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“Crystal…Jesus… It’s been six years. My God, I’ve missed you.”
Jack laughed and wrapped her arms around a six-foot-tall platinum-haired showgirl—the one female friend she’d ever had her whole life.
“Me, too, sugar,” Crystal said, and burst into tears. It was then that Jack stared down at Crystal’s hand…which was holding the very tiny hand of a very tiny girl with big brown eyes and long black hair. “This here’s my little girl, Destiny. And I need you to hide the two of us. I got nowhere else to go.”
“How bad is the trouble?”
“Ohhh, sugar…it’s so bad I gotta tell you even your daddy and your uncle would probably think twice about helping me.”
“You? You innocent in all of it?” Jack asked.
“Only thing I’m guilty of is loving the wrong man.”
One thing Jack’s father and uncle had taught her: friends stick together in times of trouble. She was soon to find out that they probably should have told her that a showgirl on the run is usually the worst kind of trouble of all….
Dear Reader,
We invite you to sit back and enjoy the ride as you experience the powerful suspense, intense action and tingling emotion in Silhouette Bombshell’s November lineup. Strong, sexy, savvy heroines have never been so popular, and we’re putting the best right into your hands. Get ready to meet four extraordinary women who will speak to the Bombshell in you!
Maggie Sanger will need quick wit and fast moves to get out of Egypt alive when her pursuit of a legendary grail puts her on a collision course with a secret society, hostages and her furious ex! Get into Her Kind of Trouble, the latest in author Evelyn Vaughn’s captivating GRAIL KEEPERS miniseries.
Sabotage, scandal and one sexy inspector breathe down the neck of a determined air force captain as she strives to right an old wrong in the latest adventure in the innovative twelve-book ATHENA FORCE continuity series, Pursued by Catherine Mann.
Enter the outrageous underworld of Las Vegas prizefighting as a female boxing trainer goes up against the mob to save her father, her reputation and a child witness in Erica Orloff’s pull-no-punches novel, Knockout.
And though creating identities for undercover agents is her specialty, Kristie Hennessy finds out that work can be deadly when you’ve got everyone fooled and no one to trust but a man you know only by his intriguing voice…. Don’t miss Kate Donovan’s Identity Crisis.
It’s a month of no-holds-barred excitement! Please send your comments to me, c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway Ste. 1001, New York, NY 10279.
Best wishes,
Natashya Wilson
Associate Senior Editor, Silhouette Bombshell
Knockout
Erica Orloff
MILLS & BOON
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ERICA ORLOFF
is the author of Urban Legend, also published by Bombshell, as well as The Roofer (MIRA), and several books for Red Dress Ink. She lives in South Florida, enjoys playing poker and is an avid boxing fan. Her favorite boxer of all time, aside from Ali and Marciano, is the now-retired great featherweight Alexis Arguello.
Dedicated to three very special people:
Alexa, Nicholas and Isabella
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to the staff at Bombshell; my wonderful editor, Margaret Marbury; my agent, Jay Poynor; and the members of Writers’ Cramp, Pam, Gina and Jon. I’d also like to thank my father, a boxing fan.
Thanks to Lynda Curnyn, former editor for the Bombshell line, for being a dream to work with and helping me talk through this idea.
To my friends Kerri and Professor John—for the memories of “clownlike” evenings.
And finally, to my extended family and friends, including Walter, Maryanne, Stacey, Jessica, J.D., Alexa, Nick, Bella, Pam, Cleo, Nanc, Kathy and Kathy…. I couldn’t do what I do without you.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 1
My father taught me how to score a boxing match on the ten-point must system. He taught me how to throw a mean left hook, how to jab and feint, and how to punch—and not like a girl. He taught me to how to bluff in poker, when to hold in blackjack, and when to walk away from the tables in craps.
He told me, “Jackie, honey, never trust a man who’s nice to you but treats the waitress like shit.” He also told me you can count your real friends on one hand. And you stand by those friends when they’re in trouble. But he should have told me, “Jack, a showgirl on the run is the worst trouble of all.”
Which is why I was now fighting with my boyfriend in the foyer of my uncle’s house, with a dead body in my bedroom, a little girl crying in my uncle Deacon’s arms, and a welt on my forehead the size of a hard-boiled egg.
