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As the months went by, they’d grown closer, and Sevan began to talk with her—as if she understood things, as if she were an equal—in a way her father and Primo rarely ever did. She learned that Sevan’s business was
importing pharmaceuticals
, as he liked to call it. He was always so suave and polite. But he couldn’t help but brag a bit as he explained how he’d developed an elaborate system over the years to filter his products into NYC without a big base operation set up there. Poughkeepsie was the gem of his route because it was perfectly situated: just far enough from the city to stay out of the spotlight, but connected to it by any form of transit you might want. “
And
,” he liked to say, “
there are just enough lowlifes there to keep the cops busy with other things
.”

As they became more entwined, Mary Ellen had confided in Sevan, the only one who seemed to understand her at all. She’d told him her deepest fears about being left out of the business as her father grew older, how he sometimes favored Primo even though he had no head for business at all. Sevan was always sympathetic, always encouraging. He forced her to realize her father’s confidence in her—the way he allowed her to introduce herself to clients. Sevan urged her to build on that, to become more of a presence in the office, demand to be a part of her father’s business meetings.

But even as he reassured her, there were signs: missed dates, unexplained absences. There were steps she knew she should take with Sevan, ways she needed to protect herself. But whenever she broached the topic, he would melt her with his delicious lips and strong hands. Still, she’d refused to tell him how much she loved him. And he never uttered anything but praise that was one size fits all.

The day Daddy had his stroke, Mary Ellen had felt she’d had one as well. But at the hospital, just after hearing the dire news, Sevan had appeared. He’d kept a comforting hand at her lower back and asked questions she’d not had the forethought to ask. He brought her water. Lover’s actions, all of them. But at the time, they’d barely registered.

Her concern for her father was more than just his health. His empire was a huge, towering nightmare, and she could not imagine what would happen if…Not that Daddy wouldn’t recover—of course he would—but decisive action needed to be taken. It was then that Sevan had planted the seed: She should take this opportunity to make some adjustments so she couldn’t be cut out of the business any longer. Otherwise Primo would take over—maybe sooner rather than later—and she’d be out forever. Primo wasn’t about to share with her, to let her have a say in anything. He’d always hated her.

Empowered by Sevan, Mary Ellen’s mind had begun to turn. Along with keeping the company in line, her show of strength would surely impress Rodolfo once he’d recovered enough to understand her reasoning. And either way, he’d have no choice. If she held access to the money, she’d have to be part of the decision-making from now on. So, with Sevan’s guidance, she’d managed to move several chunks of money into new accounts.

When the last transaction cleared and Mary Ellen had assured Sevan she could not access any more of her father’s fortune, her lover had stopped coming by, stopped checking on her and her father. She refused for a week to even consider that Sevan had betrayed her. But when she finally rang the bank to check on the accounts, they all had the same horrible number as a balance: zero. Nothing. He’d taken every last dime.

It hurt so deeply to know that her trust had been plundered, and her father’s money as well, but it got worse. So much worse. When Sevan finally contacted her, instead of an apology, his lips spilled over with blackmail demands. He wanted her to do whatever he said, get him whatever he wanted, or once Rodolfo recovered, he’d tell him she tried to make a move on the company while he was critically ill. And the paperwork would support his story. Even worse, Primo would be beside himself, preening and gloating over her demise.

But in that moment, something inside her shifted and Mary Ellen knew she would never cave to Sevan’s threats. She cried—sure, she cried—but her tears fell on words she wrote: a master plan to ruin Sevan’s business and get her father’s money back. And she would do it all before Rodolfo returned to work.

She stepped back, out of the overhead stream for a moment, and forced her hand to unclench its death grip on the handheld sprayer. She’d been busy in the ensuing days, snooping through Daddy’s lists of contacts and plying all her charms and skills to serve her purposes. And tonight should have gone perfectly, would have gone perfectly, but Sevan had tainted it. She’d recognized two of the dead bodies in the bathroom air vent. Sevan’s bodyguards had stood like two gargoyles outside their boudoir so many times during their affair, their faces were almost as familiar as his.

Of course there were ways to fix this, and she had gained some valuable information this evening. But as she stepped out of the shower, all she could remember was the time Sevan had taken her on the bed she was about to lay in alone.

14

Dancing Dongs

B
ECKETT
G
OT
E
VERYTHING
O
N
T
HE
L
IST
, then went to Chery’s room and got her some damn clothes too. And makeup. She’d want to cover her shiner the way she always did after nights like this.

On his way out, he looked at Jared’s limp body on the porch. The fuck knuckle was still alive…well, at least last time he’d checked he was. Beckett tossed the stuff in his car and went back just to make sure he didn’t have to smack him back to life. The woman-beater was boneless. Beckett took Jared’s rifle, now unloaded, and set it in his backseat before finally checking that the shit was still breathing. He was. Beckett pinched him in the armpit until the man came to. When Jared’s eyes finally focused, fear shaped his whole expression.

“I didn’t kill you,” Beckett said. “Remember that. I made that choice tonight. Now say thank you, you filthy motherfucker. Before I change my mind.”

Jared burped and seemed to try to make sense of things. “What? Yeah. You’re welcome? No. Thank you?”

Beckett stood and walked back to his car. As he pulled out, he smiled and waved at the jackass. On the ride home he congratulated himself on not killing the sperm bucket, and he took a quick detour to launch the wiped-down rifle into a crappy, muddy lake. Then he mentally reviewed the injuries he’d inflicted on Jared. He might have bruising on his arms where the rifle had pinned him down, but for the most part Beckett had been a clean convincer. Not quite as good as Eve, but not bad.

