The Devil Gets His Due (The Devils #4)(2)

“I don’t use actuarial tables in my work. I—”

“I’m already bored, so clearly you’re Graham.” I extend a hand.

“And you’re rude and drunk at noon, so you must be Keeley,” he replies with a smirk. His hand swallows mine in a firm handshake, and I briefly imagine him consuming me, that massive body of his pushing me deep into a mattress. I’m not sure why the idea isn’t as dry-heave-inducing as it should be. Maybe I should slow down with the margaritas.

I glance over at Gemma, hoping she finally sees how terrible he is, which I’ve been discussing at length for weeks, but she’s paying no attention whatsoever. Her arms are draped around Ben’s neck, and the two of them are all whisper whisper whisper while they smile at each other, lips a hair’s breadth apart.

“Jesus Christ,” Graham groans, just as I whisper, “gross.”

He raises a brow. “I imagine that’s the first and last thing we’ll ever agree on.”

I turn toward the bar and he follows. “Ideally we won’t need to agree or disagree because I very much want you to stay away from me this weekend.”

“Have I somehow given you the impression I want you to stay close? If so, I apologize. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

I give the bartender my most beguiling smile. “I’m going to need several more of these,” I say in a stage whisper, lifting my drink. “It’s the only way I’ll survive today.”

“If you not surviving today is somehow an option—” Graham points at the bottle of whiskey in the bartender’s hand. “—it would probably save me some money.”





Go big or go home, is what I say. And by “go home” I mean die, which is what I’m likely to do relatively soon anyway.

The O’Keefe women die young. That my mother, Melinda O’Keefe Connolly, made it to thirty-six before dying of colon cancer was nothing short of a miracle. Her sister, Mary O’Keefe, had never smoked even once in her life but still died of lung cancer at thirty-four. My grandmother died at twenty-eight of melanoma, and my great-grandmother died in childbirth, but I bet cancer would have gotten her if childbirth hadn’t.

Therefore, I simply strive to make the most of the time I have on Earth, and this weekend feels like the kick-off. My dermatology residency is officially behind me, which means—once I get through a three-month observership—total freedom and a doctor’s salary are about to be mine. I am going to wrest every ounce of fun from this weekend if it kills me, and if it does kill me—O’Keefe curse and all—I suspect Six Bailey is a good way to go: he is inappropriately dressed, drops the word fuck like it’s the only adjective or noun he knows, and is currently ogling his sister-in-law’s breasts. Openly.

“Holy shit, Drew, your rack got fucking huge,” he tells her before he turns to me. “It’s okay for me to comment because I dated her first.”

He is in no way a keeper, and he might be my soulmate.

My two-night soulmate.

“It’s not okay,” growls Josh, Drew’s husband. “I’m not sure how many times we will need to have this conversation, but I’m happy to end it the way the last one did.”

“Cut it out, Six,” says Drew. “This is my first night away from the baby in months, and I want my husband in a good mood.”

Six takes a long sip of his drink. “With a rack like that, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about his fucking mood.”

“I’m going to kick your ass”—Josh places his beer on the table—“if you say one more goddamn word.”

Heavy drinking? Threats of violence? A serious lack of boundaries? I’ve clearly found my people.

“No fights,” says Drew, looking between them. “I’m serious.” She grabs Josh’s hand, and when she looks at him, he just settles as if he has everything he needs in the entire world.

Nothing about marriage appeals to me, aside from being able to blow through someone else’s income, but watching them now makes me feel like I’m missing out.

Gemma and Ben affect me similarly. She’s so happy all the time now I barely know who she is—I wish there was a subtle way to take a blood sample so I could make sure Ben’s not drugging her.

Six’s eyes travel over me, head to foot. “Jesus fucking Christ, you’re hot. I’m sure you already know that. So how charming do I need to be, on a ten-point scale, to get you to—”

Before he can finish this especially intriguing question, a dark shadow looms over us.

“Can I borrow you?” asks Graham with a hand on my elbow. It’s like being dragged out of a kegger by my dad, if my dad was really hot and young and involved enough in my life to drag me anywhere.

I smile at Six as I step away. “This will be fast.”

Which is something I bet a lot of women say before walking off with Graham.

“What is it?” I hiss once we’re around the corner. “I have very specific plans for Six Bailey, and you’re currently interrupting all of them.”

“Glad to hear you actually have some life goals,” he drawls. “Our previous conversations had not conveyed that impression. The happy hour component of this thing is over. I paid the tab.”

I groan. Trust Graham to do something nice that also makes me feel guilty. “You didn’t have to do that. I told you I’d cover half of everything.”