Nice and normal. Blissfully so.
As Blay and his dad moved around the kitchen, pulling out silverware and plates and cloth napkins in shades of red and green, Blay felt a little trippy. In fact, there was a total high associated with having laid it all on the line and finding out, on the far side, that everything you had hoped for was in fact what you had.
And yet, when he sat down a little later, he felt the emptiness that had been riding him return, sure as if he had stepped briefly into a warm house, but had had to leave and go back out into the cold.
“Blay?”
He shook himself and reached forward to accept the plate full of home-cooked loveliness that his mother was extending to him. “Oh, this looks amazing.”
“Best lasagna on the planet,” his father said, as he unfolded his napkin and pushed his glasses up higher on his nose. “Outside piece for me, please.”
“As if I don’t know you like the crunchy parts.” Blay smiled at his parents as his mom used a spatula to get out one of the corner pieces. “Two?”
“Yes, please.” His father’s eyes were riveted on the crockery pan. “Oh, that’s perfect.”
For a while, there were no sounds except for polite eating.
“So tell us, how are things at the mansion?” his mother asked, after she sipped her water. “Anything exciting happening?”
Blay exhaled. “Qhuinn was inducted into the Brotherhood.”
Cue the dropped jaws.
“What an honor,” his father breathed.
“He deserves it, doesn’t he?” Blay’s mother shook her head, her red hair catching the light. “You’ve always said he’s a great fighter. And I know things have been so hard for him—like I told you the other night, that boy has been breaking my heart since the first moment I met him.”
Makes two of us, Blay thought. “He’s having a young, too.”
Okay, his father actually dropped his fork and had to cough it out.
His mother reached over and clapped the guy on the back. “With whom?”
“A Chosen.”
Total silence. Until his mother whispered, “Well, that’s a lot.”
And to think he’d kept the real drama to himself.
God, that fight they’d had down in the training center. He’d replayed it over and over again, going over every word that had been thrown out, every accusation, every denial. He hated some of the things he’d said, but he stood by the point he’d been trying to make.
Man, his delivery could have used work, though. He truly regretted that part.
No chance to apologize, however. Qhuinn had all but disappeared. The fighter was never down at the public meals anymore, and if he was working out, it was not during the day at the training center’s gym. Maybe he was consoling himself up in Layla’s room. Who knew.
As Blay took seconds, he thought of how much this time with his family, and their acceptance of him, meant—and felt like an asshole all over again.
God, he’d lost his temper so badly, the break finally coming after all the years of back-and-forth drama.
And there was no going back, he thought.
Although the truth was, there never had been.
SEVENTY-SIX
“Hello?”
As Sola waited for her grandmother to answer from upstairs, she put one foot on the lower step and leaned into the bannister. “Are you up? I’m finally home.”
She glanced at her watch. Ten p.m.
What a week. She had accepted a PI job for one of Manhattan’s big divorce attorneys—who suspected his own wife was cheating on him. Turned out the woman was, with two different people as a matter fact.
It had taken her nights and nights of work, and when she’d finally gotten the ins and outs settled—natch—she’d been gone for six days.
The time away had been good. And her grandmother, with whom she’d spoken every day, had reported no more visitors.
“You asleep?” she called up, even though that was stupid. The woman would have answered her if she were awake.
As she backed off and went into the kitchen, her eyes shot immediately to the window over the table. Assail had been on her mind nonstop—and she knew on some level that her little project in the Big Apple had been more about putting some distance between them than any pressing need to make money or further her side career as a gumshoe.
After so many years of her taking care of herself and her grandmother, the out-of-control she felt when she was around him was not her friend: She had nothing but herself to go on in this world. She hadn’t gone to college; she had no parents; unless she worked she had no money. And she was responsible for an eighty-year-old with medical bills and declining mobility.
When you were young and you came from a regular family, you could afford to lose your head in some fucked-up romance, because you had a safety net.
In her case, Sola was the safety net.
And she was just praying that after a week of no contact—
The blow came from behind, clipping her on the back of the head, the impact going right to her knees and taking them out. As she hit the lineoleum, she got a good look at the shoes of the guy who’d struck her: loafers, but not fancy.
“Pick her up,” a man said in a hushed voice.
“First I gotta search her.”
Sola closed her eyes and stayed still as rough hands rolled her over and felt around, her parka rustling softly, the waistband of her pants jerking against her hips. Her gun was taken from her, along with her iPhone and her knife—
“Sola?”
The men working on her froze, and she fought her instinct to take advantage of the distraction and try to assume control of the situation. The issue was her grandmother. The best case was getting these men out of the house before they hurt the older woman. Sola could deal with them wherever they took her. If her vovó got involved?
Someone she cared about could die.
“Let’s get her out of here,” the one on the left whispered.
As they picked her up, she stayed limp, but cracked one lid. Both were wearing ski masks that had eye and mouth holes.
“Sola! What are you doing?”
Come on, assholes, she thought as they struggled with her arms and her legs. Move it….
They bumped her into the wall. Nearly knocked over a lamp. Cursed loud enough to carry as they humped her deadweight through the living room.
Just as she was about to come to life and help them the hell out, they made it to the front door.
“Sola? I coming down—”
Prayers formed in her head and rolled out, the old, familiar words ones she’d known her whole life. The difference with these recitations was that in this case they weren’t rote—she desperately needed her grandmother to be slow on the dime for once. To not make it down those stairs before they were out of the house.
Please, God…
The bitterly cold air that hit her was good news. So was the sudden speed the men gained as they carried her over to a car. So was the fact that as they put her in the trunk, they failed to tie her hands or feet. They just tossed her in and took off, the tires spinning on the ice until traction was acquired and forward momentum accomplished.
She could see nothing, but she felt the turns that were made. Left. Right. As she rolled around, she used her hands to search out anything she could use as a weapon.
No luck.
And it was cold. Which would limit her physical reactions and strength if this was a long trip. Thank the good Lord she hadn’t taken her parka off yet.
Gritting her teeth, she reminded herself that she had been in worse situations.
Really.
Shit.
“I promise I’m not going to wreck it.”
As Layla stood in the mansion’s kitchen and waited for Fritz to argue, she finished pulling on the wool coat that Qhuinn had gotten her earlier in the month. “And I won’t be gone long.”
“I shall take you then, ma’am.” The old doggen perked up, his bushy white eyebrows rising in optimism. “I shall drive you wherever you wish—”