Page 97 of Wicked Sinner
She takes the burner and texts her friend, then shoves the phone in her pocket. I see her eyeing me, as if she’s wondering if I’m going to demand to see the texts, but I don’t. I know that will make the difference tonight, and I force myself to trust her.
“Do you want a beer?” Bridget asks, turning toward the fridge. "I think I have some left."
"Sure." I follow her, taking in the details of her life. The coffee mug in the sink with "World's Best Mechanic" printed on the side. The calendar on the wall still turned to the month before I took her away. The photo of her and an older man—her father, I assume—both of them grinning and covered in grease.
This is who she really is, I realize. Not the stubborn woman fighting me at every turn, but this—someone who creates a home filled with warmth and memories and love.
"Is that your dad?" I ask, nodding toward the photo.
"It is." She hands me an open bottle of beer. "He might have liked you, I think. Eventually."
I chuckle dryly. "Eventually?"
Bridget smirks. "Well, first, he would have shot you for kidnapping his daughter. But after that, he would have given you a chance to prove yourself worthy of her."
I laugh despite myself. "Fair enough."
She leads me to the living room, where an old television sits across from a couch that's clearly seen years of use. Thereare DVDs stacked beside it—mostly action movies and romantic comedies, with a few classics thrown in.
"Movie night?" she suggests, settling onto the couch and patting the cushion beside her. "I've got everything from Casablanca to Die Hard."
I sink down onto the couch, not minding a bit that it’s threadbare and does smell faintly of old cigarette smoke, though Bridget swore her father never did it around her. Can’t entirely get it off your clothes, I guess. "You choose."
She puts in some romantic comedy from the nineties, something with Sandra Bullock and a plot I can't follow because I'm too distracted by the way Bridget curls up against my side. She fits perfectly in the crook of my arm, like she was made to be there. Occasionally, she takes out the phone and texts, but for the most part, she watches the movie with me… just the two of us, present with each other, with nothing else going on.
“My father didn’t want me back here,” I say it out of nowhere as the movie ends. That happy photo of Bridget and her dad, the memories she’d shared with me today, are heavy in my mind.
Bridget pauses, turning to look at me. “He didn’t?”
I shake my head. “I tried to come back. About ten years ago. He said I had my chance, and when I left, I forfeited it. He wanted nothing else to do with me.”
She bites her lip. “What did you do?”
“I went back to England.”
“Is that where you were before?”
I shrug. “All over the United Kingdom. I was mixed up in a lot of bad stuff. That’s why I said I didn’t always live in luxury. A place like this is nicer than some of the places I stayed, when I was in my late teens and early twenties, and trying to figure my shit out. I didn’t run away with money. I stole what cash I could out of his safe and ran with that, but it didn’t last long.”
“When you say bad stuff—” Bridget trails off, and I let out a heavy breath.
“Drugs. Weapons deals, smuggling. Mostly drugs, though.” I frown. “Does that make you think less of me?”
Bridget shakes her head. “Weirdly—no. I think better of that side of you than the side that mingles with people like Isabella. Fake people, socialites, people who care more about what others think of them than who they really are. I don’t mind a little grit. And it’s not like you’re a drug dealer now—” She pauses, and I chuckle.
“My hands aren’t on them directly, no. But I’m still a criminal, Bridget. Just a rich one, and one who has other men do his dirty work now. I run the men that I used to be.”
I can see her taking that in. “You’re more real than the rest of them are,” she says softly. “I like that about you.”
“And here I thought you’d never say you likedanythingabout me.” I chuckle, and she rolls her eyes at me, sliding off the couch to pick another movie. This one is Die Hard, and she curls into me, her text conversation clearly over.
“Did your friend take it alright?”
“She’s not happy.” Bridget yawns. “But she does trust me. And I promised her an explanation eventually. So for now, I think she’s just happy to know I’m alive. I made her swear not to come over here.”
“Good.” I don’t ask any more questions, knowing Bridget will take that as a sign of trust.
“Why do you care so much about being a mob boss?” She looks up at me suddenly. “You said you’ve felt better since last night than you have in years. Why do you want it so much, then?”
