Page 85 of I am Dressed in Sin (Death by Daybreak MC 2)
If he does, then he might feel cornered. Cornered animals can be very dangerous things.
“Her messes?” Grainger asks with a harsh laugh. “Are you kidding me? I’ve been cleaning up her messes for years.”
I turn a look on him, but he still isn’t paying much attention to me. At least, it seems that way. His entire focus is on Gaz, but as he strokes his fingertips along my shoulder, I realize that I’m his primary and only concern right now. Gaz is just an obstacle getting in our way.
“Like her mafia mess?” Gaz says, but even though my insides turn to ice, Grainger is unfazed.
It’s just hit me, but Cade hasn’t figured it out.
My eyes meet my brother’s.
He knows.
Somehow, someway, he knows.
“Wouldn’t exactly call that her mess,” Cade supplies, his voice getting lower, darker. “None of that was her fault.”
I stand up suddenly, my heart contracting in my chest as I stare across the table. My mind is twisted up in knots, ideas and theories spinning wildly.
“Cade,” I say, and I think it’s because I use his first name out loud that actually captures his full attention. He stands up suddenly and grabs my arm in a punishing grip. “It hurts,” I add, reaching up to rub at my shoulder. “I think I need to go and lie down.”
Considering I almost died last week, it’s a valid excuse.
Gaz doesn’t buy it, of course, but he can’t exactly say or do much as Grainger leads me away and takes me back upstairs.
As soon as the door is closed and locked behind us, I’m stumbling over to the gramophone and fiddling with it until the damn thing starts making music. That ridiculous ‘midnight crew’ song starts to play, raising the fine hairs on the back of my neck.
I turn back to Cade, his face wary as he studies me. He runs a hand over his red-brown hair, tousling it enough that I can see that eclipse tattoo hiding under his hairline.
“You jumped like something bit you,” he offers up, and it’s likely one of the most civilized things he’s ever said to me. His voice is even, almost disinterested. But since we both know that isn’t true at all, I take it for what it is: he’s holding himself back. “What the fuck is it now?” Oh, and there we go, back to normal.
“Gaz is … he knows,” I explain, gesturing with my hands as I try to figure out a way to phrase this. “He knows somehow that I was not just kidnapped.” I drop my hands at my sides and exhale, shoving my fingers into my hair. “And he thinks we know more about him than we do.” I walk a tight circle as Grainger watches me. The sexual tension between us is thick enough to choke, but I ignore it in favor of dealing with our current crisis.
Gaz. Because via Gaz, we have Reba.
I will remain as single-minded as I have to until I get my friend back.
“Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t just threaten us, he would run straight to Cat.” I chew on my thumbnail for a minute, turning in circles, turning, turning. Eventually Grainger puts his hands on my shoulders to stop me from moving.
“You’re making me nuts with that,” he growls, but then his fingers twitch and he’s sliding his palms down my arms with a curl of his lip. “What are you saying here? Gaz is involved with the mafia?” It sounds absurd when he says it aloud, but there it is.
Why else would Grey send me in this direction? What are those packages? Why hasn’t Gaz squealed on me if he knows?
“I need to be alone with him,” I say finally, and Grainger laughs, yanking me close. So close that I can feel his heart. So close that I can feel the hardness of his cock inside his jeans.
“Never. I will never allow you to be alone with him.” He presses his face to the side of my neck, and I grit my teeth in an attempt to remain grounded. My palms come up to press against his chest, and instead of pushing him away, they meet warm leather and then yank him closer.
“You can watch, but he has to think we’re alone. If we are, he’ll be far looser with that big mouth of his. Grainger, we don’t have time to dick around and play detective. We’re working on multiple deadlines here.” I push my face into the hollow of his neck, and he squeezes me even harder.
Hard to believe he gave me cocaine when I was sixteen, huh?
We’re just that fucked up.
“We need him to talk. Now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now.” I nuzzle against Grainger, and he makes this … this male sound in his throat. It’s half-growl, half-groan, his arms encircling me and trapping me against him. Possessive.
