Page 7 of Give Me Forever Love

Sadly, my girl got mixed up in it all. She still has scars on her wrists from that sick piece of shit. He’s with the worms now. Bones did rectify his slipup. Cain had a knife and was about to try to put it through me, but Bones showed up and put a bullet between his eyes.

Still, the girls wouldn’t have had to go through that if this guy right here would have done what I paid him to do.

“I believe the end result was what you wanted.” He lifts his hand from the table. “Johnny was reprimanded for his fuck-up. He should have cleaned that mess up right then, but he had a little emergency going on and hired some small time to do it for him. The guy failed to mention Cain got away. But he was taken care of. We don’t normally let other people handle our responsibilities.

“Like I mentioned already, loose ends aren’t my style. I apologized to you for that.” His dark eyes fixate on me. “I won’t do it again. Lying to you benefits me in no way. So, let’s get down to business. The reason I’m here.”

I narrow my eyes at this fucker. My blood pumps a little harsher, and my jaw tightens.

“You don’t want any trouble with me, Bryson.”

I tilt my head and smirk. “Call me by my family name again and I’ll show you trouble.”

He chuckles and holds his hands palms up, but Bones isn’t scared of me and I’m not scared of him.

It’s a bad thing for both of us.

“You don’t back down, do you?” he asks.

“Do you?” I reply with a lift of my brow.

“No.” His reply is quick. “But I don’t want to be your enemy. We can both benefit from a friendship. Mutual respect, even.

“The Judge, like I said, is a real son of a bitch, but he likes the finer things in life.”

I lift my chin and adjust my crossed arms, trying to figure out where he’s going with this.

“He can be bought,” Bones says, reading my mind. “I can make that happen.”

“And why would you do that for me?”

“You have something I wish to have.”

“Do I?” I question.

He twirls a gold ring on his finger before reaching into his blazer pocket and pulling out a cigarillo with a box of matches. My eyes jump to the door where the guard went out. This man’s really about to smoke that in here.

Shit, why not?

What can’t he do?

He places the brown wrapper between his lips before striking a single match against its box. He lights the end, replacing the smell of bleach cleaner with a rich woodsy scent. Whips of silver-gray smoke permeates the room, giving off a hazy effect.

“Red,” he replies.

“Red? The fuck you want my club for?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It’s the most successful one in

town.”

“Bullshit,” I reply.

A deep wrinkle settles on his brow. “It’s not?”

This fool. He knows that’s not what I’m talking about.

“Cut the shit and explain to me why a man who lives all the way up the East Coast would want to own a club down here?”

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