I’d heard it all before. Pete was always telling me I needed to get out there and have fun. Meet a nice guy, go on dates, enjoy my youth. He married his high school sweetheart and when I asked him once if he ever regretted not playing the field, he said no. When you find the right one, you don’t think about what you missed out on.
“You should send Angie some flowers. Go do it right now,” I urged. “Better yet, make a video of you singing an Elvis tune and send it to her.” Not that I was a romantic, but Pete loved his wife and talked about her all the time. Maybe she just needed to know that.
Tate eyed the Honda on a hydraulic lift that Pete had abandoned for this conversation. “Replaced that transmission yet?”
Which was enough for Pete to return to the job at hand, his plans to woo his wife put on the back burner. Having exhausted his conversational skills for the day, Tate pointed out a few dents I hadn’t fixed yet and watched with an eagle eye as I wielded my ball-peen hammer. After a few minutes of supervision, he nodded to indicate that I was doing it right before he retreated to his office. Before he walked away, I reminded him that he promised to teach me cutting and welding. He responded with a grunt which I always chose to translate as a yes. If I asked often enough, he’d eventually get around to it, if only to shut me up. I knew he only gave me the job because he loves Connor, but I worked hard and did everything he asked of me without complaining. I didn’t want him to think I was a rich princess from Miami who was afraid to get her hands dirty.
Besides, I loved working at the garage. Loved the idea that I could fix what was broken. Cars made more sense than people. You could identify the problem and find a solution. You could restore a car damaged by rust or lead or a collision to its factory state. You could poke around under the hood and figure out why it’s leaking oil or refusing to start when you turn the key in the ignition. You couldn’t do that with people. People hid their lies behind a smile, said one thing when they meant another, and even if they were physically fit and strong, that didn’t necessarily mean they were healthy or of sound mind.
You couldn’t fix another person’s soul or their conscience or their black hearts.
But today I wasn’t thinking about that or the metaphorical mountain I had to climb. I was just living in the moment, comfortable in my environment amidst the loud noise of a busy Brooklyn garage that smelled like motor oil and testosterone.
It was a good day. An honest day. And I didn’t take those days for granted.
Later that evening when I went to work out at Killian’s gym—MMA Defiance & Fitness—I slid the brown envelope of cash under Ava’s locked office door. She was the director of Killian’s foundation, in charge of fundraising and administrative duties and had shot down the board’s suggestion that they rent her a separate office space, claiming that the money would be more wisely spent by going back into the program. So, she’d taken over Killian’s office and handled all his membership dues and accounting as well.
Killian was in the cage with Nico who he was training to follow in his UFC footsteps and his entire focus was on Nico. He didn’t even notice me stopping by the office before I breezed past him, intent on getting to the locker room and then the cross-trainer.
“Keira,” Killian called after me. I turned and flashed him a big smile. He climbed out of the cage and came to stand in front of me. Killian’s appearance and demeanor could intimidate lesser mortals. He stood with his legs slightly spread, hands on his hips, his electric-blue eyes boring into mine. The muscle in his jaw was ticking so I knew he was angry about something.
“Hey, Killian. What’s up?” I asked, all light and breezy, my smile still intact.
His eyes narrowed. Uh oh. Except for the apartment situation, Killian had never been upset with me. But I was used to tough guys, so I held my ground. “Where have you been getting all that money?”
I should have known he’d eventually catch me. Killian didn’t miss a trick. Luckily, I had a lie readily available for this very moment. “I’ve been selling all my stuff. At the pawn shop and consignment shops. I had a lot of designer items. People pay good money for them.”
His eyes lowered to my Louis Vuitton bag. Other than my Moncler jacket because…warmth, this bag was the only designer item I’d kept. Call me shallow but I liked a nice bag to go with my gangsta chic style—tonight it was ripped jeans, a Dope T-shirt, and backward ballcap. “I’ve pretty much sold everything now so that might be the last donation.”
He relaxed his stance but crossed his arms and tilted his head, trying to decide if he should believe me or not. His brow furrowed in concern. “You sure you’re okay for money?”
I nodded.
“Your rent’s not cheap and neither was your car,” he pointed out.
“I’ve got it covered.” Selling the Porsche and my jewelry had given me enough money to buy the Charger and subsidize a big chunk of my rent. After that money ran out, I’d figure something out. Maybe I should have sold my designer goods and the set of Louis Vuitton luggage instead of donating them to a thrift store, but I hadn’t, and I could live with that.
“Tate’s paying you decent money?” Killian asked, not one to drop a topic until he’d explored every nuance and was satisfied with the outcome.
I wasn’t making a ton of money. I was an apprentice, still learning the job, but Tate was paying me a fair wage for someone just starting out in bodywork. I didn’t want any special favors. “He’s paying me good money. I’m doing fine.”
Killian nodded. “Okay. But if you’re ever short on money, let me know.”
“I will.” Killian was generous and despite the tough guy demeanor, he had a big heart. He would do anything in his power to protect the people he loves. Somehow, I had become one of those people and I didn’t take his loyalty for granted. But I would never ask him for money, and even though he knew that, he nodded as if he was satisfied with my response.
I didn’t know if he believed my story about how I’d gotten the money, but I’d always tried to be honest with my brothers about the big things. That went a long way in helping my case now.
“Thank you. For the donations,” he said, his voice so sincere, so grateful, that I felt a twinge of guilt for lying to him.
“You’re welcome.”
6
Deacon
Four days.
That was how long I’d been able to stay away. Where was my self-control? I stuffed my hands in the front pockets of my jeans as I walked to Keira’s apartment under the cover of darkness, the brim of my ballcap pulled low.