“You want me to what?” Rob squared off with me. It pisses me off that when we did have an argument, looking him in the eye was impossible. Rob was six foot two; I’m five foot six. Five and a half really, but I lie. He was also double my width, courtesy of lifting weights, and he had the build of a former USC linebacker.
“I want you to look the other way while we take little Destiny to the ranch.”
“I can’t do that, Jack. I’m a cop—a detective. I do that and I lose my badge. This is a crime scene.”
“Technically, it’s not.”
“And how do you figure that?”
“Well, I called you, as the man I sleep with. I did not, technically, call the police. So…if Deacon takes her out to the ranch, and you and I wait here for the police, all you would have to say is you never saw Deacon and Destiny.”
Rob’s gray eyes seemed to darken like two storm clouds. “You are not going to talk me into this.”
“You know I am, so why don’t you just give in?”
Rob clutched the sides of his temples and gritted his teeth. “Jack, the day I met you, my entire universe stopped making sense.”
“When I tell you everything that has happened in the last twenty-four hours, you will thank me for hiding her.”
Rob looked from me to Uncle Deacon, to Destiny, and back to me again. He sighed with resignation. “Fine. Deacon, you can take the girl out to the ranch. But if after hearing Jack’s little story I decide it’s a bad idea, I’m going out there to fetch her back again and take her to social services.”
Deacon looked over at me, and I nodded. I kissed Destiny on the forehead and whispered, “I promise we’ll look after you.” Deacon gingerly carried her in his arms, came back and took her backpack and things, and left the house.
Rob looked down at me and reached out to move my hair off my face. “You need to put ice on your forehead. You probably have a concussion.”
“Probably. The room’s kind of spinning, and I feel like I’m going to be sick.”
“Yeah…well, my head’s spinning, too. This story better be good, Jack. You have twenty minutes. Then we dial 911.”
“Fine. And aren’t you going to ask me to marry you?” Rob asked me to marry him about twice a week. We live in Vegas, and he just wanted to go over to the Little White Wedding Chapel and have Elvis marry us. But I told him I wasn’t marrying him until my father could walk me down the aisle. And considering Dad still had four years left on his prison sentence, Rob and I looked to be semiengaged—I wore his pear-shaped diamond ring on my left hand—for a long, long time.
“No,” he snapped, crossing his well-muscled arms. “I am not going to ask you tonight. Something about a dead body in my girlfriend’s house takes all the romance out of it. Start talking, Jack. Remember, twenty minutes.” He looked at his watch.
“Okay,” I said. “Here goes.”
Two nights before, I tried to avoid staring at forty pairs of perfect breasts. Naked breasts. As much as I tried to tell myself, “Jack, you’ve got two breasts, same as all of them,” it was difficult not to stare as I made my way backstage at the Majestic Casino’s show.
And actually, that wasn’t true. I had two breasts, all right, but they most certainly did not look like any of the breasts on any of the six-foot-tall showgirls. Some girls have all the luck. Either that or all the silicone.
I knocked on the dressing room door.
“Come on in,” Crystal’s voice sang out from inside.
I opened the door and stepped into a pink nightmare. It looked like someone had thrown up Pepto-Bismol on everything from Crystal’s velvet couch to the walls. Crystal sat, removing her false eyelashes—which looked like black furry caterpillars sitting on her eyes—and wearing a short pink silk kimono.
“Jack,” she said, then turned around and flung her arms wide.
I walked over and leaned down to hug her. “God, it’s good to see you.”
“Did you catch the show?”
“No, sorry. I was at the gym until late.”
“You have to come some night. The special effects are amazing. I actually fly at one point.”
“I thought you were scared of heights.”
“I am. But you know, the show must go on. Break a leg. The whole nine yards. I just suck it up and do it.” The glitter on her cheeks made her look like a fairy princess.
“How’s Destiny?” I asked, referring to her five-year-old pride and joy.
“Oh, just great, Jack. She’s so smart. So cute. Here’s her latest picture.” She pointed and tapped with a long French-manicured acrylic fingernail at a photo taped to her mirror.
“Wow! God, I haven’t seen her since diapers.” I leaned in to look at the little girl whose long hair was pulled into two braids; she had big brown eyes and a wide, innocent grin.
“Yeah. She’s getting big. A lot’s changed, hasn’t it, Jack?”
“You could say that.”
