Page 2 of Hustle

“I guess we’ll find out,” I snap.

“You’re making a mistake.” He glares at me, backing away, until he’s out the front door of my shop.

“Go wash your fucking face, you pig!” I yell after him.

Pride doesn’t let me lock the door until he’s out of sight, but once he is, I rush over to flip the locks and turn out the lights. I swallow the lump at the back of my throat.

Leaning my head for a second against the cool wall above the light switch, my mind races. I could handle this myself, but it couldn’t hurt to have back up.

But do I ask the Doyles and get stuck dealing with smug, arrogant Seamus? There’s a familiar sensation at his name. Annoyance. Anger. Grief. Longing. A pull between two tensions: desperately wanting his approval and friendship and hating him for making me want it.

Then that surge of essential Evi: fuck ‘em all. I can do this on my own.

Even if I can’t.

I could just go to their rivals, the Carneys, who also have interest in the neighborhood. They’re not friends, but they’re not Seamus, which is reason enough to solicit their help.

I need to think about that choice.

Until then, I slide Peacemaker back under the desk for safekeeping until I need the bat next, and head tiredly upstairs to my loft, suddenly inspired to do some intensive skincare.

If the Stacys think they can take my shop and my block away, they have another fucking thing coming.

1

Seamus

Empress Tattoo and Piercing seems practically deserted when I barge in. The front door, which needs some WD-40, screams shut behind me. The buzz of a tattoo gun hums somewhere in the background as I stride up to the front desk.

A young man with green hair and at least four facial piercings tilts his head, assessing, before he finally greets me.

“Are you lost?”

I snort. No, I’m never lost in Southie.

“I’m looking for Evelyn,” I say crisply, trying to rein in my impatience.

“Evelyn?” The kid wrinkles his forehead in a way that does interesting things to his eyebrow ring.

“Evi?” It’s still hard for me to call her that, even after all these years.

His brow ring migrates back to its normal spot as his forehead relaxes.

“Do you have an appointment? She’s booked through next year.”

“This place isn’t going to be here next year,” I snap.

Taking a deep breath, I try to ratchet down my spiking frustration. The challenges on my plate – no matter how numerous, no matter how pressing – are not this kid’s fault. I’m on edge just being in the same building as Evelyn. Part annoyance, part eagerness, part wariness: all electric anticipation.

Fuck.

Time for my best professional-lawyer-in-charge voice. “Can you get her, please? I’m in a hurry.”

His face darkens. “Are you one of those Stacy goons? Why don’t you just go back to Beacon Hill, stick your dick in some caviar, and let us work?”

I admire the insult, though calling me a Stacy is the biggest insult of all. I’ll have to try a different tactic.

“No,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Evelyn…Evi and I are old friends. I’m her lawyer.”

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