Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 74428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74428 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
"So they're all... criminals?" I asked, brows drawn together.
"Not all, but quite a few."
"Interesting."
"I think, as a whole, only people who are in the lifestyle - at least a little bit - are able to live with the idea of being involved with a Henchmen. There is a lot of uncertainty, worry, and danger involved. Most average people can't handle that."
"That's true enough." Which was why my only friends in the world were in the job with me. There were too many risks. First, in regard to my freedom. You didn't know who you could truly trust, who might turn on you if they got mad. And then there were the chances that they would blame you anytime you got hurt. They could never understand. You might put them at risk by loving them.
It made sense for criminals to date criminals, to associate with criminals.
"What about kids?" I found myself asking.
"What about them?"
"I'm assuming your brothers have some?"
"Most have them."
"And they're not worried? That their lives would put their children in danger?"
It was something I thought of occasionally.
A future.
Settling down.
A husband.
Children.
But even if I managed to sock enough money away that I could retire from the lifestyle, there was always a risk of old enemies tracking you down, using your loved ones against you.
"There's always a risk. Reign's daughter was taken recently. But by her own criminal grandmother. But we are lucky in that we have Hailstorm. If there is a threat, all the women and kids head up there. It's one of the safest places on the east coast." He paused, taking a sip of his cold coffee. "Do you want kids, Liv?"
"Someday, yeah. You?"
"I don't have much of a choice in the matter," he said, smiling big, all stunning white teeth.
"Your mother," I guessed.
"My mother," he agreed. "Though, I like the idea of kids. A whole litter of 'em."
"How many is a litter?" I asked, finding myself smiling.
"Three, four. Something like that."
"What about you, Cam?" Astrid asked from the couch. "Do you want any kids?"
Cam shrugged, but I saw more than a shrug. I saw want there, a desire for something he wasn't sure he could ever have.
"What about you, Astrid?"
"Can't risk fucking up some innocent thing. Maybe I can adopt other fuck ups and we can be fuck ups together."
I could see her doing that. Not quite the way she described, of course. But I could see her growing up, working through her issues, settling down, and then deciding to open her home to teen girls who reminded her of the girl she had once been. That was a future I wanted for her, in fact.
The conversation went a little lighter from then on, discussing various little things we liked or hated, retelling old war stories, laughing over some of the antics of Roderick's brothers.
Before we knew it, it was time to get going.
It was funny how Roderick seemed to simply fall into line with us, getting up to grab a gun when we went to fetch our own, slip into a more serious, silent role as we all filed out, reminding Astrid to lock up after us, to keep an ear for her phone, then shuffled into the SUV - Cam driving, me up front, Roderick in the back even though it was his damn car.
Then we made our way to The Bronx - a place we didn't love doing work in.
"Hunts Point," I mumbled as we parked.
"Is it a bad place?" Roderick asked, looking around. "To be honest, the whole city looks like a hell hole, so it is hard to tell the difference between the good and bad areas."
That was fair enough.
"Well, it's not a great area," I said, rolling my neck, trying to stop the weird tingle at the base of my spine. "You guys ready?"
Cam sent me a look that said he felt the tingle too, but we both seemed to understand that this was simply something we had to do, not having any other leads to go on.
We moved down the alley between two buildings as we were instructed, then into a covered lot.
"You Liv?" a man asked, coming out from behind a support beam.
JB was pushing thirty but dressing like he was nineteen with oversized, sagging pants, a giant basketball tee and a backward red cap over his Slim Shady peroxide-blonde hair.
I hated bangers. Not just because street violence often left a lot of innocent people dead in the crossfire, but because the goddamn baggy clothes made it impossible to know if and what they might be packing.
"That's me," I agreed, lifting my chin a little as he did a once-over. It was all par for the course. Most contacts objectified me. That was simply how it was.
"Even sexier than you sound on the phone," he commented, making me wonder if I could cause ocular damage from holding back an eye roll so hard.