Page 92 of Broken Warrior
Breaker doesn’t blame me, he never has.
He told me I didn’t need to apologize then accepted it anyway.
Breaker hugged me and told me he loved me the last time I saw him.
Breaker doesn’t blame me.
Conner’s death is not my fault.
I open my eyes slowly, take a few more deep breaths, then shake off the last of the feelings as they wane. With a sigh, I grab a handful of sunflower seeds and go back to my search.
It’s moments like these that I really wish I hadn’t quit smoking.
Oh well.
While I search articles on one screen, Little John’s travel and credit card history on another, I move to my other two monitors and pull up Berk’s autopsy photos of Rosco to compare to the ones I’ve hacked from various other ME offices in the surrounding states.
I have to admit, the Ghost is good.
He’s incredibly skilled, his lines are surgically precise almost, and he pays serious attention to detail.
I still don’t know why the fuck he’s leaving the Kings presents, connected to John or not, and none of the other victims I’ve found so far are affiliated with any club in the entire US.
Any connection literally stops with Little John and that’s only if I’m right about my suspicions, which I usually am, but I’m fucking baffled no matter what.
Why us?
Why is The Ghost inserting himself into club business? What could this new level of his game mean? And what is his end goal? What does he get out of it?
So many fucking questions and the lack of answers is really starting to get to me.
I’ll get them, though. I always get answers, and I have no problem using whatever means possible to do it.
I grin at that.
My dark angel knows this first hand.
All it took was a monumental orgasm in a champagne room of The Dollhouse and Ifinallygot her to tell me what the deal is with Elias.
He’s basically her personal body guard, a good friend, and thankfully for me, that beefed up tattooed charmer is gay. For everything I did find on him, that wasn’t in Elias’s file anywhere and I felt like a real dick for being such an ass to him and Tate both for how jealous the whole thing made me.
Between my insecurities and being burned by that bitch Lola, I was next level for sure, but my girl set me straight, I apologized to both of them, then I ate Tate’s pussy like a man starved as soon as we got home to prove how sorry I was.
My smile grows as I go back to lining up autopsy photos.
I fucking love eating her pussy.
Hell, I love any intimacy we get the chance to share, sexual or otherwise, because those moments are few and far between when you’ve got a little man running around the house, a mob boss to track, and a serial killer to catch. Throw in a super pregnant Blondie with a wicked case of pica and an almost overly involved family of felons and it’s a miracle Tate and I have had sex again after the first time.
Three times over the last few weeks isn’t enough but it’s fine since we have forever to bang our brains out.
“Jesus, Finlay, what the hell are you looking at?”
“Holy shit.” I jump and spin toward the door, Tate scaring the absolute shit out of me because I didn’t fucking hear her come in and I was definitely lost in my head.
My girl blinks, her eyes bouncing around my four screens for a beat before they connect with mine and within seconds, Tate starts to laugh.
“What?” I frown. She was horrified a minute ago, now she’s giggling her ass off and pointing at me.
