‘I can’t.’
Great. One of the best friendships of his life and he’d totally fucked it up. ‘We’re friends. First and foremost.’
‘But . . . you want more.’
He swallowed hard at her careful tone. He’d heard it in his own voice often enough when he’d tried to let a woman down gently. ‘Can we please talk about this later?’
‘No. It’s a simple question, Thorne. Do you want more? You can answer yes or no.’
He wanted to glare at her, but her face was pale, the bags under her eyes more pronounced than usual. ‘No, it’s not a simple question,’ he snapped. ‘Yes, I want more. But if you don’t, I have to respect that and I will respect that. Because you’re my best friend in the world and I don’t want to lose you.’
She nodded unsteadily. ‘How long?’
‘You mean how long have I felt this way? I don’t know. For sure, for almost five years, but on some level? At least seven years.’
Her mouth fell open. ‘Seven years?’
‘That is what I said, yes.’
‘But . . . you never said anything.’
‘Because we were never free at the same time. And then . . . he came along.’ Fucking Evan, who’d poisoned everything he touched. ‘You seemed so damn happy. Until you weren’t.’
‘Until I wasn’t,’ she murmured. ‘All right. Where do we go from here?’
‘Right now? This minute? We go back into your living room and talk to the people who hopefully have a plan to keep me out of prison.’
She nodded. ‘Okay. But we aren’t finished with this.’
‘I didn’t think we were,’ he said grimly.
She lifted her brows. ‘I didn’t say no, Thorne.’
‘You didn’t say yes either.’
She lifted her chin, the pose classic Gwyn. ‘I have to think about it. Consider all the angles.’
Which was what she did best. She was one of the finest strategic thinkers he’d ever known. He closed his eyes again, fighting the urge to press his hand against his heart. Because it hurt like a motherfucker. ‘Just . . .’ he swallowed hard, ‘don’t run away. I couldn’t bear that. Whatever we have to do to stay friends, that’s what we’ll do.’
‘I can agree to that.’ She slid off the bed. ‘Come. We have work to do.’
He opened his eyes to find her hands extended. As though she could actually pull him to his feet. ‘That’s okay. I’ll manage on my own.’ Like he’d always done.
Regret flickered in her dark blue eyes. She opened the bedroom door. ‘Sam!’ she called. ‘Need some muscle back here.’ She backed away. ‘We’ll talk later,’ she murmured, and disappeared through the door.
What did you expect? he asked himself bitterly. That she’d throw herself at you? She wouldn’t have done that before the asshole murderer came into her life.
I should have just stayed out of it. Should have never approached her dates. I’ve ruined everything. But he’d waited so damn long for her to emerge from her shell. He’d worked so hard to make her feel safe enough to do so. It was just . . . the thought of her spending a moment alone with another man had made him crazy.
So crazy that now he’d scared her away. No, she hadn’t said no. But did he want to have to coax her along every step of the way? Would he?
He should have more pride than that. He should. Whether or not he did was the million-dollar question.
‘Here, boss.’ Sam hurried into the room, hand outstretched, and Thorne waved him away irritably.
‘I’m fine.’
Sam’s look was knowing. And compassionate. ‘If you say so.’
Thorne glared at him, but Sam didn’t shrink away. He’d always liked that about the younger man. Thorne knew he intimidated people with his sheer size, but Sam had never been one of those people. Never a yes-man, for damn sure. It was why Thorne trusted him with such a critical part of his business. Investigating clients and their claims could be tricky and sensitive, requiring both a quick mind and the ability to read people. Now he was trusting Sam – and the others – with far more.
Helping him mount his own defense. Because if someone found a way to make the murder setup stick? It wouldn’t matter what Gwyn did or didn’t want. He’d be spending the rest of his life behind bars.
Thorne sighed, then shoved himself to his feet. ‘Are you guys gonna save me from prison?’
Sam gave him a decisive nod. ‘Absolutely. Come on, boss. We’ll get you some food and then present your options.’
‘Give me a second.’ Thorne picked up his phone, thumbed through his messages. Ninety-five percent of them were requests for media interviews or statements. Ignoring those, he continued to scroll until he found the one he was looking for.
And frowned. It was the reply he’d been hoping for and dreading all at once.
All quiet. No one planned you ill. Altho now gunning for your club. BOLO snow, blow and TNT.
Wonderful. He’d texted Ramirez as soon as Frederick had gotten him a new phone. No way was Thorne trusting that his own phone hadn’t been tampered with by whoever had been in his home that morning.
Ramirez was his contact in Cesar Tavilla’s organization. A rising star in local organized crime, Tavilla had been the first person Thorne had thought of when he’d considered who had the motive and means to construct such an elaborate frame. The drug lord had hated him for years, blaming him for the incarceration of his son. He’d made attempts on Thorne’s life before, causing Thorne to seek out a Tavilla insider to warn him of the next attack. Tavilla had been quiet for several months, but he certainly had the cash and staff to carry off this scheme. Ramirez had, however, provided Thorne with accurate and verifiable information for several years now, and Thorne had no reason to doubt that had changed.
He’d wanted it to be Tavilla, simply because he’d wanted an actual target. But he’d dreaded it being Tavilla because the man was ruthless and powerful. Thorne had managed to stave off the drug lord’s bids to take over his club and his career, but he’d always known it would come to a confrontation.
At least Tavilla only wanted Sheidalin at this point. And at least Thorne knew what to be on the lookout for. Snow, blow and TNT. Heroin, cocaine and fentanyl.
Wonderful.
Six
Baltimore, Maryland,
Sunday 12 June, 10.15 P.M.
Gwyn dragged the milk crates Frederick had been sitting on to the side of the room and claimed them as her own. Tweety, sensing her mood as he always seemed to, lumbered over and sat by her side, resting his head on her thigh with a sigh. She scratched behind his ears as she studied Thorne, who was lowering himself to the sofa and looking anywhere but at her.
To be fair, there was a lot around the room for him to look at. The team had stuck large chart pads to the walls, with tape that Clay had assured her wouldn’t damage the paint. They were covered in scrawled notes and bulleted next steps. Each of the pads was ‘owned’ by either an individual or a team because they’d divvied up the leads, each developing a plan. Frederick had supervised and Gwyn had been incredibly impressed with the clinical way his mind worked.
If she ever got in trouble again, she’d totally want him on her side. She was so glad he was on Thorne’s. Just looking at all the notes, the completeness of the plans . . . it made the knots in her gut loosen. A little.
Mostly because the knots weren’t there because of Thorne’s current situation. That was clearly a frame-up. She had no doubt that he’d be cleared, and quickly. Her primary goal was to minimize the fallout to his personal life as they proved his innocence. Even if prison was something Thorne was worried about, it was nowhere near the top of her concerns.
No, the majority of the tension she was feeling was because of Thorne himself. Seven years. He’d wanted her for himself for seven fucking years?
And he never told me. Never gave me a single goddamn clue.