“What am I supposed to do, then?” she asks. Her bottom lip pops out, and she blinks up at him with her big green eyes. “I don’t have any cash left.”
“I don’t know. Sneak in or stay home. Either way, it’s not really my problem, is it? Told you before—I’m not a fucking bank.”
“But, Daddy,” she whispers. She bats her eyes at him. She’s goddamn dangerous. She bats her eyes like that at me and I’d probably just hand her my fucking wallet. But Grady doesn’t react.
“Oh, come on, Grady,” Chief says. He smiles down at his goddaughter and waves her over. She moves immediately into his arms. Once there, he wraps one large arm around her and uses the other to dig into his pocket where he pulls out a twenty-dollar bill and goes to hand it to her.
She shakes her head and sighs. “No, Uncle Chief. I can’t take the money from you. It’s okay. I can stay home.” Her voice sounds so small, and she looks so defeated.
I redirect my attention to Grady, who is glaring at Chief. The two men exchange a look, with Chief nodding toward Cheyenne and Grady shaking his head. It goes on until Diesel and Wyatt—who I almost forgot are in the room—are casually urging Grady to give Cheyenne money for the movies. Soon enough, Grady loses his patience and pulls out two twenties. He shoves them at her with narrowed eyes.
“Con artist,” Grady gripes. “You two are a couple of fucking con artists.”
Cheyenne gives Chief a squeeze before practically skipping toward her dad. She grabs the money and wraps her arms around Grady’s midsection. He pats her back reluctantly and then shoos her away.
With Grady’s attention diverted, Chief takes the opportunity to shake his head at me as he mouths, “Grady will kill you.”
I stare at him in confusion and shrug my shoulders, trying to pull off this whole I-don’t-have-a-crush-on-Cheyenne-Grady thing. He doesn’t buy it. He just chuckles and smirks, then says, “Pussy.”
“Thanks, Daddy,” Cheyenne says and rushes out of the room excitedly. Now that she’s gone, I’m reminded that I’m still in a good amount of trouble with the guys around me.
CHAPTER 1
November
17 months to Mancuso’s downfall
THE SOGGY GRASS squishes beneath my heavy black boots as I stomp my way across the football field. I’ve been out here standing in the shadows of the bleachers for the last hour, and only now am I able to show myself to Cheyenne and that douche bag she’s flirting with.
I have orders. I’m to keep an eye on her but not to interfere unless the situation warrants it. I’ve always respected Grady as the sergeant at arms, but I’m starting to like the guy on a personal level now. His instructions were clear: watch Cheyenne and make sure there’s no inappropriate touching or anybody suspicious in her vicinity. As far as I’m concerned, Clinton Bruce, quarterback for the Wolverines, having his hands on Cheyenne anywhere is inappropriate, and the uptight, pretty-boy asshole is definitely suspicious. Grady would sanction this.
“Hey!” I shout and shove an index finger in Clinton’s direction. Clinton. Who the fuck names their kid that, anyway? My mom’s one fucked up bitch, and even she had the decency of giving me a legit name. I shake my head. Clinton.
Good old Clint jumps in place as his hands still on Cheyenne’s hips. His eyes narrow as he slowly realizes I got a bone to pick with him. He’s fucking slow, but Cheyenne isn’t. She steps back, swatting Clint’s hands away, and shakes her head at me. Her eyes are focused on the black leather that rests on my shoulders.
This is the first time she’s seen me in my cut.
“You got a problem?” Clint asks loudly. His gray-and-purple practice uniform is spotted with mud here and there, but he doesn’t look like he’s been really sacked yet. Maybe I should change that.
“Hands off Miss Priss.”
“Miss Priss?” he questions. Yeah, slow.
Cheyenne folds her arms over her chest and gives Clint a quick look that reeks of an apology. She ain’t got shit to apologize for, but that she thinks she has to pisses me off even further. She’s always trying to fit in with other people. For as long as I can remember, she’s gone for the jocks. Occasionally she’ll pay attention to a band geek, but not often. She’s always stayed away from the loser druggies and anybody who never really fit into a particular crowd—like me.
“My dad and his friends call me that,” she says to him barely loud enough for me to hear.
“Is Whelan one of your dad’s friends?” Clint asks.
Cheyenne levels him with a frustrated gaze. “You don’t see the cut?”
“I mean, yeah,” he mutters only half-coherently. Then his voice rises in irritation. “Don’t get bitchy with me.”