This isn’t over.
Parker. Fucking. West.
I admit, I’m shocked he found it while feeling me up. I’m even more stunned he was clever enough to pocket it. I underestimated him — dismissed him as nothing but a stacked wallet, high cheekbones, and unadulterated sex appeal. And yet, he’s backed me neatly into a corner without my even realizing it.
Now, I’ll be forced to seek him out. See him again.
Kiss him again.
No! No.
There will be no more kissing.
With a groan, I flip on an overhead chandelier, basking the industrial space in soft, feminine light. The loft is my sanctuary, my safe haven, though I’m probably the only person in a ten-mile radius who’d use those words to describe it. Even disregarding the ancient elevator, it’s not in the greatest of neighborhoods. I don’t participate in a weekly potluck with my neighbors or know their first names. It’s frigidly cold in the winter months — the polished concrete floors are icy against my feet, the exposed brick walls essentially act as a meat locker. Most mornings, I can see my breath when I roll out of bed.
My little icebox.
But that’s just it… it’s mine.
When I turned eighteen, I finally gained access to the financial trust my parents left behind for me when they died. It’s not much – certainly not enough to carry me forever – but it pays my meager rent each month and keeps me fully stocked in as many chocolate peanut butter cups as I can eat. So long as I take on a few freelance programming or graphic design jobs on the side every now and then, I’m able to live and work quite comfortably.
To soften its harsh industrial lines, I decorated in lush white fabrics and delicate glasswork. Colorful art prints span the interior walls; massive floor to ceiling windows look out over the city skyline to the north. A cluster of couches flank my black wood stove. A granite-topped breakfast bar divides the range from the rest of the space. My queen-sized platform bed dominates the far side, smothered in piles of down blankets and white faux-fur pillows. And in the corner, my most cherished possession — a bank of computer monitors on a massive black desk.
I peel off my flats, toss the backpack by the door, and shimmy out of my dress. Crossing to my dresser, I pull a loose-fitting white sweater from the bottom drawer and tug it on over my underwear. It drapes to mid-thigh, stretched out after a zillion washes. I shove the sleeves up above my elbows and feed a few fire-starters into the wood stove along with some kindling before I plop down in front of my computer.
I need that flash drive back, otherwise Luca will kill me and thousands of people will continue being screwed out of their hard-earned retirement accounts. Which means… Parker West just found his way onto my hit list.
Time to dig up some dirt.
As my fingers hover over the keys, I consider what I already know about the man, besides the fact that he kisses so well it should be illegal.
Not much.
My one and only interaction with the West family happened last spring, when Parker’s younger sister Phoebe stumbled into trouble with Keegan MacDonough — head of Boston’s most notorious Irish mob family. The MacDonoughs are a nasty lot, prone to brute force, bribery, and extortion. Taking Phoebe was just another one of their schemes to manipulate her sleazy father, Milo West, and tip the many, many millions controlled by the WestTech telecommunications company in their favor.
Twenty-five years ago, MacDonough bullied his way to the top the criminal food chain and never relinquished an ounce of his control, even with the DA breathing down his neck and the FBI searching his many properties for proof of illegal activities. He was a cancer, slowly eating away at everything that makes Boston beautiful. So, when I heard through the backchannels that he was holding the West heiress in a slum-house in Charlestown last April… Luca and I couldn’t resist an opportunity to fuck with his carefully-constructed house of cards.
Now, I’m happy to report he’s rotting in jail.
Plus, watching the Louboutin-wearing princess die at the hands of ugly thugs without lifting a finger to intervene isn’t something that sits well on one’s conscience — even a morally-hazy conscience like mine.
I may live in the gray area, but I’m not fond of watching innocents die.
And Phoebe is innocent. Annoying, but innocent — the girl talks a mile-a-minute, wears exclusively designer labels, and has never, not for a single moment in her privileged life, known what it feels like to go without food or heat or a safe place to lay her head.
We never spoke again, after that night. She doesn’t even know my name — she never will.
Still, against my better judgment, I sort of… liked her, when we met.