“Like what?”
“Like your best friend died, but I already did that so…what is it?”
I don’t answer because I’m not sure how to answer. The same reason I haven’t explained it to King. How can I explain to them a feeling that I don’t quite understand myself? Plus, I know how heavy the weight of worry feels, and I don’t want to pass it off to them and have them concerned about me when I’m not even sure there’s a reason to be concerned.
Preppy snaps his fingers. “Wait, I know. You didn’t laugh as much because you’re afraid that you’re gonna pee. That happened to Dre when she was pregnant and laughed too hard. A little after she was pregnant, too. She was embarrassed, but I didn’t mind. I actually kinda like it when—”
“It’s nothing,” I blurt, not wanting to hear the end of that sentence although mentally I’ve already heard it all. “I’ve just been a little tired.”
He doesn’t look convinced. “You sure?”
I smile and try to make it as genuine as I can muster. “I’m sure. Plus, pregnancy mixed with exhaustion equals emotional. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“I tell you what. You go to bed, and try to rest. I’ll finish the movie with the kids, and I’ll wait for boss man to get home before we head out.”
I’m about to argue with him when he insists. “Bed, kid. Now. If not, I’ll have to consult with that barbarian of a husband of yours, and you’ll be accosted with the Brantley King edition of the inquisition until one or both of you dies from mental exhaustion.”
I don’t want to have the same conversation with King again. I don’t like lying to him, but I am fine. Or, I will be fine.
Or I hope I’ll be fine.
I concede to Preppy’s offer and maneuver my huge belly so I can shift to the side and stand from the couch. “Thank you.”
I’m halfway down the hall when I hear Preppy. Again, Bo was right. He does need to work on his whispering skills. “Okay, kids. She’s gone. Who wants some cocaine?”
I look over my shoulder and find Preppy silently laughing at his own joke. “They’re all asleep,” he continues, pointing to the floor. “And you, of all people, know I’d never give my blow to kids. They ain’t got no money or collateral.”
Chapter 3
King
My hands may be slightly cleaner these days, but my cash is still dirty as fuck. And at this moment, someone is trying to fuck with what’s rightfully mine. What I’ve spent two decades building in this town.
When it rains, it fucking floods.
I’m not talking about Hurricane Polly, either, although that’s not exactly helping matters.
The latest shit storm was last night. Nine and Pike, along with one of Bear’s guys they call Badger, were moving a shipment of blow when it was jacked on the middle of the fucking causeway. MY fucking causeway, by some wannabe thugs for hire.
Unluckily, I’m the one who fronted the fucking cash. Like I need more shit to be worried about right now in addition to Pup and whatever the fuck it is she’s keeping from me. I’m somewhere between angry and confused that she’s not being honest with me, and I hate to fucking admit, hurt.
Which just makes me even more angry.
I step into the framed addition to the house. Pup really did draw up a great plan. When it’s done, it will be a new master suite, a kitchen addition, and a huge playroom for the kids. What Pup doesn’t know is what else it will include, but I plan on holding onto that bit of information from her until its complete and every room looks just as she’s imagined.
Currently, it’s just a place that smells like sawdust—I spy Pike and Nine waiting for me inside the framed walls—and bad fucking news.
Pike is mindlessly twirling his handcuff bracelets around his wrists with his back against one of the studs. His chin-length beach boy hair falls into his battered face. There’s a cut above his right eye and a blood stain where he’s bleeding through the bandage. There’s a bruise under his other eye.
Nine is on his phone, but looks up when he hears me approach and shoves it back into his pocket. I consider the kid my protege, and not just because he’s Preppy’s brother, but because he’s smart as fuck, violent when the situation calls for it, and willing to take direction. He’s the next generation. The Prince of Logan’s Beach.
If he doesn’t fuck it up before he even gets started.
Nine, as usual, doesn’t waste any time getting down to business. He turns over a neon orange bucket and takes a seat.
“Tell me everything.” I demand. “What the fuck have you found out?” I light a smoke to give my hands something to do besides tear down the wood surrounding us and breaking it over my knee.