Dare To Run (The Sons of Steel Row #1)(46)

“Where is he now?” He dropped his hand. “Did he move down south to Florida like all the other old people seem to do once they hit eighty?”

“No. He died.” I drew up my legs, resting my chin on my knees as I hugged myself. I felt a little cold now. “A little over a year ago.”

“Oh.” Lucas lowered his chin, the planes of his face softening slightly. “I’m sorry.”

I shrugged with a nonchalance I didn’t feel. “It’s okay. You live. You die. That’s life. What about you? Still have parents hanging around somewhere?”

“Nah.” He rubbed circles on my back. Slow. Comforting. “I never knew my pa, so he’s never been alive, as far as I’m concerned. And like I said the other night, my ma died when I was in my upper teens. So I was in charge of making sure Scotty grew up to be a good man.” He paused. “I failed.”

“No. That’s not on you. People make their own choices, and they don’t reflect on anyone else besides themselves.”

His hand paused right above my ass. “Yeah, I don’t know that I believe that. I think Ma would be pissed at me for letting it get this far. For not keeping him outta trouble.”

I hesitated. “Do you miss her?”

“All the time,” he answered, his voice cracking and full of honesty. “You?”

Not answering, I nodded once.

I missed Frankie. A lot.

I was alone now. Marco cared, but he wouldn’t be in my life much longer. He’d leave Steel Row in a few days and do better things with his life than live in the slums of Boston. He’d leave and never look back. I’d be sad to see him go, but I’d be oh so happy, too. He was doing the one thing I’d never do. Escaping.

This hellhole owned me. I was stuck here, with my bar.

“Ever think about running again?” he asked, his shoulders tense.

Cocking my head, I bit down on my tongue. His thoughts were way too similar to mine for comfort. “Why would I want to run now? I told you, I found a home in the Patriot.”

“But what if you could just leave Boston?” He caught my fingers. “What if you had enough money to leave this shit hole and the threat of Bitter Hill behind you? And you just . . . ran?”

I shook my head, my heart skipping a beat. “I don’t. And I can’t. I’m not going to lie; I’ve dreamt about starting over a few times. But I can’t.”

I couldn’t just abandon the bar. It held the only happy memories I’d ever known.

“Even if you had enough money to start new? To buy a house, and get a job, and live in a quaint little suburb in the safest town you could find? Get a blank passport and the number of a guy who could put your photo on it? Then you could go wherever you wanted.”

I let out a short laugh. He was living in dreamland, because I never had, and never would have, those things. “Where would that be?”

“I have no f*cking clue.”

Shaking my head, I shot him a rueful smile. “Yeah, me, either. You know why?”

“No.” He shoved a hand through his hair and stood, bringing both the empty glasses into the kitchen. “Why?”

I followed him. “Because you and me weren’t meant for perfect lives in the perfect suburbs. We’re fighters. Survivors. Not gardeners.”

“But you could be.” He gripped the edge of the counter so tight I could see the whites of his knuckles and the hardening of his muscles. “You could be normal.”

I picked up the bottle of vodka. “But not you?”

“Nah. I’ll be lucky if I survive the week.” His voice tried for casual but didn’t pull it off.

“Wait, what?” I set it back down. “What do you mean?”

“Fuck. Forget I said that.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a fat envelope. He handed it to me, and I took it out of reflex. “Run, sweetheart. Take this and go.”

I closed my eyes and bit down hard on my tongue. Something twisted in my chest, and it hurt more than any blow I’d ever gotten. “Tell me you didn’t just hand me an envelope full of cash.”

He flexed his jaw. “And if I did?”

How many times had I dreamt of this? Of finding a butt-load of cash and running? God, I didn’t even know. But I didn’t want it from him. Not like this. I shoved it back, hitting him square in the chest with a whack. “Take it back. I don’t want it. And I’m not running away.”

He didn’t take the money. Instead, he leaned down till we were nose to nose and whispered, “I dare you, Heidi. I dare you to run.”

“No.” I slammed the envelope on the counter. “I’m not leaving my bar. Why are you asking me to? What’s going on?”

He stepped back and covered his face before dragging his hands down and letting out an exasperated sound. “You need to go, okay? Right now. Take the money and get out of here.”

Suddenly it made sense. He was trying to get rid of me without feeling guilty. So he threw money at me like I was some hooker from a corner. “Oh. So that’s what this is about? You want me gone?”

He nodded once. “Yes. You need to go.”

“Okay.” I tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, tamping down any feelings of hurt. He’d warned me he was an * countless times, but I really hadn’t believed all his talk about keeping me safe was just bullshit. Guess I was wrong. “But you don’t have to throw money at me to get me to leave. I can take care of myself. Don’t worry—I won’t even ask for your help lugging my bags back to my apartment.”