The Monster (Boston Belles #3) - L.J. Shen Page 0,26

away on his keyboard.

“There’s actually a flight going out of Boston Logan Airport in a few hours. Better catch that one, ’cause there’s thunderstorms rolling in tomorrow and there could be delays.”

“Book it,” I ordered.

I was going to stand Aisling Fitzpatrick up, but that wasn’t a problem. If there was one thing I knew for certain, it was that Nix—little monster—would never turn me down.

She would be there next week. And the week after that.

To be used, abused, and devoured.

She’d always been mine.

That was what made her so dangerous and why I stayed the fuck away all these years. The fact that she was at my disposal. Just one horny mistake away from calamity. An unconditional woman was nothing foreign to me, but they usually wanted something. My money, my power, the glow of being under the dark wings of Boston’s underground king.

Aisling, however, I couldn’t figure out. She had more money than she knew how to count. She was more of the reforming type than the women who wanted the bad boy, and her motives always seemed disturbingly genuine.

I didn’t know what her angle was, and it didn’t matter.

Her family was my biggest client, and I wasn’t going to fuck up my job for any woman, not even one as sweet as her.

Mitchell sauntered back in. His beefy body in that small gym top gave the appearance of trying to stuff my fat cock into a normal-sized condom.

“Ready?” He raised his fist for another pump.

I ignored it, once again, sauntering toward the ropes.

“Always.”

Hours later, I was standing in Cat’s living room or whatever the fuck you wanted to call the small, dingy rathole she used to occupy.

Mrs. Masterson gave me the key, but not before feeding me a questionable apple pie and sweetened iced tea that tasted suspiciously like the store-bought Costco brand.

Cat’s house was about the size of my spare room back in Boston. Most of her furniture was hand-me-downs and crap you’d drag from a street corner’s curb. Her bathroom cabinet had enough prescription drugs to restock a fucking pharmacy. The house exhibited all the usual signs of a shitty life: plastic bags full of useless things strewn everywhere, outstanding bills pinned to a board, half-full beer cans scattered about, and a bunch of used condoms in her bedroom’s trash can.

She died a hooker. It probably should have saddened me, but it didn’t. She lost all pity privileges when she made me an alcoholic and cocaine user before I knew how to wipe my own ass properly.

I rolled up my sleeves and got to work immediately, peeling wallpaper to see if there was something interesting hiding behind it, sifting through the hoarder-type garbage, and opening every cabinet and drawer in the damn place. I flipped the house upside down, even yanked out the leaking faucet from its place, but for the life of me I couldn’t find that thing Mrs. Masterson was talking about that would make it worth my while to visit.

I knew asking the old hag was pointless. She’d just shove more half-frozen apple pie down my throat and tell me Cat wanted me to find it for myself.

You could always count on Cat to make things harder for me, even from the fucking grave.

Usually, I was good at extracting information in not-so-nice ways, but even I had my limits, and I drew them at physically attacking eighty-five-year-old women who were half deaf and possibly fully blind.

I decided to call Sparrow, whom I considered my de facto mother. True, she hadn’t pushed me out of her vagina, but she sure as shit was there to get me out of trouble while I was at school. She fed me, fought my battles, and celebrated my wins.

She loved me more fiercely than any mother would her child, but the damage had been done. My soul was broken, my eyes were open, and my heart was frozen.

“What’s up, Sam?” Sparrow asked on the other line. I could practically imagine her rolling dough in the kitchen, red hair snaking everywhere like medusa, an apron with a witty phrase wrapped around her waist—which was still boyish and slender.

“Sparrow. I’m at Cat’s place in Georgia. She died of an overdose.”

“Troy said,” she answered quietly, and I could sense she was about to launch into her condolences, so I talked fast.

“I think there’s something here I should see, but I’m not sure where to find it.”

I was good at raiding places, but I usually found weapons under the mattresses and between cracks.