All right. Game on, FUCKER!

I was all about the swearing now. In my head.

I braced my feet and dropped my bag. I was in the ghost sheet so I reached down and pulled out the robe.

“Wha—” The shorter one frowned. “What are you doing?”

I ripped off two of the cats. “I’m going to pelt you with them, you asshole!”

“Don’t call me asshole!”

“ASSHOLE!”

“Man,” he whined, looking at his friend. “Nor—” He shut up suddenly, blasting his lips together and shooting us a look.

Nor? Nor what?

Then I heard Channing laughing next to me. “You losers.”

Everyone looked at him.

“Chan?”

He motioned to me. “Put the cats away. We’re not the losers. They are.”

Both guys groaned. “Come on, Channing.”

Channing walked forward, his hands forming fists at his sides, and he shook his head. “You can try to take our candy.” He waited a beat. “But I’m going to take yours instead.”

“Chan, we were just messing around.”

“Time’s up!”

“What?” The bigger one started running backward. “You didn’t tell us we had a time limit.”

Channing started chasing. “I didn’t, because I’m not a LOSER!”

All pretense was gone. The serial killer/reaper and criminal took off running. Channing was right after them.

“Channing!” I yelled. “What do you want me to do?” We had two and a half garbage bags of loot. I couldn’t carry them and chase after him too.

He yelled back, “Just hold on. I’ll be right back!”

And ten minutes later, he was. With two more bags.

We’d hit the motherload.

“What?” I asked as he tossed one of the bags to me. I caught it. The sucker was heavy.

He gave me a crooked grin, using the back of his arm to wipe over his forehead. He panted. “That was Norm and Matt. Idiots. They thought they could steal from me.”

“They’re your friends.”

He shrugged, dropping his bag to the ground and rifling through it. “They’re my best friends after tonight.” He kept looking through his stash, but I was watching him.

I saw the darkening over his eye and stepped up to him. “You’re going to have a black eye?”

He paused, looking up.

I winced, seeing his face full force now. Half of it was going to be black and blue. It was already swelling up. I knew about bruises and stuff. My older brother was a hothead. Or so my dad said.

“I’m fine.”

I touched one of the bruises and hissed.

Why I hissed, I had no idea. Channing didn’t even move.

A stony look came over him. “I’m fine, Heather.” He took in my robe again. “You still think you're going to be a cat lady?”

I grinned, shaking my head. “I think I’m going to be an accessory instead.”

“A bracelet? You mean that?”

“No.” I nodded to him and the two bags he’d brought. “An accessory to a criminal like you.”

Channing laughed. I laughed. And as we walked the rest of the way to his house, the candy in bags thrown over our shoulders, Channing reached out and took my hand.

We held hands the rest of the way.

Don’t tell anyone.

15

Channing

Present day

Heather brought her up two nights ago.

I almost shit my pants.

I hadn’t been expecting her, but there she was—smack-dab in the middle of my soul.

Grief I thought long gone was back, like it’d never been gone.

We’d thought we were going to have a daughter. I’d been planning on proposing, but then Heather woke up one morning and…

It was like the day my mom died.

I’d been prepared for losing my mother, or as prepared as a kid could get, but we weren’t prepared to lose our little girl.

We’d been full of hopes and future plans, and I’d even seen the white picket fence coming my way. There’d probably be a few Harleys parked behind it, but I’d been ready to go the ball-n-chain route—on Heather’s ankle, not mine.

She was too good for me.

I heard the bell ring at my old high school and looked up.

Heather had slept over last night. Bren hadn’t, and when I heard her this morning, I hadn’t been able to keep the “cool older brother/dad” persona in check. We’d had words, Bren had slipped out, and here I was—stalking my own kid sister like the loser dad-wannabe I was, fucking up on a daily basis. I’d seen her go in earlier, and the world hadn’t seemed too messed up. She looked good. The other kids gave her a wide berth, but one that was respectful.

Pride filled my chest as I watched her.

She was going to be okay. Right? She looked okay. She looked kickass—a little more on the terrifying side of kickass than Heather used to be when we were in school, but still, a badass.

My phone buzzed.

And just like that, seeing that it was Moose calling, my crew life was back. Bren, Heather, her—they had to be pushed aside.

The phone buzzed in my hand, but I had to take a second.

That worry/love/grief wasn’t going. It sat on my chest like a fucking elephant.

I growled. Sitting in my truck, looking like a creep, I gritted my teeth and shoved those feelings down. I stomped on them, and yeah, a part of me went with them.

Nostrils flaring, I answered the phone. “Yeah?” I barked.

“Hey.” Moose wasn’t fazed. “There's a guy at the warehouse. Creepy lawyer dude. I'm looking at him through the vids. He's even got the slimy, slicked-back hair.” Moose laughed. “He looks like a fucking pompous Peter.”

A Peter.

A part of me was happy. It was time I had someone to fuck with.

“Okay.” I checked the time, rasping out, “You working later?”

“I open at eleven.” He paused.

I knew he’d heard how I sounded.

He only asked, “You want backup?”

“Yeah.” You never know who might bring a gun to a cold call drop-in. “Leaving the school now.”

“School? What? You want to fail anot—”

I didn't want to hear the ribbing, so I hung up. My phone buzzed a moment later, once I was on the road.

Moose: High school dropout fuck.

I chuckled. It helped. Not a lot, but a little.

When I got to the warehouse, I saw Moose was right. The guy standing outside the gate was a Peter.

Fucking hell.

I smirked at him as he turned toward my truck, and I rolled down my window. “Whoever you are, it is not your day.”

The guy turned away from the gate as I parked.

I got out, but I was in no hurry to escalate this interaction. The need to get some shit out of me, to make this target bleed was too great.

I kept back, leaning against my truck.

I didn’t trust myself, not yet.

Adjusting his tie, he started for me, his hand out for a shake. “I'm Eric McDougall. Brett Marsch is my client. He's—”

“I’d stop right there,” I snarled.

The guy had a bird-like head, and it popped up high. He ran a hand down his tie.

“I—excuse me?”

I was already past his question, studying him. “I wasn't expecting the guy to lawyer up. I thought he had a crew here, thought I’d have to deal with the blowback that way.” I frowned. “This mean he doesn't have a local crew?”