Page 28 of Hustle

God, leave it to Seamus to talk lawyer.

“It’s mostly just stalling for time,” he admits. “I want the Stacys to demonstrate that their land grab is actually for public use. It won’t stop them, but it’ll slow them down. Public use can be interpreted to basically be anything that generates tax revenue at this point, and if their condos have a shopping plaza or even a strip of park land, that’s enough.”

I nod, leaning into his hand.

“The files you,” he pauses, stroking my face, “liberated from Peggy didn’t have a lot of information. But there’s a huge time gap from 1920-1960. That’s significant.”

I snap up, pulling away from Seamus’ caress and taking a shot of liquor. “Those shady bastards,” I snarl.

“They are,” he says, nodding. “But we can look through old newspapers and legal filings. I have some legal librarian friends…”

“Librarian friends,” I murmur.

“Everyone gets librarians wrong,” he says, running his long finger across the top of the glass of water he’d been served with our whiskey. “They’re surprisingly aggressive, and if there’s information to be found, they’ll find it.”

He dips his finger in the water, and to my surprise, flicks it at me. He’s grinning like a bratty kid.

Goddamnit if I’m not smiling again. Still, as much as I trust Seamus to do his best, I wonder if doing things above board will actually save my shop.

The Carneys are still waiting to hear from me. Would Seamus forgive me if I went to his rivals for help? I survey his handsome face and decide that’s a problem to figure out later. Throwing back the whiskey, I lean forward to whisper in his ear.

The burn down the back of my throat helps distract me from how good he smells, and how bad of an idea I’m having.

“You ready for something really wild, Doyle?”

I lead him through the windy cobblestone streets to a hole-in-the wall bar. There’s an ungodly wailing coming from the stage as a drunk man sways, belting out a country anthem.

“Awfully early to be that drunk,” I say, “but some people need it to hone their craft.”

He gapes at me.

“What’s the matter, Doyle? Don’t like the music?”

I give my eyebrows a suggestive wiggle, and feel a wave of satisfaction as he shifts under my stare. He might be uncomfortable, but there’s desire brewing under there too.

He continues to gape as the drunk man hugs the mic stand, so moved by his own performance that he’s nearly in tears.

I point to a table. “Sit.”

To my absolute surprise, he does, transfixed by the spectacle. But not without brushing against me, sending electric sparks rocketing across my skin, as he does.

I order us some more whiskey. The next singer is a group of young women screaming out a pop song from a decade ago.

“What’s it going to be, Seamus?” I say, shoving the karaoke list at him.

“Absolutely not,” he says. He shakes his head in an exaggerated no and puts on his severest look.

I throw my head back and laugh. Flirty Seamus has retreated, and uptight Seamus has returned. If I’ve ever seen him serious about one thing, it’s this.

This man wouldn’t sing tonight for ten million bucks and his dream girl waiting in a king-size bed, apparently.

“A man has to know his limits,” Seamus says, talking fast as I quirk an eyebrow at him, “and mine begins and ends at singing. What if a video pops up on social media and someone important, a client, sees me?”

“Oh, for the love of god, lighten up,” I reply. “Your brothers sing.”

The young women finish up, and apparently no one else in the thin crowd is eager to throw themselves on the awkward grenade. I scribble something down on the scrap of paper, jump up and hand it to the DJ running the operation.

“You ready to go?” he asks, unfolding the paper and plugging the numbers into his computer.

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