I finally heard from Blackie yesterday when he texted me on my burner phone, informing me they were working on figuring out how to get me back home with my family. Ronan, that useless piece of shit, was a dead end. Even the Corrupt Bastards think he’s a shady motherfucker and want nothing to do with him. I’ve been doing some work on my end whenever I can steal a moment away from Lauren and the fucking Partridge Family, but it’s hard. Yesterday I took my laptop into the bathroom with me, faking a case of the shits so I could tap into the Federal Bureau of Prison’s database and get an extensive report of all names approved to visit the G-Man. Forty-seven fucking names. I don’t even know if that’s a legit thing, could a prisoner really have that many approved visitors? Whatever, all I know is I’m going to have to fake a stroke to get background information on all those names.
Sitting on the veranda overlooking the water, I take a long pull of the blunt I snuck away to smoke. I close my mouth, hold the smoke in until my lungs feel heavy and my throat burns. Puffing out a ring of smoke, I reach for my burner phone and dial Jack’s number. The Bulldog is getting married today and instead of getting my fill of cherry fucking pie, I’m playing charades with my drunk mother, talking shop with my pops and fucking Kitten senseless. Shit, we’ve been going at it like rabbits since we’ve been here. I think subconsciously I believe I can fuck her into forgetting that the wedding is today.
I’m sure she’s skeptical as to why we’re here playing like we’re on an episode of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, but she hasn’t asked many questions. She didn’t bust my balls about leaving so abruptly and the more time goes on I think she believes I genuinely wanted to surprise her. At least that’s what I hope. Kitten will get all mafia princess on my ass if she finds out I’m lying or that there is a threat against us. After thoroughly scoping out the house I didn’t find any baseball bats, but papa dukes does have a fancy set of golf clubs that are accessible to Lauren. I’m fucking done, good as dead if the little Yankee gets her hands on one of those and starts swinging, no Bastard or goon of the G-Man would stand a chance—she’d take me out with one shot.
I take another drag as the phone rings in my ear and I wait for Jack to answer.
“Parrish.”
“Well if it isn’t the fucking groom,” I say, choking on the smoke as I exhale.
“Brother,” he starts then pauses for a moment. “How you holding up?”
“Peachy,” I say. “No ‘Al Capones’ lurking around this place just uptight rich folk.”
“Pipe’s working on neutralizing our situation. We’re going to meet with our friends in Boston this week and hopefully get your ass back to Brooklyn by Friday.”
“No honeymoon then?” I question, as I crush the tip of my blunt with my fingers.
“Nah, after the baby is born I’m going to take her somewhere nice,” he says. “Now isn’t the time for me to go off the grid.”
“Yeah,” I sigh.
“We will make it right, Riggs,” he states.
“I know that,” I reply, pulling off my baseball hat and running my fingers roughly through my hair. “But listen, I called to wish you luck. It ain’t every day the Bulldog takes a wife. Fuck, wish I was there to see you in a monkey suit.”
“No monkey suit here, brother,” Jack says laughing.
“You’re getting married in your leathers?”
“Fucking, damn right, boy.”
“Take a fucking picture, please,” I laugh.
“I’m pretty sure I dished out a few G’s for a photographer. That motherfucker better take pictures of everything, someone sneezes he better capture it.”
“Well, I won’t keep you I just wanted to call and congratulate you. Reina’s great man, perfect for you, and we’re all lucky to have her around the clubhouse.”
“Thanks, brother, means a lot. Take care of you and yours.”
“Always,” I vow. Standing up, I turn around and face Lauren.
Shit.
Quickly, I disconnect the call and shove my phone into the pocket of my jeans and stare at a very pissed, very ferocious Kitten.
“Funny thing happened,” she starts, stepping toward me.
“Oh yeah?” I say, taking a step back trying to put some distance between us. She appears to be unarmed but I wasn’t a hundred percent positive, we were talking about Lauren, the girl who carried a can of Mace in her bag at all times.
“Hmm,” she hums, eyes bulging a little. “I don’t know who I am mad at most, me or you. Me, because I’ve been so distracted that I didn’t realize what today is or you for purposely lying and avoiding what today is.”
“What’re you talking about? It’s not your birthday. We didn’t get hitched yet so it can’t be our anniversary, wait, is it one of those fucking anniversaries that women make up just to torture a guy. You know, like the first time we fucked, or the first time we spoke on the phone. It’s one of those crazy fucking things, isn’t it?”
If I have learned anything hanging around mobsters it’s that you deny, deny, deny until the end.
“The first time we took a ride on my bike?” I offer, raising an eyebrow at her as she fists her hands and glares at me. “Okay, it’s not that.
This shit so wasn’t working. I was fucked. No, I was motherfucking fucked.
“Cut it out, Riggs,” she warns through clenched teeth. “You know exactly what today is. I heard you on the phone just now,” she hollers.