McQUEEN: Las Vegas Bad Boys Read online

  “Josephine. That’s my full name.” She leans in and kisses me quickly, like it’s something we’ve done a thousand times.

  “Ryan and Josephine. Has a ring to it, don’t you think?” I ask. When she doesn’t answer, I add, “We will see one another again, right?”

  “I don’t know. It was supposed to be a one-off for a reason.”

  Her lack of certainty feels like a punch in the gut. Shit, I’m falling for this girl after twenty-four hours—and I fall for no one.

  Yet JoJo is managing to play it so damn cool.

  “No pressure,” I tell her. “I know what you wanted. I just thought, after everything, that maybe you’d want more.”

  “It’s not that I don’t. It’s just I have a lot of other stuff going on. Which I said like thirty minutes ago.” JoJo stands from the bed, looking for her clothes. “Would you call the PI while I take a shower? And then … hopefully the news is good and I can go.”

  I run my hand through my hair, watching as she rifles through her gym bag for clothes. Wishing that she were willing to give me more, even though I know she owes me nothing.

  She finds what looks like clean shorts and a tank top, and waits for an answer.

  “Sure,” I tell her. “I’ll call him right now.”

  I pick up my phone to make the call, but what I really want to do is make her mine.

  JoJo

  Looking out the bedroom window I see a sleek, black SUV on the street at the side of the house. McQueen really did get surveillance here. It impresses me; last night I was so out of it, falling asleep without even confirming that we were safe. He told me had it covered, and I trusted him explicitly.

  What does that say about me? That I’m a naive fool to trust him so quickly? Or does it say something good, something good about the man I have unexpectedly let into my life?

  Yesterday’s post-workout decision to go all the way with Ryan McQueen has turned my life upside down. But I’ve been at his house too long. I need to get out of here, get home to some clean clothes, have a real conversation with Lucy, and get to the gym by noon.

  I turn from the window as he ends his call. “Does the investigator have a lead?”

  “Guess he met with Kit an hour ago. They went through the gym, found nothing there.” He must see my face fall, because he raises his hands, to stop me from being further disappointed. “But they’re gonna keep looking. It’s okay.”

  I grab my bag, tossing it over my shoulder. Any comfort I’ve found with McQueen flies out the window. It’s like I’ve been given a huge wake-up call.

  “Alright,” I tell him. “Well, that helps me like, not at all. I appreciate the effort, and you’ve been amazing—like really amazing, Ryan. But it’s not enough. I’ve told you how much my family means to me. And if someone is coming after me, I need them in the loop. I should have never slept with you—with anyone—because I just knew it would get messy. That’s the reason I never did before. And it was dumb of me to think that what I’ve been doing at Kit’s would stay a secret. I got caught in my lies, and it actually serves me right.”

  McQueen snorts, shaking his head. “Fuck that. You’re not some little girl who owes her family an explanation of where you work out, JoJo. I don’t get it. Don’t get you. On one hand you’re crazy badass, telling Kit last night you wanted a real professional fight, soon. And now you’re giving it all up. For what?”

  “That was before I knew I had some freaky stalker.”

  “Okay, I’m out, then,” he says, throwing his hands in the air. “What am I supposed to do here, beg you to let me fucking handle it? No. I don’t beg girls. I don’t fucking beg anyone.”

  “Then it sounds like we’re on the same page. I don’t need your help. I have enough men in my life who can help me.” I leave the room, headed toward the stairs. I need to get home.

  He follows me into the kitchen, where I grab my keys. “Right,” he says sharply. “Sounds like those men really have your best interests at heart.”

  I pull open the door leading to the garage. “You know nothing about my family.”

  “I know they’re tied up in the fucking Irish Mob.”

  I stop, turn to him. “What else do you know?”

  “Nothing.” He crosses his arms, shrugs, as if he’s given up. On me. With good reason—I’ve just pushed him away as hard as I could. “You’ve given me no information whatsoever. I only know what Ace told me. That the name O’Malley has Mob ties. Not sure what the Irish Mob is doing in Las Vegas, but I don’t fucking know anything about this town. And look, I don’t know your involvement. Like I said, I’m not gonna fucking beg.”

