash. “Nine. Back left.” Miss.
“Damn. All you, man.”

Rory chuckles to himself and gestures to the eight ball once more.
This time it sinks in with no complaints. He straightens up and grabs
his beer.

“Well done,” I tell him.

“Enh, it was nothing. I’m still rusty as shit.”

“Hell, no more than I am. Three years without touching a
cue . . .”

Rory leans back against the table. “Yeah, your luck sure has
changed, huh?”

“Not luck.” I grab my beer and tilt the neck toward Rory.
“I have you and Mama to thank. Not lady luck.”

“Well, Mama’s got something new for you.”

My stomach sinks. And here it is.

“C’mon.” Rory gestures toward the back room, past
the bar and the low murmur of clinking glasses, vaping pens, and
drunken laughs. “She should be back by now. Let’s go hear
her out.”

We turn past the restrooms, smelling fresh as daisies—the pub
may look like a grimy hundred-year-old Dublin tavern, but Mama’s
crew keeps it dazzlingly clean. Rory lets me walk in front of
him—well, he leaves me no other option—and we climb up
toward the second-floor offices that gaze onto the remnants of
downtown Ridgecrest and the valleys beyond. A burly Pacific man
stands guard at the door; he frisks me, then nods toward Rory before
opening the door to the office for us.

Mama’s inner sanctum is an even swankier version of the pub
below. Mahogany and leather and brass, with a private pool table and
bar. Men and women both hang out on leather couches, working through
log books and studying documents that I don’t want to look at
too closely. And overseeing it all is Mama, her booted feet crossed
and propped up on top of a carved wooden desk while she clenches a
cigar.