Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Her Amy Winehouse meets Wednesday Adams vibe is everything I ever craved. She’s darkness wrapped in delicate silk, with just enough edge to keep me on my toes. And in my line of work, former line of work, I remind myself, staying on your toes is a matter of life and death.
Everything about the way she looks is familiar, yet dangerously new. Her dark hair cascades in waves, framing a face that could launch a thousand ships—or sink them, depending on her mood.
Cliché? Fuck yes, it is. But everything about her pulls that kind of sap from me.
I remember how she tasted last night. It was like licking the lining of a whiskey bottle filled with honey—a bizarre mix of sweet and sin that shouldn’t work but somehow does.
A hand claps down on my shoulder and I nearly reach for the blade I no longer carry before recognizing Tommy Vance’s nasally voice.
“Blue. You look like shit.”
I turn to face him. Rat-faced, twitchy, with the kind of nervous energy that comes from a lifetime of selling secrets to killers. “You said you had something on Sara Mitchell.”
Tommy orders a beer, takes his sweet time settling onto the barstool. The little shit’s enjoying this. “Maybe I do. Depends how much you’re willing to pay for maybes.”
“Cut the games, Tommy. What do you have?”
“Girl matching her description. Dyed her hair black, used to be lighter according to my sources. Early twenties, showed up in the city about five years ago with nothing but a badly forged ID and a story about being from Seattle.” He takes a swig of his beer, watching me over the rim. “Been singing in clubs around the city, keeping her head down, blending in with the crowds.”
My pulse quickens despite my efforts to stay calm. “Where is she?”
Tommy’s grin widens. “That’s the beautiful part. She’s been right under your nose this whole time.”
He nods toward the stage, where the singer is adjusting her microphone for the next set. “Currently going by Saylor Mitchell. Stage name or something. Been here almost every night for the past two years, singing her little heart out.”
The whiskey glass slips from my numb fingers, exploding against the bar in a shower of crystal and amber liquid. The crash cuts through the ambient noise like a gunshot, and half the bar turns to stare.
No.
No, this isn’t possible.
But even as my mind rejects it, the pieces slam together with brutal clarity. The familiar way she tilts her head when she’s thinking, exactly like Peter used to do when he was working out a problem. The stubborn set of her jaw, the way she sings like she’s pouring her soul out through her voice, the same way Peter hummed old jazz standards while he worked.
Oh fuuuuuuck . . . I didn’t just go down on a stranger last night.
Holy shit.
I had my mouth on Peter’s daughter. His unsuspecting, perfect, angelic daughter! Made her come with my tongue while she moaned my name in that dressing room.
Peter always said he’d put a bullet in any man who touched his little girl inappropriately. If he wasn’t six feet under, I’d be a dead man.
What the fuck did I just do?
As if I didn’t already carry enough guilt about Peter, now I’ve violated his daughter. The girl I swore to protect. The innocent he died trying to save.
My stomach lurches, and for a moment I think I might vomit right here at the bar. The weight of what I’ve done crashes over me—not just what happened between us, but the complete and utter failure of everything I promised Peter. She’s been here for two years. Two years I could have been watching over her, keeping her safe, honoring my debt to the only man who ever believed I could be better.
Instead, I’ve been drowning in my own self-pity while Peter’s daughter sang in dive bars, alone and unprotected.
“Jesus,” Tommy breathes, apparently reading my expression. “You know her.”
I can’t answer. Can’t do anything but stare at her as she starts her next song. Her voice carries across the smoky room, raw and beautiful and heartbreaking, and I hear Peter in every note. He used to sing to her when she was little; I remember him telling me that once, years ago. How she’d fall asleep to his old blues records.
This girl learned music from him. Learned to find beauty in dark places the way he did.
The way I never could.
“I need to go,” I manage, my voice coming out rougher than sandpaper.
“Hey, what about my payment?”
I pull out my wallet and drop a thick roll of bills on the bar without counting. “This conversation never happened. And Tommy?” I lean closer, close enough that he can probably smell the whiskey and regret on my breath. “If anyone else comes asking about Sara Mitchell, anyone, you’ve never heard the name. Are we clear?”