  I can tell from his expression that he really doesn’t know any more. McQueen isn’t dangerous, because he has no information. And neither does his investigator. It will be better to tell my family about this now, before anything blows up.

  “I don’t have any more to say. Thank you for everything,” I tell him as sincerely as possible. “And I’ll see you around, okay?”

  “I hate that you’re leaving like this.”

  “What, you wanted to make me coffee and eggs?” I look at him sadly, knowing he’s a good guy but that, deep down, a girl like me is not what he wants. He doesn’t want a relationship at all—not that I’m in any position to even lay that on the table. I’m getting married to a convict next month.

  “McQueen, you’re living the bachelor dream right now. You don’t even have a kitchen table. I doubt you have groceries. Let’s chalk this up to a life experience, and move on.”

  “So you’re going home, telling your dad you lost your virginity, and that you’re done fighting? Just like that? I mean, on the creepy scale, this is pretty fucking high.”

  “God. Enough, Ryan. Seriously, stop judging me and my life. I’m not standing here judging you. You take your clothes off for a living, yet I’m the one who’s the weirdo? Not fair. At all.”

  I press the garage opener, and unlock my car. Throwing my bag in the backseat, I put the car in reverse, refusing to unroll the windows as McQueen asks me to stop.

  “Stop, JoJo. Don’t leave like this.”

  I back out of his driveway, watching as he kicks a garbage can over.

  Then I drive away.

  Chapter Twelve

  JoJo

  After parking the car at the house, I walk to the front door, forcing myself to remain calm. My palms are sweaty, though, and I know my face reveals every anxious thought that crosses my mind.

  “JoJo, you finally made it home,” Peter says, opening the front door for me. My brothers, Peter, Paul, and John, are carbon copies of my father. Short, cropped reddish-blond hair, freckles sweeping their cheeks, dimples even—not that you’d ever see those indentations. They’re hard as hell to get to smile. They aren’t friendly, not even mildly warm. Not remotely considerate.

  Yet they’ll do anything for me if they think it’s in my best interest.

  “Sorry it took me so long. Lucy was out of it and I slept in. Hope Dad’s not mad.”

  Mary, thirty years old, is the oldest of the siblings. Peter’s twenty-eight, then Paul twenty-seven, John twenty-five, and then me, the baby, twenty-three.

  My mom was Catholic as can be—raised us on Hail Marys, but none of us ever took to it. Dad never willingly set foot in Mass, that’s for sure.

  But we did our part, growing up, to appease Mom. Hell, my brothers were altar boys, we had our first communion, even went to confession once a week … but since she’s passed, none of us have been back.

  Sometimes I miss it. The routine. Priests swinging censers, sending clouds of incense through the air. Lighting a prayer candle. Taking communion.

  But as Peter holds the door open for me, I think what I really miss is Mom’s hands on my back as we waited in line to take the Lord’s Sacrament. Mom’s careful thumbing through the pages of the hymnal, pointing to the words for me to read.

  Mostly, I miss Mom. She added a softness to our family of men, a softness I can’t seem to
replicate. Her passing made them callous in ways they weren’t before. Sure, they had always held men at gunpoint and ran underground gambling circuits … but when it came to Mary and me, they were protective, but not to the point that they forgot we had a voice.

  Now I walk into the house knowing if I didn’t think I had a voice before, I sure as hell will never have one again. Not once I tell them what I’ve been doing.

  Who I’ve been doing.

  “So, your girl Lucy doing okay?” Peter asks, closing the door behind me.

  “Why do you care?” I ask, following him into the kitchen where Paul and John are eating a late breakfast.

  “He just wondered why you had to stay there. Can’t she handle her alcohol?” Paul asks.

  “Give it a rest,” I tell him. “Lucy is my closest friend. Don’t get all judgey on her.”

  “Of course we judge her,” Peter says. “Who you spend time with matters; it could affect our family.”

  “I know, God.” I scowl at them. My attitude reverts to that of a teenager any time I’m in their presence. It’s really obnoxious, actually, the kid-sister role I adopt at home. Like I’m incapable of being an adult around them.

