Page 92 of The Anchor Holds

The last of my martini turned rancid in my mouth at the mere thought.

“Yes, it would take a lot more than that,” I lied. The last thing Jasper needed to know about was Elliot.

“You pissed off a small-town hunter?” He was unusually chatty.

I mouthed a thank you to the server as he put another drink in front of me in record time.

My mind raced, trying to figure out who the shooter was if it wasn’t Jasper or anyone connected to him. It’s not like I didn’t have a list of enemies. Plenty of fallen men would dance on my grave given the chance. Some might’ve even had enough power or bravery to attempt to kill me, but I doubted it.

“Something like that,” I murmured.

“You want me to look into it?”

I froze, my martini inches from my mouth. It was not an offer from the goodness of his heart. He’d expect something in return. And I was done owing Jasper Hayes.

“No,” I shook my head. “I can handle this.”

“Flesh wound would beg to differ,” he countered.

I scowled, though he couldn’t see it. “I’m breathing, aren’t I?”

“For now,” he finally said after a loaded pause. It wasn’t exactly a threat, yet it cooled my blood, nonetheless. “My offer stands, if you come to your senses.”

“I’ve come to them, which is why I’ll never ask for another favor from you as long as I live.” Not giving him a chance to reply, I hung up on him.

The second I broke the call, my phone started vibrating again.

Elliot.

He’d called repeatedly during the past three hours. He’d demanded I check in with him, and a quick drive by my house and seeing Kip’s pickup parked there had told me the men had coordinated some kind of protection detail.

No way was I letting that shit happen. Hence the hotel.

I’d texted Elliot to tell him I hadn’t been murdered and was not allowing myself to be a part of any sort of protection detail.

He hadn’t been calmed by that, hence the calls.

Once again, I silenced it, picking up my drink instead.

Drinking wasn’t going to solve my problems, but I wasn’t about to face them head-on. Or sober.

Not that night, at least.

ELLIOT

“Fuck,” I muttered as I heard Calliope’s voicemail message yet again.

Which was, “If I’m not answering your call, I don’t want to talk to you. Don’t leave a message, I won’t listen to it.”

She was screening my calls. But she was okay. Like her text said. It was a mistake trying to put any kind of guard detail on her. I’d told Rowan as much when he’d arrived at the restaurant earlier to ‘make a plan.’

Rowan was the kind of man who needed a plan, needed actionable steps to keep his loved ones safe. I got that. The need to chain Calliope to my side so I could have eyes on her at all moments was maddening. But I understood that that was a surefire way to lose her, which was why I had let her leave my place and had headed to Shaw Shack to masquerade as business as usual. I’d been considering delaying my departure this weekend. Though I’d known Calliope wouldn’t be happy about that. And we couldn’t afford to miss a single catch. The money from those lobsters was already allocated to paying bills.

I’d been musing over this when I pulled up to find Rowan waiting for me, letting me walk him into the silent restaurant.

“She’s in real danger,” was Rowan’s response to my apprehension at the guard detail idea. “She doesn’t seem to think keeping herself alive is important, so I’m taking it uponmyself to make sure that my children grow up with their crazy fucking aunt.”

There was plenty of anger in his tone, but I also heard the anxiety. He loved his sister. That much was clear.

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