In the nearly four years since I last saw Crystal in person, she had, as she put it, “really hit the jackpot this time,” and fallen in love with Tony Perrone—the same Tony Perrone who owned the Majestic Casino, a television station, a fleet of planes and real estate from one side of the United States to the other—whose five-carat yellow diamond rock she wore on the ring finger of her left hand, though they had never got around to setting a date, and in whose twenty-million-dollar mansion she lived. He was listed in Forbes as among the top-500 wealthiest men in America. Under his tutelage, Crystal had undergone enough plastic surgery to transform her into a walking, talking human Barbie doll. She had also been taking French lessons from a private tutor, and after this season, would quit as the star of the Majestic’s show to become a regular old Vegas housewife—albeit one who drove a Ferrari worth $200,000, had a private zoo in her backyard, complete with giraffes and Bengal tigers, and whose walk-in closet (more like a walk-in apartment) contained 862 pairs of designer shoes.
In those same four years, my father had been sentenced to prison for racketeering, after being framed by the slimy boxing promoter Benny Bonita, and I had moved in with my uncle Deacon as everything I once owned was sold to pay for my father’s defense. Not that it did me—or Dad—any good.
“I have to talk to you.”
“That’s what you said on the phone, and that’s why I’m here.” I sat on a pink velvet tufted ottoman.
“Jack,” she whispered. “The Mob is trying to get to your fighter, Terry Keenan. And if you get in the way, they’ll kill you. They’ll kill anyone who gets in the middle of it.”
My uncle Deacon and my father were the only two brothers in boxing history to hold championship belts at the same time—my father as a middleweight, my uncle as a heavyweight. Together, the famous Rooney brothers owned a training facility for fighters nestled in the foothills of the Nevada mountains, and a gym in one of Las Vegas’s less-savory neighborhoods. When my father went to prison, I tried to take his place. I was raised in a boxing gym and know as much about fighting as any trainer. Terry Keenan was one of our fighters, and in four weeks, on New Year’s Eve, he was scheduled to box for the heavyweight championship of the world.
“What the hell are you talking about, Crystal?” She was nursing a white wine spritzer, which sat on her dressing table. Before Perrone took her away from me and all her friends, she liked Wild Turkey.
“Benny Bonita and Tony had a secret meeting. I heard shouting. Tony didn’t realize I was in the wine cellar. I crept up the stairs and could hear everything. Every word. They have something on Terry Keenan. I’m not sure what, but it’s big. They want him to take a dive in round five, and they don’t care who they have to kill to make this fight go the way they want it. Bonita wants to take over all of your dad’s fighters. Some high rollers and some big-time bookies want to see Keenan lose. In round five to be precise.”
Crystal had serious conspiracy-theory issues. She thought everyone from Elvis to Liberace was beamed down in Area 51. UFOs, alien abductions, JFK, even Princess Di’s death, if there was a conspiracy theory, she embraced it. Despite Tony’s Pygmalion transformation of her, she still got most of her news from the National Enquirer.
“Crystal, Tony Perrone has a reputation as a ruthless businessman, and there are whispers about the Mob, but I can’t see him doing business with the likes of Bonita.”
Benny Bonita was the loudest, brashest, most crooked, most obnoxious fight promoter in the history of a sport with brash showmen—with the biggest pompadour toupee to match. He also framed my father, and I hated him with a passion. But as much as I hated him and wanted to buy into Crystal’s theory, Tony Perrone was too smart. He would be careful not to have more than a hint of the Mob around him. It would be bad for business—bad for his gaming license.
“I’m sure of what I heard, Jack. Swear to God. Bonita said something like ‘I should have taken care of the other brother—and that kid of Rooney’s, too.’ He meant you. That’s when I panicked.”
“Crystal, I don’t know if there’s any need to panic. This is a brutal sport. People do a lot of trash talking. It’s part of the whole game. Put it from your mind. Keenan will fight Bonita’s man, and he will win. And he’ll win here in the Majestic’s arena. I can’t wait to rub Bonita’s face in it.”
Crystal stared at me, her long platinum hair falling to her waist, her eyes a cross between blue and green, perfect cheekbones (implants), perfect nose (nose job), perfect teeth (porcelain veneers). Surprisingly, only her breasts were real. “One of these days, Jack, that stubborn streak of yours is going to get you in big trouble.”
“Come on, now, Crystal. It wouldn’t be the first time. And it sure won’t be the last.”
“You hope not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you just hope it won’t be your last.”
The next afternoon Crystal had shown up on my and Deacon’s doorstep with her daughter in tow.