  I pull open the fridge and grab an Odwalla smoothie. Their words touch too close to the truth. This is exactly why I’m here, wanting to fill them in on my life. I know how important it all is. “Where’s Dad?” I ask. “He said we needed to talk?”

  “He’ll be here.” John checks his phone, doesn’t even bother to look up at me when he answers.

  As if on cue the front door opens, and we hear Dad yelling at the security guard, Max. “Go find someone to track down Connor and bring him here. Now.”

  He storms into the kitchen and Mary is with him, carrying a crying Justice in the car seat.

  “What’s going on?” John asks, taking in the angry scene that just entered the mansion we call home.

  Mary yells into her cellphone and Dad is still giving Max instructions, “I don’t care who goes, just fucking find him.” Turning to the kitchen, where all his kids are, Dad shakes his head, fuming. “We need more hands. This isn’t fucking cutting it. Too many people to keep tabs on, and you girls are adults. Why am I solving your problems?” he yells at Mary, who throws her phone on the table.

  “This is your problem,” she yells at Dad. “You’re the one who wanted me to marry Connor. The one who forced me into being his bitch. But someone needs to talk sense into him. I can’t fucking do it all on my own.”

  “Mary, you need to back the hell up,” Paul says to our sister. For once in my life I agree with Paul. She does. No one talks to Thomas O’Malley like that.

  Taking a better look at her, I see that she looks more of a mess than she did last night when I tried to piece her house together with a vacuum cleaner and dishrag. Clearly she needs more than a housekeeper and a bath. Maybe she needs a Valium. Or a month alone in Puerto Rico.

  Mary’s blouse is covered in spit-up. Justice is in a diaper again, wearing nothing else. Mary has her hair in a messy bun, but not a cute one. It’s an I-don’t-have-time-to-give-a-shit bun. And her eyes are rimmed in red, as if she’s been crying. Or screaming. Or worse. I look at the clock; it’s ten in the morning.

  “Are Hardy and Bailey at school?” I ask.

  “Yeah, Bailey has pre-K all day. But they aren’t the issue. They’re fine.” Mary stomps around the kitchen, looking through the cupboards and in the fridge.

  “What do you need?” I ask, trying to think of how to help calm her down so we can get the story out of her. “Food? Coffee?”

  “I need a fucking drink. Something hard.”

  I eye my dad, who snorts. “That’s the first sensible thing this woman has said all day. Paul, get the whiskey.”

  I let the boys sort out the beverages while I unbuckle the hysterical Justice from her car seat. Her diaper clearly needs to be changed, so I take her and the diaper bag to the living room to clean her up.

  ‘You’re okay, sweet pea,” I coo at her chubby face as I lay her on the thick carpet. “Let’s get you all cleaned up, ’kay?” I tickle her toes to distract her from the yelling in the kitchen. I see several of my dad’s guys pass through the front door, headed to the kitchen, and I take a deep breath as I pull out the baby wipes.

  I came here this morning thinking I was going to make a big confession, but it seems whatever is going on with Mary has trumped that big reveal. Maybe it’s a sign; maybe I should just keep my mouth shut. Clearly no one in my family has gotten wind of the revealing photograph, and maybe McQueen was right … maybe I should just wait to see how this plays out before screwing everything up at home.

  After Justice is changed, I pat her back, grateful to soothe my seven-month-old niece. She just needed some attention, and I don’t particularly want to take shots of Irish whiskey. Mary has never had a problem pulling her weight with the men of the family, keeping pace with them. But not me. In my secret life at Kit’s Gym, I may like to fight with the boys … but at home, I’m not that girl at all.

  The moment I’m in our house, I’m meek and mild, a younger version of my mother. Mary may have the kids and the house and the husband, but she’s not happy, because that was never what she really wanted. Not that I know what she wants but, given the state of her life, I wouldn’t say this is it.

  Even if the marriage with Grotto happens next month, I won’t be miserable. I can imagine a few kids and a nice home, and being the one in the family who hosts Thanksgiving dinner, who puts up the Christmas tree. Not that I know much about Grotto and his family traditions. All I know is that he’s as deep in underground crime as my father, and he’s Italian.

