Page 49 of Blackout-

My words trail off as he mutters a curse, making it obvious he’s not happy to hear from me. I don’t blame him.

“What are you two trying to hide from Jack this time?”

“It’s nothing like that,” I tell him. “Blackie and I had a fight and I threw him out. He’s been gone all night and I can’t get a hold of him. Riggs, I’m worried. I’m really fucking worried.”

“Shit,” he hisses.

“I don’t want to leave in case he comes home,” I continue. Honestly, I wouldn’t even know where to begin to look for him. If this was ten years ago, my first stop would be the clubhouse, but the times have changed, and I can’t fathom Blackie spending the night in Pipe’s garage.

“I’ll go look for him.”

“Riggs…” I pause. Worrying my bottom lip between my teeth, I contemplate telling him that he relapsed a few weeks ago. “He’s…well, I’m not…’ Before I can tell him to check the local bars, Riggs sighs.

“I think I have an idea where he might be,” he mutters. “Hang tight, alright?”

“Thank you,” I murmur. “Oh, and Riggs, let’s not tell my father about this okay?”

“Ah fuck this, I knew that was coming. Yeah, yeah, more secrets,” he says before disconnecting the call.

Throwing my phone on the coffee table, I lay down on the couch and drag my knees to my chest. My hand wanders to my stomach as my eyes find our framed wedding photo.

“God, please take care of him.”

Please bring him home to me.

To us.

Chapter Eighteen

Blackie

“Get up,”an unfamiliar voice calls, jolting me awake. I don’t respond and the bastard kicks my foot. “I said get up,” the man growls. Forcing one eye open, the sun blinds me. I groan, lifting my hand to shield my eyes.

“I know who you are, boy,” the man says. “Ain’t afraid to call the cops on you for trespassing.”

At the mention of the police, I force my eyes open once more. Fighting for focus, I stare up at the man. Dressed in his uniform, I recognize him as one of the many groundskeepers of Green-Wood Cemetery. In a cemetery this big, it’s nearly impossible to know any of the workers here, but this guy has been working the section Christine is buried in for years. He’s the guy that swaps out the wilting flowers on my wife’s grave before I get a chance to lay a fresh bouquet on a Saturday.

“Got some pair on you,” he continues to mutter. “Breaking into a cemetery and making a mess like you did.”

“What are you talking about?”

Following his gaze, I sit up and lean my back against Christine’s tombstone, taking in the mostly empty bottle of Dewar’s sitting haphazardly beside me.

“Clean up your mess, boy,” he orders, bending to pull the wilted flowers I laid last week.

“Don’t touch those,” I grunt, fixing him with a glare.

“They’re dead.”

“I didn’t have a chance to stop off and get fresh ones.”

“But you had time to grab a bottle of booze and hop a fence,” he snaps, taking a step back. Bending to retrieve his trash picker, he looks at me with disgust.

“I’ll get rid of the bottle,” I tell him, lifting my hands to my pounding head. “Just get the fuck out of my face.”

“Once a drunk, always a drunk,” he scoffs, turning his back to me.

“What’d you say?” I growl, narrowing my eyes into tiny slits as I peer at him.

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