“We need to hide out here for a few days,” she had said. Her Ferrari looked to be packed with expensive luggage. Her suitcases probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
“Please tell me you didn’t confront Tony about Benny Bonita,” I said as I led her and Destiny into the house. She towered over me in the stiletto heels she always wore. We were a study in contrasts. She was tall, I was short; she was a platinum blond, and I had black hair with a lot of unruly curl in it; she had those blue-green eyes and mine were dark brown; and most of all, she had the build of a bombshell, and I had the build of a lean fighter.
“I didn’t have to confront Tony. He accused me of eavesdropping. Said I was acting all weird. He grabbed my wrists and asked if I overheard him in his office. I blamed the way I was acting on the pair of panties the housekeeper found in our bed. She washed them and put them in my drawer. But they weren’t mine. My ass isn’t that big, the bastard.”
“So which was it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you acting weird because he was cheating on you or because of Benny Bonita?”
“Benny. I’ve caught Tony cheating before. How do you think I got this rock?” she asked, waving her diamond in the air.
We retrieved her suitcases, and I showed her upstairs. Deacon’s house was no twenty-million-dollar mansion, but it was a palatial luxury house. My bedroom suite had been done by some fancy decorator Deacon hired. He wanted it to be masculine, yet inviting, whatever the hell that means. My sitting room has a butter-cream leather couch and recliner, a French country table and Tiffany lamps. My bed is a king-size four-poster, and my bathroom has a tub big enough to swim in. On the walls and shelves, though, are my things. Pictures of my father when he was Golden Gloves champ, photos of me, him and Deacon taken from when I was a little girl and was hanging out in the gym, one of us at Disneyland, and one on a trip to New York City. On the wall hung my father’s middleweight championship belt.
“So you left Tony?”
“I told him I wanted to get away. But really…I keep hearing him on the telephone, very angry, talking to Benny. I know he is. Tony’s intense, but he’s not a screamer. But that day with Benny, he screamed. Loud. Something’s going on, and honestly, I don’t want to be there when whatever it is happens. I told him I was going to visit an old friend and that I’d be back in a few days. I need to think this all through, Jack.”
“Look, I’m no fan of Tony Perrone. He’s got an ego the size of the Grand Canyon. However, you’ve said all along he’s a good father figure to Destiny. And I still don’t think he’d get involved with Benny in any kind of illegal scheme. Maybe the meeting was about the terms of the fight. About the arena. About percentages. About the cable rights.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Well, look, my house—technically Deacon’s house—is your house.” I leaned down to look Destiny in the eyes. “I wish I had some toys for you to play with. I don’t even have an old teddy bear. When I was your age, I was already going with my father to the boxing gym. I played with punching bags, and one of the trainers made me my own jump rope. But no dolls.”
Destiny, wearing a pink backpack, smiled up at me.
“I brought some of her favorites,” Crystal said, unzipping a big bag and pulling out a Barbie doll.
“You like Barbies?” I asked Destiny.
She nodded but didn’t speak.
“She’s kind of shy,” Crystal said.
“I don’t suppose they have a Boxing Barbie.” I looked at Destiny. She giggled slightly and shook her head.
“One of our fighters has a match tonight so you’ll have the house to yourselves. Let me show you around. Here’s the bed. You take mine—you and Destiny. And there’s the bathroom. Clean towels are in the linen closet. I’ll sleep in the guest room. This way, you two have the sitting room so she has a place to play. I don’t have any food to offer you two, but tomorrow I’ll get up early and go to the grocery store. All I have is leftover Chinese. And you know Deacon, he still does that juicer. You’ll hear it whirring at all hours. You know that thing is strong enough to juice a human head, I think. If you want fruit, or raw carrots, I can bring some up. That’s what he lives on. That and fresh salmon.”
“We’re not really hungry.”
“Okay. I’ll get some other food tomorrow. What can she eat?”
Crystal laughed. “She can eat the same food you and I eat.”
“Oh. Well, what does she like to eat?”
“Pop-Tarts, chicken nuggets, French fries…Cheerios. She likes blueberry yogurt, the kind with the fruit on the bottom.” All of a sudden, Crystal started crying.
“It’s okay, Mama,” Destiny whispered.
“Yeah, Crystal. It’s going to be okay. Just chill for a couple of days. Listen, I’m going downstairs to let Deacon know you’re here, okay? Why don’t you freshen up or change into your swimsuits and go for a dip in the pool.”
