Visions

Except, right now, Olivia was not happy. He should have gone after her. That was the proper procedure. He’d behaved poorly, and she was hurt. She’d stormed off. He should have followed. Except he couldn’t. She’d left him. He would not follow. He knew well what a psychiatrist would say about that, tracing it back to Sea

He could rectify that now. Send a text. I’m sorry. I behaved badly.

Please come back.

Gabriel made a noise in his throat and turned on his heel, shoe squeaking on the polished floor.

He would not say that last part, of course. He would never say that. But it was what he wanted—for Olivia to read his apology and understand how hard it was to make it, and even if she was lying beside Ricky, for her to leave his bed and come back. To give him another chance.

Which was pathetic. Weak and pathetic and desperate. He’d made a mistake, a relatively small one. By tomorrow, he wouldn’t even need to apologize.

But he should.

When his cell phone rang, he jumped, then cursed himself for startling like a spooked cat. It rang again, and the surprise and the a

He hit the button so fast that it wasn’t until he’d already pressed it that he actually saw the name: James Morgan.

He almost hung up as the line co

So he didn’t curse when the line co

“Olivia isn’t here,” he snapped in greeting.

A pause. Then, “I should hope not. It’s ten at night. Whatever mistakes she’s making, that’s not going to be one of them.”

Any other time, the insult would have rolled off. Morgan was an idiot. He didn’t know Olivia. Didn’t understand her. Mocking Gabriel was the desperate, weak ploy of a desperate, weak man. But now Gabriel had fucked up and Olivia had walked out, and this asshole sneered at the very suggestion she might have stayed.

“What do you want?” Gabriel managed to say.

“I have copies.”

“Copies?”

“Of the file I sent Olivia. I just learned that it was routed to your office, which explains why I haven’t heard from her. You think that by shoving it through the shredder you can stop her from finding out about you.”

Gabriel laughed. The sound was sharp as a blade, and Morgan should have taken the hint.

“I’m glad you find this fu

“Oh, I don’t find it fu

Silence.

“I’m sure they do, which only proves you are a bigger fool than I imagined. Olivia read the file, and I would suggest that you are lucky she didn’t pay you a visit. It would not have gone well.”

“Bullshit.”

“I can ask her to confirm receipt tomorrow if you like.”

“What did you say to her? No, wait—I don’t need to ask. You said it was lies. All lies. Poor Gabriel Walsh, unfairly persecuted.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I said, because she knows I would never stoop to something as distasteful as blackmail or intimidation. It would be like accepting money to protect my client.”

Silence as Morgan thought this through. Gabriel resisted the urge to call him an idiot again. He wasn’t really. He couldn’t be, having achieved his level of success. But Morgan had a technical mind, which served him well in his chosen field. Beyond that he was, functionally, an idiot.

“If you wish to speak to Olivia on this matter, I will ask her to call you,” Gabriel said. “After that conversation, you will make no further attempts to contact her. Your obsession is becoming wearisome. Cut your losses. Walk away.”

“Or what? Or you’ll blackmail me with that McNeil business? Go ahead and try. You made a mistake tipping your hand, Walsh. I will not back off until I have Olivia. Let me offer the same advice. Cut your losses. Walk away.”

Morgan hung up. Gabriel stood there, staring at the phone, all the emotions of the evening bubbling up, the rage and the confusion and the hurt seething together into a perfect storm, with a perfect target.

Gabriel grabbed his keys from the hall and stalked out.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

I wanted a motorcycle. Preferably a Harley, though I would settle for something smaller, as long as the reduced size didn’t mean a reduction in engine power.

First a gun, then a switchblade, now a motorcycle. Next thing you knew, I’d be making appointments for tats and piercings.

When I told Ricky that, as we lay in a patch of forest, naked and sleepy, he said, “I’d be up for the ink. Get one together. Something meaningful.”

I was taken aback at first. When I thought of couples getting joint tattoos, what came to mind were those unfortunate “Candy Forever” ones that in five years would have the guy telling new girlfriends it referred to his love for Tootsie Pops. That wasn’t what Ricky meant, though. He had tattoos. Four, each marking something he wanted to remember, and that’s what he was suggesting.

Would I do that? This relationship marked a stage in my life that was significant. A person who was significant. A time I would not regret.

“I’d go for that,” I said.

He opened one eye, looking surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He pulled me on top of him. “Well, give it some thought. I’ll bring it up again in a few days, after the buzz of the riding lesson wears off.”

“I still want a bike.”

“I know. We can talk about that, too,” he said, and pulled me down in a kiss.

After we finished, Ricky muttered a sleepy “Go

I touched the tattoo on his shoulder blade. It was the Saints patch, to commemorate the day he’d become a full member. It wasn’t exactly a screaming symbol of defiance, but it was there, and it said this was his life, his choice, one he wouldn’t be able to shuck by throwing out his jacket, selling his bike, and moving to the suburbs. I liked that—the attitude, the commitment, the single-mindedness, to be able to say at twenty that you’d known exactly what you wanted from life.

I was tracing my fingers over the tattoo and, yes, maybe hoping he’d stir. As peaceful as this patch of forest was, it was getting chilly.

“He won’t wake,” a voice said.

I scrambled up to see the Huntsman from the charity di

“As I said, he won’t wake.”

My hand flew to Ricky’s neck, frantically checking—

“Oh, he’s fine,” he said. “I would never harm him. I’m just allowing him to sleep while we talk. He needs his rest. You seem to enjoy each other quite vigorously.”

I glowered at him.

“Merely an observation,” he said. “And certainly not one I’m displeased to see. You make him happy. He makes you happy. One can ask for little more from another person than that.” He paused. “Do you still have the boar’s tusk?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I have a feeling you’ll need it. I hear you’ve had an encounter. With a third party.”

“Tristan.”

“Yes. He’s warning you about us, and about those in Cainsville. Yet the accusation he levels against us could be directed at himself. He wants something from you. Everyone does. Except him.” He nodded at Ricky. “You can sense that, which is why you feel so comfortable around him. He only wants to be with you. The same ca