Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)(42)

“Congrats, you got me,” I tell him. “I’m heading home, it’s been a hell of a few days. And by the way, you can clean that up.” I point to the mess on the floor and the now disgusting Keurig. That flavor is going to be stuck in the machine for days.

I look over at Reese, who has now stopped laughing, which makes me smile as I walk out the door and down the hallway that leads to the artist alcoves.

The shop is owned by Liam and Talon, and I’ve helped run it since its inception, but I left it behind some months ago to focus solely on my booming security business. But one thing has always been a plus—this feels like home, and when I need to express myself in some non-violent way, I take a client or two and create some art. Liam got me into that back at North House. It saved me for a while, but that kind of expression and my own denial of my issues could only appease me for so long.

I position myself on top of Delilah—my 2015 black Kawasaki Ninja—and head to my apartment in the city, thinking of nothing but Farrington.





For the next couple of weeks I purposefully avoid my brothers and throw myself headlong into my job.

I restored dignity to the St. Paul police department by bringing Farrington back into protective custody, so D’Angelo starts throwing lots of bones my way. It’s good for my savings, and I begin contemplating the idea of a much needed vacation in some tropical locale. I like the idea of skimpily clad beach divas, tall, strong drinks and no noise except for the sound of the waves hitting the shore.

Eduardo Miguel is no nearer to trial than he was when he escaped from that transport. The FBI can’t get a lead on him, even with all of the manpower they’re throwing at the problem.

In my spare time—which I should call all of my off hours—I hunt him via search engines, webcams, paper trails; every tool in my arsenal, I employ. He’s disappeared so effectively. He probably has all sorts of money hidden in offshore accounts.

But one thing my intuition is telling me is to wait and be patient. A man like Miguel doesn’t want to stay hidden, he wants notoriety and to take pride in his work.

Then again, my intuition isn’t exactly reliable at the moment. It’s telling me—no, screaming at me—to call Farrington.

Just pick up the phone and say hello.

Yeah, right. The f*ck?

I’m actually hoping I’m totally mistaken and Miguel is just a low rank douchebag who happened to turn himself into a prosperous businessman. Maybe Mason Enterprises was only a pretty storefront for Cruz’s drug runs. Maybe all the money was Cruz’s after all.

If Cruz has already murdered Miguel, that will make him real tough to find. It would mean Farrington would ultimately be safe, but it might also make it so she never sees her cherished family again.

I tell myself there is nothing I can do about it. It’s not my business anyway.





During working hours, I can keep Farrington at the edge of my thoughts—sometimes, if I’m led on a particularly decent chase, I almost don’t think about her at all. That is, until it’s time to sleep.

Then I’m f*cked.

Helpless and at the mercy of my subconscious.

And the dreams always come: I find Farrington bloodied and dead, chained to the wall in Miguel’s basement. We’re back in the car chase with the fake ass dirty cops firing their bullets into the car until one hits her right in the neck. The blood sprays against the windshield and it’s mere seconds before I’ve lost her forever.

Those are the worst.

This dream is different. We’re back in the grimy motel room, and she’s blowing cool air over the alligator bite. I slip down from the table and lift her onto it, along with the towel she answered the door in. It takes only a moment before I have her legs spread around me, and I’m sliding my wrought iron hard cock into her sweet, tight softness. She’s moaning and whimpering beneath me, and I open the towel at the top where it’s folded over and unwrap her like a present at Christmas. I quickly suck one of her gorgeous rose colored tips between desperately wanting lips.

That’s when I hear the voice say, “Don’t do it, Ryder, you’d be her death sentence.”

I wake in a cold, startled sweat with the sensation of lust, love and terror in equal quantities.

“That’s what you get for holding on to those feelings, *,” I berate myself on the way to the john.

I’m in another motel room. If it wasn’t for the You Are Here exit map on the back of the door I wouldn’t have remembered I was in Atlanta.

My cell rings from the nightstand. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

I shake, flush and wash my hands. And it stops ringing.

“Good. I didn’t want any first-thing-in-the-morning conversation anyway,” I growl then grab my toothbrush and paste and move further along in the morning ritual.

After that dream, I am truly considering lighting a cigarette to accompany a black cup of coffee. I could do that here in the middle of nowhere, and I’d have no one to answer to. No one would know.

I would know.

Cell rings again. “Leave a f*cking message!” I call out between rinses with the last of my travel size Listerine.

It stops, so I lather my face with shave cream. I almost have the razor to my jaw when it starts again. I pick up the towel for my hands, and look to see who it is.

Briggs.