“It’s actually time for The Wiggles.”
“The what?”
“It’s a TV show. Her favorite.” Crystal picked up the remote and turned on my plasma-screen television, clicking through to the program.
“I didn’t even know I had that channel on my cable,” I said, shaking my head. Then I left my sitting room and went down to talk to Deacon, who was sipping some sort of brown-green liquid.
“What the hell is that?”
“Wheat grass.”
“Gross. Hey, Deacon?”
“What?”
“Crystal’s upstairs.”
“Crystal? Well, Lord, it’s been a while since we’ve seen her around.”
“She’s here with her daughter.”
“How old is her child now?”
“Five. Listen, they’re, um…I don’t know. She’s on the outs with Tony. Something’s up. I told her she could stay a few days.”
“If she needs money, help, we’re here for her.”
I looked at my uncle. He hadn’t lost any of his thick black hair. His eyes were a warm brown, and his nose had a tilt to the left, courtesy of “Left-Eye” McGill, a boxer Deacon had squared off against a long time ago. “I was hoping you’d say that, Deacon,” I whispered, and leaned down to kiss him on the top of his head, grateful for him. His given name was Nick, but he had found God somewhere along the way and became a minister by mail-order ordination. He was also the high priest of all things boxing, so the nickname fit.
I looked at my watch. “Dad should be calling in about twenty minutes.” I opened the sub-zero refrigerator, which was very clearly delineated. Two shelves for Deacon, stockpiled with okra, kale, parsley, wheat grass, carrots and piles of apples to use in his juicer. Two shelves for me, barren except for Chinese take-out boxes, Coke and a bottle of tequila chilling on its side. I opened up various cartons of takeout, sniffing each one.
“This one’s gone bad,” I said, dumping it in the trash. “But I think if I microwave the chicken and cashews from Tuesday night high enough to obliterate any bacteria, I’ll be okay.”
Deacon rolled his eyes. “I don’t know how it is you ain’t dead yet. I can see your gravestone. ‘Killed by Old Chicken.’”
“But I’m sturdy stock. Grandma lived until she was eighty-eight.”
“I got my hands on you too late. By the time you came to live with me, your father had already turned you into a junk-food eatin’, trash-talkin’, poker-playin’ hellion.”
I gave him my best you-are-so-full-of-shit look. “Deacon, you play poker with me.”
“Yes, but I do not curse like a navy seaman when we’re playing.”
I popped my Chinese food in the microwave, heated it and began eating out of the box. Ten minutes later the phone rang, and I ran toward it.
“Yes…I’ll accept the call…Dad?”
“Hey, Jack, how are ya, kiddo? Good to hear your voice.”
“I’m doing okay.”
“How’s Deacon?”
“You know, lecturing me about my taste for Chinese.”
“Best food on the planet, especially the second day. What I wouldn’t give for Chinese takeout right now.”
“If I could, I’d mail you some.”
He laughed his hollowed-out laugh. He was counting the days until his release—four long years from now. “How’s Keenan look?”
“Good. He’s in great shape, and Deacon says next week we’ll go into lockdown mode, have him move out to the ranch. That way we can keep him from that flaky actress he’s dating.”
“Is she still talking about having a baby with him?”
“Yup. I’m sure it’s a ploy to get at his multimillion-dollar take for this fight.”
“He needs to dump her. He’s too smart for that.”
“Let’s hope so.” Both my father, who was a boxing legend himself, and Deacon had watched too many of the guys they trained fall in with, as Deacon called them, “fast women and phony friends.” We all thought it was pathetic when people like Mike Tyson ended up declaring bankruptcy. Entourages, flashy clothes and cars. They bought into the life, and it ended up leaving them destitute with only fleeting memories of the good life.
“Want to talk to Deacon?”
“No, that’s okay. Tell him that Keenan needs to stop leading with his left every time he’s going to throw an uppercut.”
“Okay.”
“Listen, there’s a line of guys here waitin’ for the phone. Bye, Jack.”
“Bye, Dad. I love you. See you next visiting day.”
“Love you, too.”
