The Hunter (Boston Belles #1)(20)

“Get in right now, or I’ll pay you a visit in your fancy new apartment. Fair warning: you do not want a female audience for the conversation we’re about to have.”

Troy Brennan.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

He and Da had gone over the fine print of my arrangement with Sailor, but I’d never met him. No doubt that was Da’s decision. He probably wanted to protect me from certain death because I’d have said something extra inappropriate or offensive. Or maybe it was the fact that he took more pride in his shits than he took in me and my dirty deeds.

Either way, Brennan was here now, ready to talk. So not talking wasn’t an option. I got into his car, which smelled of polished leather and the kind of wealth that was almost tangible. I could taste it on my tongue. I inhaled deeply. Nine hours in the office had made me feel like I’d worked in a mine for an entire decade.

I pressed my head against the cool, buttery leather, closing my eyes, knowing he was watching me. My Adam’s apple bobbed and I wet my lips, ignoring his blade-sharp gaze.

Troy started driving. I didn’t ask where. I doubted he’d tell me, and even if he had, it wasn’t like I had shit to say about it. Silver lining: if I died, at least I wouldn’t have to show up to work tomorrow.

“I trust we don’t need a formal introduction.” He took a turn onto a side street, cutting Haymarket and Bowdoin.

“Straight up,” I replied groggily. I was about to fall asleep in his car. He could cut me up right now and all I’d think about was how nice and warm the body bag was going to feel. I didn’t even care that my Uber rating was going to drop for going MIA on the driver’s ass.

“Then I also trust you know why you’re here.” Troy’s voice was villainous as hell. He sounded like Shredder from the Ninja Turtles movies.

Dude was quite the trusting motherfucker for someone who supposedly had enough skeletons in his closet to open a graveyard. I forced my eyelids apart, stifling a yawn. I tried to focus my gaze on his darkened profile.

“I’m guessing it’s along the lines of: don’t touch my daughter, don’t break her heart—or hymen—don’t give her any long-term ideas, blah blah…” I trailed off, wondering what the cook had made for dinner. I didn’t even know if said cook was a chick or a dude, old or young. Probably never would, with my current schedule.

Troy stopped the car, breaking from mid-speed, leaving skid marks on the street by the sound of it. Cars honked behind him. I heard a screech, followed by a fender bender. But all Troy did was stare at me like I was the craziest asshole he’d ever laid eyes on.

“No, you clown. I don’t think you stand a chance with my daughter. She’s not cut from the same dime a dozen hussy cloth you’re used to. Why would I assume she needs protection from you any more than you need protection from her?”

“Yeah. Why?” another voice inquired from behind me.

I jumped so high in my seat, my head hit the roof of the car. Christ on a scooter. I spun my head sharply, scowling. A shadowed man sat in the back seat. He looked tall, chiseled, Caucasian, and not unlike a mobster—a little older than me and calloused AF.

“And you are?” My brows arched.

“Sam Brennan. Troy’s adoptive son.”

“Just son,” Troy corrected unemotionally.

Aww. Even this serial-killer-ninja-asshole loved his kid more than Da loved me.

I’d heard about Sam. Rumor had it he’d been orphaned at a young age. Troy’s best friend and his former mistress were the parents. Troy and his wife, Sparrow, had legally adopted him around the time Sailor was born.

“Which makes me Sailor’s slightly unhinged, overprotective brother with a chip on my shoulder. Which makes you the perfect candidate for my fist.”

What a fucking family, man. No wonder Sailor was tough as nails. The testosterone in the Brennan household was probably enough for all the frat houses on the East Coast.

“Are you threatening me?” I bared my teeth.

“Yes,” Troy and Sam answered in unison, their voices flatlined.

The little she-devil knew how to work a deadly weapon with Olympic skill. If anyone needed protection in that goddamn apartment, it was me.

“If you think your precious Sailor is too good for my ass, then why am I here?”

More cars honked. A white Honda went for an ongoing blare, which ratcheted the pressure in my head to explosive magnitudes. I wanted to burn Boston down, starting with Troy, Sam, Sailor, and my immediate family (possibly sparing Aisling and her pet ferret, Shelly, if she still had it).

“You’re here because I heard all about your antics in California, and I don’t want my daughter to suffer because you’re slightly less civilized than a chimp. So I’m telling you now, no funny business, no tricks, no pranks. You keep the apartment nice and tidy, you don’t make any noise, and you stay polite and courteous to her. Neighborly. Understood?”

Troy looked nonchalant for someone who was currently blocking a busy street in Boston during rush hour. I wondered what it felt like to walk around with balls that weighed five tons each. Lots of back problems, I imagined.

I looked at him like he was insane. To be fair—he was.

Had Sailor spilled the beans to her daddy about my lack of organizational skills? She didn’t seem like the snitching type. Then again, what did I actually know about her?