Things We Left Behind (Knockemout, #3)

“When I meet my future husband, I’m going to have some dignity. I’m not going to get caught making out in public. And I certainly won’t be shoving the joys of monogamy down the throats of my single friends,” I said, plowing my way through the first pillowy, cheese-stuffed ravioli.

Though come to think of it, almost all my friends were in committed relationships. I frowned and chewed. When the hell had that happened? The endless parade of bridal showers, weddings, and baby showers had punctuated the past several years of my professional march toward library domination.

“I was supposed to meet Knox at Honky Tonk two weeks ago. I got there early and found Mr. and Mrs. Morgan climbing out of his pickup truck wearing only half their clothes,” Lucian said as he pulled a piece of bread in half.

I hid my laugh behind my napkin.

“I FaceTimed Lina from a store to ask her opinion on a jacket. She answered the phone from the shower. I got an eyeful of Nash Junior in the background.”

Lucian shook his head. “For future reference, when you’re on a date, you should refrain from discussing other men’s penises.”

I choked out a laugh. “Wow. Wednesday Afternoon Lucian could almost pass for human.”

His lips curved up ever so slightly. “If you spread that around, I’ll deny it.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” I said.

My statement had the effect of a record scratch. Lucian went very still, his eyes boring into mine, telling me what I already knew.

He had trusted me. Once. Just like I’d trusted him. Neither one of us had any intention of making the same mistake again.

I cleared my throat and focused on my plate.

Lucian sliced through a delicate piece of chicken with surgical precision. “Why are you so intent on finding a husband? Why now?”

“Can’t we just talk about the weather or something?” I asked.

“It’s cold,” he retorted. “Why are you hunting a husband like it’s a sport?”

“Because I’ve spent so much time on my career I’m freaking out at how little time I have left to start a family.”

“And you need a family because?”

Normally, I’d have no problem calling him an inhuman robot monster with a wallet where his heart should be. However, I was keenly aware that we’d grown up in very different homes. He wasn’t asking to be an asshole—well, not only to be an asshole. The man across from me genuinely didn’t understand the purpose a family served.

“Because I’ve always wanted one. I always assumed I’d have one. I want what my parents had. I want to give my mom grandkids who are so excited to see her they smash their sticky little faces up against the windows just to watch for her car. I want a house full of people.”

He grimaced and helped himself to a sip of wine. “That sounds horrible.”

“Which part?”

“Mostly the sticky part. But also the house full of people.” He shuddered.

I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s definitely not for everyone. But I’m Team Sticky Face. I love spending time with Chloe and Waylay and watching them awkwardly turn into slightly less feral, more hormonal people.”

We ate in silence for a few moments, which gave me plenty of time to spiral mentally. I could not believe I was sharing a meal with Lucian Rollins. He made eating sexy. No one in the real world could do that. Everyone looked like idiots trying to cram food into their faces. But not Lucian. The way he held his fork and knife. The way he never seemed to get anything stuck between his teeth. The way his lips parted just enough for the fork to pass between them…

“You know, it’s not too late for you,” I said, interrupting my stupid train of thought. “You could start a family.”

“Or I could keep doing what I’ve been doing.”

“And what have you been doing?” I asked, trying to dislodge a piece of parsley with my tongue.

“Exactly what I want, when I want.”

“You sound like an overgrown toddler,” I pointed out.

“At least I don’t dress like a teenager who shops at yard sales,” he teased.

Before I could take offense and then tell him I’d taken offense, I heard a faint buzzing noise.

He reached inside his jacket and produced his phone to frown at the screen. “Excuse me a moment,” he said as if I were some business associate he had to be polite to. “What?” he answered.

I didn’t like when people couldn’t be bothered with a greeting. How hard was it to say “Hi” or “Hello”? Or “Lucifer’s phone, Satan speaking.” My dad used to answer every call to the house with a boisterous “Yellow?”

Lucian’s frown deepened. “I see. When?”

I almost felt bad for whoever was on the other end of the call, because whatever they were saying was not making him happy. He looked as if he’d just won the World Championship Glaring Contest and was pissed off about it.

“Where?” His tone was clipped. He looked over my head at some unknown spot, still frowning. “Fine. Get me in.”

He hung up, still looking grumpy as hell.

“Problem?” I asked.

“You could say that.” He picked up his knife and fork again. This time when he cut a bite of chicken, it was with controlled violence.

“Let me guess. The trophy girlfriend you ordered isn’t available?”

“Close. The man who sold Duncan Hugo the list of law enforcement officers just turned up dead.”

My fork dropped with a clatter. “What happened to him? Who was he?”

“A low-level independent contractor criminal. His body was dumped in the Potomac. He was shot twice in the head.”

“Why are you getting calls about that?” I asked, my blood running cold.

“Because someone ordered a hit on my friend.” His voice was colder than the polar ice caps before global warming.

“Duncan Hugo is behind bars, and Tate Dilton is dead,” I reminded him.

“Anthony Hugo is the one who commissioned that list, and he’s still out there operating his business.”

“Lucian, you can’t just decide to go head to head with a mob boss or whatever the appropriate terminology is.”

“As it happens, I’m uniquely suited to do exactly that,” he said, picking up his wine.

“The FBI is investigating him. You don’t need to go make yourself a target.”

“It almost sounds like you care, Pixie.”

“Lucian, I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“What can you do that the FBI can’t?” I asked.

“For one, I can expedite things. My team isn’t overworked and understaffed. We have the capabilities to find the right thread to pull on and point the FBI in that direction.” He looked at me, eyes narrowing. “I already regret telling you this.”

“What is Anthony Hugo going to do when he finds out that you’re helping the FBI build a case against him?”

“Become irritated?”

“Don’t play the blasé butthead with me. This guy is dangerous. There’s a three-part docuseries about him on YouTube that was never finished because the channel owners died in a mysterious house fire.”

“I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself,” he insisted.

Now, maybe. But there had been a time when he hadn’t been. When he’d been too busy protecting others to worry about himself. Old habits died hard, especially when the habit holder was a stubborn pain in the ass.

“His organization is rumored to be directly linked to a South American drug cartel, and his right-hand henchman is serving a life sentence for brutally murdering a federal witness and his family.” My voice was getting higher pitched by the syllable.

“Someone’s done her homework,” he said, sounding not the least bit concerned.

“Of course I did. Nash is my friend, and Anthony Hugo is still out there walking around.”

“Then you understand why I’m doing what I’m doing.”

“But what if he comes after you?” I pressed.

He looked up at me, his eyes flat and cold. “I’ll be ready.”

If we were friends, I could argue with him. I could make him listen to reason. But we weren’t. There was nothing I could do to make him take my opinion seriously. Nothing I could do to change his mind.

I suddenly wasn’t very hungry anymore. “I don’t suppose you’re willing to talk about any of the precautions you’re taking,” I prodded.

“I don’t suppose I am.”

“Is he going to go after Nash again?”

Lucian sighed and put down his utensils. “I didn’t come here to talk about this.”