Page 14 of Pocketful of You

Loving a member of the Capaldi family basically constituted as a death sentence.

I knew this and normally had the awareness, not to mention the intellectual quotient to avoid such disastrous situations. However, my inability to keep my dick in my pants had catapulted me into a life or death situation.

What. A. Pickle.

Chord Overstreet'sScrew Paristook what had to be its fiftieth spin on the decks – aka: Sketch's car stereo – and I honest to god couldn’t take another second of the broody, angst-ridden, angry breakup music. The boy was a sunken ship. Countless rounds of Prince'sNothing Compares 2 Uaccompanied by Post Malone'sI Fall Apartput proof to that particular pudding. Oh, and let's not forget Kings of Leon's heart-breaking rendition ofDancing On My Ownthat had me crying a damn river, right along with ole J.T. himself. Every song on every playlist on Sketch's iPod was clearly directed towards Romi and it was making me snot-blubberingly stabby. The only reprieve I had from depress-fest was when The Weekend'sOr Nahcame on,and well, let's just say that one made me a little queasy.

Finally settling on the one song Sketch had that I could relate to – Theory of a Deadman'sHate My Life,thank you very much – and jacked up on caffeine and adrenalin, I drained the contents of my triple, venti, half-sweet, non-fat, caramel macchiato and tossed the empty Starbucks cup onto the passenger seat. If whatever remnants left inside of the cup drizzled out on Sketch's upholstery, then so be it, dammit! I was a man on the edge with a mission to complete. Trash disposal etiquette was not high up on my list of priorities right now. Finding and potentially retaining a semi-retired hitman was.

Sweet mother of Madonna. What has my life come to?

Snatching my phone up with jittery fingers, I took a quick glance at the last message my cousin Hayden had sent me.

Try 13thStreet, The Hill, Boulder, CO.

You might find him there.

Oh, and be careful, baby cousin.

He's a little…rough around the edges. xx

"Be careful," I grumbled to myself mockingly, as I slid my cell back in my pocket. "Hmm. Not exactly thepep talkI was hoping for, Hady."

Pulling up outside the red-bricked, two-story house on thirteenth street that my cousin had listed in her text, I killed the engine and sent a little reminder up to heaven. "Now you just remember that I'm doing this for you, Christopher. This isyourbrother that I'm attempting to save, so just…don’t let me die, 'kay?"

Drumming my fingers against the steering wheel, I battled with my nerves, all the while willing myself to climb out of the dang truck and get this show on the road.

Finally, I managed to mentally coax myself into unbuckling my belt and climbing out of the truck, only to be struck dumb at the sight of, quite possibly, the most beautiful man I'd ever seen in real life. "Well,helloThirteenth Street," I mused quietly to myself, reveling in the sight before me as a man, who had to be in the region of 6'4 or 6'5, jump-roped on a front lawn – shirtless and adorned in tatts, may I add – while a bunch of little kids cheered him on. "And hello,daddy," I purred, cleaning my glasses with my shirt to get a better look at this perfect specimen.

"Again, Daddy, again!" one of the children, a little girl of no more than two or three, squealed in delight. She had raven black hair that matched the hottie with the jump rope, and was bouncing up and down like his own personal cheerleader.

"Yeah, do it again, Uncle Noah!" the older blond, curly-haired girl chuckled. "You don't want Gramps to beat your record. He did 65 jumps yesterday," she boasted proudly. Puffing out her chest, she added, "Withoutstopping."

"Your grandfather ain't got nothing' on me, Abs," Mr. Hottie laughed, revealing a perfect white smile, and sweet mother of mercy, for the first time in my life, I truly understood what women meant when they talked about their ovaries exploding. "And don't worry, Erin, I could do this all day," he added, winking at who I presumed was his toddler daughter.

Yeah, me too,I thought to myself moments before I was slammed against the side of Sketch's truck, my airways constricted to the point of suffocation.

With my back pressed to the metal of the truck, I came face to face with…well,hot damn.

"I did it." Breathing restricted, I wheezed, "I actually found you."

"Actually,Ifoundyou," Lucky Casarazzi corrected, head tilting to one-side, as he studied me with razor-sharp, pale-blue eyes. "And because you've caught me on a good day, I'm gonna be generous and give you five seconds to explain who you are and why you're watching my daughter." He spoke so calmly that it terrified me more than harsh words ever could. "After that, well, let's just say I'll make my own assumptions and handle you in accordance to those."

6

Presley

Unsure whether I felt immense relief or sheer terror, I just stared up at the beautiful man threatening to take my life. I had no doubt he could – or would. How many lives had these very hands snuffed out?

His blue eyes darkened. "Let's go, little man. You're on the clock."

"Holy shit," I choked out, and of course, what came out of my mouth next had to be the dumbest dang thing you could say to a murderous killer. "You reallydolook like Charlie Hunnam!"

"That's four seconds, kid," he mused, tightening his hold on my throat. "Tick, tock."

"You're Lucky Casarazzi, right?"

"Three."

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