Too bad sex wasn’t enough to hold our marriage together. If it was, we would’ve been one of those couples celebrating their fiftieth anniversary…
“Wow,” Lucy says, interrupting another trip down memory lane. “These guys were not nice people.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask as I head back over to the living room and rest my elbows on the bar counter.
“They all have criminal records a mile long.”
“I’m not surprised,” I mutter.
“Did you know them?”
“Sort of.”
“Okay, well, I have the addresses for Walter and Mario’s wives. Terry has a grown daughter, and Russell was survived only by his mother. All of them live within an hour away.”
“Great, thanks,” I tell her as I straighten up. “Can you print them for me or write them down?”
“Sure,” Lucy agrees. “Just as soon as you tell me why you need this information. The truth.”
What the fuck?
“You don’t need to know that,” I respond.
“Then you don’t need to know their addresses.” She slams her laptop shut and sets it down beside her on the sofa. With her legs crisscrossed, the move pulls her shorts even tighter to her cunt so that I can clearly see the outline of her pussy lips and the crease down the center of them.
Jesus fucking Christ. I’m so distracted by the sight that I momentarily forget what we were talking about. Oh right, she wants me to tell her why I want the addresses.
“You know I could just steal your laptop and get it, right?” I remark, glad to have the bar counter hiding the bulge in the front of my jeans.
“You would need to know my password to do that,” she says sweetly. “So, tell me the truth. I’m not handing the addresses over if you’re going to hurt these people.”
Frowning at her because that was her first thought about me, I tell her, “I’m not going to hurt them.”
“Then what are you going to do, Nash?” she asks, holding my gaze steadily, waiting like she has the patience of a saint.
Maybe it’s how she refuses to budge or the way she said my name so familiarly. Whatever it is, it makes me want to kiss her stubborn mouth to try and break her. Since that’s not going to happen, I somehow find myself telling her the truth, not just to get the information but because I feel like it’s important to finally admit it to someone and get it off my chest. “I need to try and make amends.”
“Amends? Amends for what?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“How do you plan on ‘making amends’?” she asks, using finger quotes as if she thinks my intentions are sinister.
“Putting some cash in an envelope and stuffing it in their mailbox.”
“Without them knowing who it’s from?” Lucy questions.
“Right.”
“Can I come?”
“What? Come where?” I ask.
“To help you drop off the money.”
“I don’t need any help,” I mutter.
“And I don’t need to give you the addresses, so…I guess we’re at an impasse.”
This girl is such a pain in the ass. But I sort of gain some respect for her when she doesn’t cave. She’s not a pushover despite her tiny size. “Fine,” I huff.
“So, when are you doing this money drop?”
“Tonight,” I answer.
“The banks are closed.”
“That doesn’t matter. I’ve got the cash on hand,” I explain. “I just need to run upstairs and grab it.”
“In that case, you go get the money and I’ll go get dressed,” Lucy says as she carries her laptop with her to the bedroom and then shuts the door. It’s a shame that she won’t be wearing the pajamas, but they are definitely not appropriate on the streets. Or safe near me in close quarters like a car or my bike.
Chapter Nine
Lucy
While Nash is upstairs, I quickly pull on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and some sneakers, then jot down the names and addresses he wanted me to find and shove the paper into my front pocket.
Wanting to give the relatives of the dead men money is a nice gesture; I’m just not sure I understand why Nash feels he needs to make amends.
Surely, he’s not responsible for the men who were killed in a horrible fire a few weeks back. They were probably just acquaintances of the MC, and he just thinks that their relatives could use the assistance after losing their loved ones so unexpectedly.
Either way, I doubt he’ll ever tell me. But that’s fine. At least I get to tag along with him to see this good deed of his in action.
I can imagine it now, one of the wives missing her husband like crazy goes out to check the mail and then finds a surprise that could help ease at least a financial burden for a little while. Not that I know how much Nash is planning to give them. A hundred bucks would be a nice, unexpected gift. Hopefully I’ll find out.
The man doesn’t bother knocking on my unlocked door when he returns. He simply barges on in like he owns the place, looking like a hot bad-ass with a stack of manila envelopes shoved under one arm. “You ready?” he asks.
“I am.”
“Can I have the addresses now?”
“I’ll give them to you one at a time,” I respond smugly. “Should we take my car or yours?”
“I guess you can drive since I’ve been drinking.”
“Good call,” I agree, forgetting that important piece of information. Nash is drinking whenever I see him. No telling how many beers he had before he came down to the pool. Although, I do think his amber
