Page 117 of Shattered Veil
I reach across the console to hold his hand. He not only squeezes it back, but he kisses my knuckles. With his lipswetting each one, I know my next tattoo.
B.A.L.O.R.
On each finger like Lachlan has on his hand for his wife Katya. What a hoot! Me having the same kind of tattoo as big, scary Lachlan.
“What about you?” Balor asks me.
I don’t mention my tattoo idea because he’ll tell me I can’t get one when I’m pregnant.
I sigh. “We rented a lake house one summer in Maine, the year before my mother died. It was pretty great. Campfires, roasting marshmallows, learning to swim in the lake, boating, sunsets.”
“Damn, butterfly. That sounds amazing.”
“Oh, and catching fireflies.” I exhale. “Then my mom died, and Dad just lost all interest in traveling.”
“I’m sorry. So, uh, no Disney for you either?”
I shake my head and pat my stomach. “Someday, though. Right?”
“We’ve got a lot to make up for.” There’s an edge to Balor’s voice, and everything always circles back to Wes.
I haven’t told him that my ex showed up at school, and my nerves are too on edge about it.
It’s been eight months. Wes can’t possibly want to put everything on the line by harassing me now, can he? If Balor finds out, I worry Wesley won’t live to see another sunrise. That will spark an investigation.
Balor’s ability to use cyber skills to cover his family’s crimes rival that of any police department, probably even the Feds. But there’s always a chance something will fall through the cracks.
I can’t be the reason his family faces retribution from law enforcement. So, I keep quiet. I’ll tell Wesley I’m seeing someone if he bothers me again. I’ll tell him I’mpregnantif I have to. Surely, that will make him not want me anymore. I pray he’s smart enough not to fuck withthe well-being of another man’s child.
We reach East Hampton in little more than an hour, with Balor pulling over a few times for pee breaks I needed from all the water I’ve been drinking. Without a wince of annoyance, he turned off the highway with ease each time and walked me into every rest area we stopped. A donut shop once and a fast-food restaurant the second time where when I said I had a craving for fries, he bought me some while I used the restroom.
His sister’s home is a spectacular waterfront architectural wonder with multiple rooflines and classic cedar shakes. Expensive cars and sparkling SUVs line the paved, circular driveway, and balloons billow in the breeze, tied to lampposts.
I spot a catering truck parked on the street. Because it’s March, the party is indoors.
“When are they having their wedding party?” I ask Balor as he parks behind a black Escalade.
“A couple of weeks,” he says to me over his shoulder.
Typical male doesn’t know the exact date.
“I need the date.” I check my makeup in a compact while he checks his phone. “I need a dress, a card.”
“A card? For what?” He turns his head to me.
“To put a gift inside,” I answer.
“Gift?”
I sit back and drop the compact into my purse. “You’re kidding, right?”
“We don’t exchange cards.” He gives a scan of the property, where I spot three men in suits standing on the covered porch.
It makes me wonder if his ignorance of gift etiquette is a mafia thing or a wealthy thing. No, it’s got to be a guy thing.
“Do you mean with each other? Or other people?”
“What other people?”