  So I guess I’ll need to learn to make meatballs.

  Also, he isn’t very handsome. But he isn’t awful either, just a little greasy, a little bald. A little regular. Nothing like McQueen. But it doesn’t matter what McQueen is or isn’t. He isn’t my reality.

  Grotto is.

  Once Justice is settled in my arms, I walk back to the kitchen, to try and piece together the drama.

  Mary sits at the big oak table, flanked by my brothers and dad. Employees come and go, drop papers off with my father and give him one-word updates on deals I don’t know anything about. But the real deal is whatever is going down with Mary, because it’s gotten the attention of all the men in my family.

  “I just can’t do it anymore,” Mary says, setting down a shot glass. “Connor treats me like a slave and you guys just encourage it. And what the hell do you know? You aren’t married.”

  “Hey, easy there,” Paul says, taking the bottle from her as she goes to refill her glass.

  “No,” she says, pushing him off. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about—you guys telling the women what to do. That’s why I’m leaving Connor.”

  I walk to the table, completely shocked. Connor may be absent, and he may be an ass, but she made a commitment. A vow. She has a family to think about. Her kids. Their lives. She’s a frazzled mess, and this isn’t when she should be making any life decisions.

  “Let me guess: JoJo showed up at your place, told you about her impending marriage, and now you are all spun up?” Dad asks her pointedly.

  But I haven’t said a word about Grotto to Mary.

  “Marriage?” Mary looks up. “What are you talking about?”

  “Josephine and Frank Grotto are getting married,” Paul says, taking another sip of his oak-aged amber.

  “Seriously?” She looks over at me, as if seeing me for the first time all day. “I thought he was in prison?”

  “He’s getting out in a few weeks.” Peter shrugs.

  “Wait, I thought it was a month away?” I ask, patting Justice more fervently as I get more agitated. The moment they bring him up I remember how real all this is.

  And how unreal my time with McQueen was.

  But, my God, how real he felt, pressed against me.

  “Oh, the wedding’s happening. His family is in agreement; it’s a done deal,”
Dad says, then he points to Mary. “And you need to work this out with Connor.”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “No, Dad, I can’t. I wish Mom were alive; she’d understand. The men of this family think they can order us around, and I’m done. Done being told what to do. Let me think for myself.”

  Just then the front door slams shut, and Connor strides into the kitchen, clearly hearing the last words his wife said.

  “Mary, outside. Now,” he hollers, pointing out the back door. I see my sister’s finger’s grip tightly on the bottle of whiskey and I know this is going to get worse before it gets better.

  She chucks the bottle at him, and I instinctively pull Justice’s head to my chest. Mary misses her husband’s face, but the bottle smashes against the wall then falls, shattering across the tiled floor.

  I meet my father’s eyes. And though we may disagree on many levels, we both know the kids need to be out of the fray—something Mary seems to have lost hold of.

  “I’m taking Mary’s car,” I tell him, as the yelling match gets worse. “I’ll get the kids after school, and keep Justice until then, okay?” I kiss him on the cheek, reminded for the hundredth time that my own selfish dreams of fighting might just need to be in my past. Because clearly my family is falling apart. The last thing I need to do is add fuel to this fire.

  McQUEEN

  I never heard from JoJo after she left my place five days ago. Should I care? Hell no.

  I want a woman who can play fair and fight nice. What she did was act like an entitled brat, who threw a fit and drove away like a child.

  No fucking thanks.

  But damn if I haven’t been thinking of her nonstop. Of course I want to know what the hell happened with her family. Did they lock her in her bedroom? Chain her up in the basement?

  I asked Kit, but he’s more than pissed off at her. Guess she hasn’t shown her face in the gym all week.

  But we know she’s not in a dungeon; she’s both called him and answered his calls. Kit tells me she claims to be done with fighting, for good. Which is fucking nuts. I’ve been in the ring with that girl and what she has is pure grit, unharnessed talent. That girl was made to wear gloves, yet apparently she’s thrown them aside but won’t tell Kit why.