Page 22 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
“You aren’t involved in that stuff now, right? I mean, now that you run your restaurant.”
“Most of the time.” His words were slow, too carefully chosen to be comforting. “But sometimes he asks for my help, and I do it. That’s what I was doing at the club the night we met—meeting him.”
“What types of things do you do?”
“Whatever he needs done.”
“Violent things?”
“I never claimed to be perfect.” His eyes focused on mine, his voice steady.
A small laugh burst out of me, the sharp sound bouncing off the walls of my bare apartment. “No, you didn’t, but there’s a long way from not perfect to violent criminal, don’t you think?”
He said nothing.
“And if I asked you to stop doing those things, would you?” But I already knew the answer.
“He’s my brother.”
I wasn’t angry. Not angry for whatever slight deception there may have been not to tell me this up front. Not for his past, whatever illegal or violent things he had done. Not even angry for what he had done to the guy from the club.
I was afraid.
Afraid that somehow, that world would intersect with mine, when I’d worked so hard to isolate myself. Even my club nights were carefully orchestrated and contained, incidents that never spilled over into my real life. Until Colin.
I was afraid I’d misjudged him, that he wasn’t the nice guy I’d thought him to be. Just doing bad things in your life didn’t make you a bad person. I believed that firmly. But how could I tell the difference? I couldn’t trust him. I couldn’t even trust myself.
“You’re breaking up with me, aren’t you?” An undercurrent of steel in his voice was the only sign of his displeasure.
“It’s not like we’re going steady. We’ve had one date and two fucks. That does not make a relationship.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You and I both know it was different between us.”
I paused, then said more quietly, “Why me? You could go back to that club and pick up a girl who’s hotter than me, who doesn’t have issues, that’s for sure. I need to understand why you want me.”
He shook his head, though it wasn’t a refusal.
“It’s not just the sex. It’s…it’s this.” He waved his hand around my apartment.
Bare white walls, cheap ratty couch, strewn plastic toys. I just looked at him.
“I want you. I want this.” He gestured between us in frustration, maybe at me for asking the question, maybe at himself for not being able to answer.
“Oh, Colin.”
He hid behind a thicker skin than I could ever hope to breach. The only reason I was seeing this was because he’d let me in. I fell in love with him a little right then, as he sat, so large and competent yet so vulnerable. I wanted him for my own, and that wanting was like a chant in my head. A greedy, futile chant.
“Maybe there is something special between us,” I finally said, “but it’s just too hard. I’ve got so much baggage I could sink the Titanic, and you…well, you have your own baggage, don’t you?”
Maybe I was being mean, I thought, as I watched his defenses tighten up again right in front of my eyes. Sometimes mean was good. Sometimes mean was the difference between survival and going under.
“Don’t put this on me, Allie. I’m not the one too scared to give this a shot.”
“No, you’re just the one who’s part of a violent, tiny mob family who goes around beating people up for fun.” We had both raised our voices, angry that this wasn’t going to work and yet unable to fix it.
“I can’t believe you’re mad about that. That guy was an asshole who hurt you. He deserved what he got.”
“That’s not the point. It’s not up to you. Did you ever think of what would happen if he got angry with me and tried to hurt me back? I was at the clinic with Bailey when I saw him.”
