Page 59 of Nash

“Good afternoon.”

It’s Michael Cummings. He’s walking in with a man of equal size, of equal suspicion.

“Good afternoon.” His shadow seeks me, introducing himself, “You must be Ms. Monroe.”Same dark hair. Same glacial eyes. He looks like Cummings, only a little older.“Sire Rutledge, nice to meet you.”

His big hand shaking mine is hot. Hot like he looks with dark tattoos peeking out from under his starched white collar. His touch, strong and controlling. His icy eyes intrigued, almost amused to meet me.

Like a lion leering at a mouse. At his meal.

I’m supposed to stammer and be shy and sweet. I’m supposed to listen and be spoken down to. I’m supposed to wilt in the presence of the ominous threat of Nash, Jace, Michael, and now Sire.

But remember what I said about listening to men?

“Cut the shit.” I squeeze Sire Rutledge’s hand so hard before dropping it. “You’re one of them, Monkey & Co. I get it.”

Jace tries to stifle his chuckle but sucks at it.

“Yes, Ms. Monroe. Mr. Rutledge is”—Michael Cummings starts to drone with what sounds like will be another legal brief—“my business associate and?—”

“Why don’t you go associate a ‘fuck’ with a ‘you’?” I snarl. “I know who you are and what you do, and now I know you’re Alena’s godfather, too.”

He slices his eyes to Nash, seated over my shoulder.

I glance back, and Nash has his feet on the desk, his head resting in his hands. “Go ahead, poison,” he smirks. “Fire away.”

Okay, that’s kind of sweet, but I’m pissed as hell at him, too.

I whip back and step into Cumming’s shadow.

“I swear, if you ever hurt Alena, I’ll bite your dick off. The human bite has one hundred and sixty-two pounds of pressure per inch, and it takes half that to rip your little thing off, and I can. I will. I practice on jawbreakers daily.”

Jace chuckles while Cummings glares down at me, seething, “I would never lay a hand on Alena, and anyone who does will have more than his dick ripped off. Are we clear, Ms. Monroe?”

“No, because you’re all lying to her. She doesn’t know who?—”

“If we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us.” This Sire guy sounds half-holy, half-hot.

“I’m sorry, what?” I look at him, lowering my voice. “What are you? A mafia minister?”

“We are all sinners, Ms. Monroe,” Sire answers with a calm face. “You are. We are. And we all keep secrets so that our sins do no harm. Be assured we will never allow harm to come to Alena Allen. We’ve made our vows.”

My head spins. Am I surrounded by mafia, ministers, monsters, or monks?

“We need to meet.” Michael Cummings, literally the godfather present, signals to Nash to follow them. Jace, too.

“Don’t open the door,” Jace tells me, locking it. “Not to anyone until I’m back.”

“But what about our customers?”

“Distract them with dildos,” he says, not kidding, while the four men tread upstairs.

I’d be worried that this is one of their taboo meetings Nash mentioned, but I don’t get that vibe. They’re going in alone, so this is something else.

Over the den of horny women in the showroom on the second floor, I can’t hear the men disappear into their new meeting room. But I can see them on the security screen, using the camera at the top of the third-floor landing.

They’re silent. They’re serious. They walk single file: Michael, Nash, Sire, then Jace until they disappear from the camera’s view.

And I grin because Nash said I could never enter…

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