Jim and Emerald Limerick gave my sister and me a gift we can never repay—a happy childhood wrapped in the colorful landscape of their love. The anecdotes I’ve shared with Nate are some of the wildest—and all true.

My parents aren’t weekend-warrior hippies who drop acid at festivals and go to their desk jobs Monday mornings, but the real deal. I’m talking free love and uncompromising personal expression and “accidentally” leaving pot brownies on the kitchen counter when I had friends over as a teenager.

They also had an endless stream of new, amazing, have-to-try spiritual vocations, which despite giving my sister and me an adventurous childhood full of travel and odd characters, also gave us both a need for control and stability as adults. To this day, my mom is baffled by how her children turned out.

I love my parents, but I’d be lying if I said a good part of my early ambition in life wasn’t to be different from them. From my teenaged years, I knew exactly what I wanted. Financial security and independence. A home mortgage and retirement plan. A dedicated career I was passionate about. A family, PTA meetings, and cheering at after-school sports games.

Everything I didn’t have as a kid.

Despite my rejection of my parents’ life philosophy, my childhood nevertheless shaped who I am—or was. Someone who looked on the bright side and noticed everyday miracles. Saw the beauty in people and nature. Breathed consciously, was present in the moment, and expressed my passions without reservation.

The young woman I once was—ambitious, grounded, perpetually positive—is still inside me, curled up in a dark corner of my heart. She flickers there, in her death throes, as I… exist. Live out my penance. Pretend I’m a normal woman, when all I really am is a shadow of a woman who died with her husband.

My present-day pain has many flavors. Grief, shame, and guilt predominant among them. Their potency shifts day to day, triggered by errant thoughts, random sights and sounds. But losing my only, biggest dream—the dream of my future and myself—has never dimmed. Every day, it sits sour on my tongue.

A constant reminder of my failure.

As I walk into a silent, empty Crossroads to meet Nate on a Wednesday afternoon, I can taste my usual defeat mixed with trepidation. The emotions are salt and copper and bitter lemons.

What am I doing here?

Why am I doing this?

“Hello, London.”

The unexpected voice—not Nate’s—makes me jump and gasp. I spin toward the bar, zeroing in on a familiar—if dangerous—face. The man smiles broadly, hands up in a placating gesture.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Hand over my heart, I wait a few seconds for my voice to return. “Mr. Rourke, right?”

He nods. “Call me Liam.”

“Okay. What, uh—do you know where Nate is? We’re supposed to meet.” And the little sneak promised the club would be empty.

Liam nods toward the door leading to the back hallway. “He’ll be out in a few. Tinkering with his camera, I think.” At the look on my face, his eyes narrow. “Ah, Nathan forgot to mention he’d roped me into helping? Pun intended, of course.”

It’s then I notice the coils of rope on the bar beside him. Neat little piles of what looks like braided cotton—a fact I would have been clueless about mere months ago.

Swallowing hard, I meet Liam’s amused gaze. “I didn’t know you’d be here, no. I guess I thought Nate would be doing the…” I wave a hand toward the rope.

Liam chuckles. “Trust me, you don’t want Nathan trussing you up.”

Well, I sure as shit don’t want you doing it.

The thought must reflect on my face, because Liam’s smile softens in understanding. “I can see you’re uncomfortable. Come, have a seat. I’ll pour you a drink and we can chat about what I’ll be doing. Very basic bondage, I assure you. I can probably do most of it blindfolded, if you’d like.”

The faint, soothing lilt in his voice and his casual manner make it hard to stay on guard. I take a step toward him, then stop. “Just so we’re clear, this is a purely professional… situation.”

Liam merely nods. “Of course. I would never presume otherwise. Perhaps we should lay down some ground rules?”

Damn, he’s charming.

Before I’m fully conscious of it, my feet carry me to the stool beside his. As soon as I’m settled, Liam leans over the bar and snags a bottle and shot glass. He doesn’t ask me if I like whiskey, merely pours and hands me a shot. I throw it back without hesitation.

“Well done,” he says and pours me another.

I eye him skeptically. “You’re not trying to get me drunk, are you?” I ask, then swallow dutifully.

His eyes twinkle with mirth. “I don’t particularly like the company of drunk women, so no, I’m not.” He leans an elbow on the counter and fixes me with a bright blue stare. “Tell me, London Limerick, how does a promising investigative journalist end up bartending in a Los Angeles sex club?”

The words burn hotter than the whiskey in my throat. Meeting his gaze, I shake my head. “I don’t talk about it, sorry.”

He nods, as if expecting the answer. “I understand. For the record, though, I think you deserve a fucking award for going up against Ivan Reznikov, and it’s a damned miracle you’re alive.”

An icy wave breaks across my scalp as my stomach clenches in fear. For a moment, I’m paralyzed by the thought that Liam was sent by Ivan to kill me. That despite our arrangement, he’s going to tie up the final loose end from last year. Me.

“You’re perfectly safe, London.”

Liam’s calm, compassionate voice brings me back to the present. Away from the heat of fire, the spray of shattered glass, and the tang of spilled blood. I swallow acid, my fingers shaking as I pour myself another shot.

“How do you know about that?” I ask, focusing on Liam. “About him?”

“Reznikov?” He shrugs. “I know a lot of things about a lot of people. As for what I know about your… circumstances, you could say I specialize in finding things. Information, people, whatever suits my fancy or the fancy of my employers.”

A new spike of fear propels a question from my lips. “Did he pay you to find me?” I ask, my legs tingling with the urge to run.

“No, God no. I wouldn’t work for that madman if he offered me the bloody moon.” Liam sighs, his forehead creasing with remorse. “I’m truly sorry for frightening you, London. Some of the information I gathered made it seem… well…”

Understanding dawns, and with it, a bitter dose of memory. “That I was involved in what happened to my husband,” I finish.

Liam winces, but nods.

Familiar footsteps echo behind me. Nate’s voice rings out, vibrating with censure. “Are you getting my model drunk?”

Liam swings on his stool, a shit-eating grin firmly in place, no sign of our conversation in his relaxed posture. “Just getting to know London a bit. She has a weakness for Irish Whiskey.” He winks. “And Irish men.”

Nate groans and studies my face. “Are you okay?”

I nod, the movement oddly delayed, like I’m not occupying my body but watching it. Nate frowns, not buying it. You wear every emotion on your face.

I force a smile. “I’m fine, really. It’s now or never.”

Nate grins, rubbing his hands together. “Excellent. Let’s get this show on the road.”