A few minutes later he pulled into his driveway and heard G barking his little ass off. He hoped Vere wasn’t spooked. After disabling the alarm from his keychain, Beckett walked in with their bags of things.

“I grabbed shopping bags from your kitchen. I couldn’t find luggage. Hope that was okay?” Beckett watched as his dog offered Vere his tummy.

Chery stood and nodded. “Can you help me take them upstairs?”

“Sure.” Beckett scooped up the bags.

Before following Chery up the stairs he added, “My dog’s fallen in love with you, Vere.”

The woman froze and looked at the floor.

Chery turned. “Vere, please tell Beckett what you think of Gandhi.”

Finally the woman put her stunning blue eyes on Beckett, just a little shy of meeting his gaze. “I like the dog. Thank you.”

Beckett nodded. “Awesome.”

Chery went the rest of way up the stairs, and Beckett followed her into the guest bedroom.

“Are you okay?” she whispered.

“I’m fine. Here’s your stuff.” Beckett put the bags on the bed.

“Was he…mad?” Chery covered her mouth, like even mentioning that Jared got angry was a secret she was sharing.

“He and I came to an understanding. He knows you and I are friends, and that’s going to be okay.” Beckett waited.

Chery exhaled. “Leaving can’t be that easy.”

“It probably won’t be. You’ve got feelings for him. But if you decide you’re done? It will be that easy. I’ll make sure of it.” He turned toward the door.

“Why are you doing this?” Chery hugged herself as suspicion showed in her eyes.

He got it. She was probably not used to a guy just being a human being. “I used to be a bad guy—not a woman-beater like drizzle nuts over there, but not good either. I’m trying to be different. You and your sister are safe here, if that’s what’s got you worried.” He walked down to the main floor and reset his alarm. He could sense Chery drifting back downstairs behind him.

“Ladies, I’m off to bed. Chery, text me if you need anything, and feel free to eat anything in the kitchen.” Beckett walked down the hallway to his bedroom, and Gandhi reluctantly tore himself away from Vere to follow.

He normally didn’t call it a day this damn early, but he wanted to give them some privacy. He put the dog on the bed and sat next to him with his laptop. Tonight had been like a hit on a crack pipe. Doing the right damn thing felt wonderful, but getting to use some physical methods to accomplish it had felt so fucking good he could just cry like a pussy.

He missed his brothers.
Damn it.
He brought up Google and punched Blake’s name in. The first link was a birth notice. He clicked on it, knowing he was weak. There was a picture of the baby, who looked like a smooshed-up old man, and then Beckett read the words: “Blake and Livia Hartt and big sister Emme welcomed Kellan Beckett Hartt on December fifteenth. He weighed eight pounds, two ounces, and was twenty-two inches long.” He rested his head against his headboard and closed his eyes. Good God, that kid was already a couple months old. He missed Poughkeepsie so damn much.

On Saturday morning, Ryan woke up early and surveyed the drying tampons on his ceiling. Trish still had his key, which was turning out to suck, but he didn’t want to deal with his annoying landlord to get his lock changed. God bless Trish—she was as inventive as she was crazy. Last night she’d brought at least ten boxes of tampons into his apartment and wet them down. Then she’d transformed the cathedral ceiling in his living room into a
tamponscape
. He didn’t have a ladder, which she knew, so the tampons would be there until they dried up and fell on his head.
Awesome.
That ruled out getting lucky with any other chicks until the feminine products were gone.

In the last ten days he’d visited as many crapholes as he could find in Poughkeepsie without being too goddamn obvious. He even did some tongue jousting with a fairly filthy hooker on a major street. He turned on the TV and watched a helicopter burning as it crashed in New York City. As a cop, his first instinct was always to think terrorism when he saw smoke and buildings. But after listening to the report, it seemed more like a crazy gun battle. If that was Poughkeepsie, he’d be all over it. Instead he just watched the flames peter out while the newscaster sensationalized everything.

One of his “special” cell phones rang. He’d purchased a few disposable ones at the start of his assignment. The number was unavailable, but he answered it anyway, expecting another telemarketer.

“You need to stop dicking around or you’re going to get all of us fucking killed.” The voice sounded computerized. It had been altered somehow.

“Suck my ass.” Ryan waited to see where disobedience got him.

“Cops like you don’t last long.” The voice sounded disembodied.

He couldn’t glean any emotion or background noises as clues. “Says who?”

The laugh sounded more like a bark with the distortion. Probably a free fucking app. “Just leave.”

“I’ll go wherever I fucking want. I’m above the law, and I sure as shit don’t listen to coward-ass vaginas who can’t even use their real voices.” Ryan didn’t hang up.

“She’s not my boss, but you best listen.” The call ended.

“That was weird.” He’d have to let the guys at work analyze this phone. He got up to check the notes on his computer. He wanted to track which places he’d given out that particular phone’s number, but as he neared his desk, he stopped in his tracks. His screen saver was dongs—hundreds of them bouncing across his monitor. And worse, each dick had either his or a member of his family’s face on the tip. Dancing Dongs would make a great band name. It was less delightful as a screen saver. He wiggled the mouse to make the picture go away, only to see Trish had set a particularly veiny one with his mother’s face on it as his wallpaper.