Page 91 of Alfie: Part One
It made me wonder if Colby had talked to Alfie about my offer yet.
“He’ll be plenty happy with the other kids tonight,” he laughed. “From what I hear, the guys under eighteen work one-hour shifts to make sure everything’s running smoothly, and then they eat and shoot the shit in the kitchen. He’ll be fine.”
Even so, I actually wanted to check in on the boy.
“Is there a dress code?” I wondered.
“Not one that you need to worry about,” he said. “You always look sharp. Just…pick a shirt you won’t miss if someone spills on it.”
That sounded wild. I hadn’t been to one of those parties since college.
“Where are you, by the way?” he asked.
“At the club. About to eat.” I trapped my phone between my shoulder and cheek so I could cut my steak. Go figure, I’d left my AirPods in the car.
“Don’t get that sauce on your shirt,” he told me with a smile in his voice.
I couldn’t help but smile as well. He had memories too.
“It happened twice,” I pointed out.
“And then it’s three and four,” he retorted. “Listen. I gotta go. I’m picking up a phone and laptop for Colby. But I’ll see you tonight?”
“Yes, I’ll be there,” I confirmed.
“Aight. Later, West.”
“Bye, Alfie.” I ended the call and stared at my phone.
Tonight, I was seeing mobsters and my ex-husband.
What the fuck was happening to me?
CHAPTER 11
West Scott
“Oh, thank fuck.” Someone was rewarding me for getting stuck in traffic on my way into Center City. I’d lost forty-fucking-five minutes because of an accident that’d lured out more cops than ambulances. Two guys had been apprehended, so I didn’t feel bad for being pissy. But now, thank you, Grade A parking just across the street from the Irish pub.
That never happened. I always had to hunt down a garage.
I climbed out of my car and was immediately met by that warm, humid stench of garbage.
Ah, Philly.
I folded up the sleeves of my button-down and peered at the pub. Mick’s Pub. Through the semi-tinted windows, I could tell the place was packed. The muted bass from loud Irish punk rock pounded its way through the exterior too.
Three guys stood outside, guarding the door, one significantly older than the other two, who looked like teenagers.
Were they all Sons? Or future Sons?
After locking up and paying for the parking, I crossed the street and felt like I was entering the lion’s den.
The older guy straightened when he spotted me. “This is a private event.”
“I think there’s supposed to be a list,” I replied. “West Scott?”
He dug a Post-it out of the pocket of his hoodie and flashed it to me with a smirk. “This you?”