He hung up, and I felt my spirits sink. My father was framed. Sure, everyone says that whole “I’m really innocent” routine, but in my father’s case, it’s true. We even know who did it: Benny Bonita. Which was why, more than anything, we wanted Terry Keenan to win and decimate his opponent Gentleman Jake Johnson. We may not have been able to prove my father was not trying to extort Benny Bonita—it was the other way around—but we could plaster his fighter’s face on the canvas and prove, once and for all, that the Rooney brothers—and one Jackie Rooney—were the best trainers and managers in the world. Even from prison my father was a better trainer, a better man, than the oily Bonita.
Later that night, Miguel Jimenez’s face had the consistency of raw beef. He sat, shoulders slumped, in the locker room of the arena.
“What happened, Miguel? Look at you. You have bruises on top of bruises. You look like the friggin’ elephant man!” I snarled.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” He wouldn’t look at me, his dark black eyes darting away from mine.
“Oh, you’re gonna talk about it. Something happened in that ring.”
My uncle Deacon said, “Leave him alone. The kid feels bad enough he got knocked out without your big ol’ mouth rubbing it in, Jacqueline Marie.”
When my uncle uses my given name—instead of calling me Jack like the rest of the world—I know he means business.
“Fine. Just go shower, Miguel.”
I shook my head and stormed out of the locker room. Deacon followed me.
“Jack, Miguel’s just a kid from the barrio. He got an attack of nerves. He had an off night.”
I wheeled around in the hallway outside the locker room. “That was no off night, Deacon. It was a dive. He took a goddamn dive!”
Deacon stared me down. Suddenly, I saw a flash of recognition go through him; his eyes changed almost imperceptibly. He shook his head. “My God…I…Lord, I think you might be right.”
“And I know who’s behind it.”
“Bonita?”
“Has to be. You know, Crystal keeps going on and on about Tony Perrone and Bonita joining forces to take over our fighters, and she says they have something on Terry Keenan. They want him to go down in round five. She said she heard them. She’s got this whole conspiracy thing going on.”
“Yeah, but she thinks she was alien-abducted during puberty.”
“I know. But she says she heard them.”
“Why would Perrone mess with Bonita? I mean, sure, allow the fights to be held at the Majestic, but get involved? Get his hands dirty?”
“I don’t know.” I suddenly doubted the whole thing. “Maybe Miguel did just have an off night.”
“Let’s just go home and think about all this before we go confronting Keenan—or Miguel.”
“All right. I feel sick to my stomach, anyway. What a lousy night.”
The two of us had ridden to the Las Vegas Metro-dome arena in Deacon’s Mercedes. We drove out of the city of Las Vegas toward our home. I planned to try to get Crystal to think harder about exactly what she’d heard happening in Tony Perrone’s office.
As we drove into our gated community, the houses sparkled with their outdoor lights twinkling beneath the Nevada sky. Deacon had taken his boxing earnings and endorsement deals he and my father did—a series of commercials for razors, and a popular one for Cadillac—and invested it all in Vegas real estate before the big boom hit. He had enough to live on in style for the rest of his life.
My uncle and father pretty much raised me together. Deacon never married nor had children, so it seemed as if I was his just as much as my dad’s, the way he doted on me. He never fell for fast women and phony friends.
My father, on the other hand, had no phony friends but loved cheap women. He was saddled with me as a full-time father when my mother, whom he married in a Vegas quickie wedding, decided to divorce him equally quickly after I was born, leaving me behind, and moving to Hollywood with a B-movie producer she met while cocktail waitressing. I don’t remember her, and frankly, I never missed having a mother, except when it was time to buy my first bra. Deacon and my father stood in the department store arguing over whether I should get the sexy black one (my choice—I wanted a boyfriend), plain white cotton one (Deacon’s choice) or the sports bra (Dad’s choice).
“Deacon, maybe we should have Big Jimmy around for Crystal. Just in case all this stuff she’s saying is true.”
Deacon nodded. I could tell he was still thinking about Miguel.
Big Jimmy was our cornerman and a former motorcycle club member. He was also Crystal’s last boyfriend before Tony Perrone. He still loved her, I think.
As we pulled into our driveway, Deacon said, “I forgot to turn on the outside lights.”
“Light’s on upstairs,” I said, nodding at my bedroom window.
Deacon parked the car, and we got out and walked up to the front door.
“Christ,” I whispered. “It’s open a little.”
An uneasy feeling settled over me, and I looked at Deacon. Then we cautiously stepped inside. Two goons stood in the foyer, holding Destiny, who was kicking and clawing like a feral cat.
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