Fury on Fire (Devil's Rock #3)(21)

She hesitated, chewing and swallowing her bite. “Sure,” she called out. It beat going home and staring at her walls.

“Thata girl! See you inside. Staff meeting in thirty.”

Faith smiled slightly as her friend disappeared inside the building. She finished the last bite of her croissant sandwich and dusted off her hands, then headed into the building. She just had to make it until Saturday.



She felt relaxed by the time she got home from Willie’s. She wasn’t much of a drinker and since she had been driving, she hadn’t overindulged. She wasn’t about to pull a Serena move, but one mango margarita was enough to put her in a more relaxed state. Additionally, Wendy and Flor had kept her in stitches. Hard to be tense when you couldn’t stop laughing. Flor, twice the bartender’s age and mother of three, had flirted shamelessly with the younger man. She was inspiring. Faith needed half that woman’s confidence.

North Callaghan’s bike was missing from the driveway. At least she wouldn’t hear him having sex again. She snorted at that.

She entered her house and dropped her things on the table. After kicking off her shoes, she moved into the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of wine. She was home now. Not driving anywhere. She might as well continue with her state of relaxation.

After changing into shorts and a supersoft T-shirt, she took her glass of wine and dropped down on her couch, where she channel surfed until she landed on a rerun of The Big Bang Theory.

During her second glass of cab, she decided dessert was in order. She’d shared some wings and nachos at Willie’s with the girls, but there was always room for something sweet. Grabbing an ice cream sandwich out of the freezer, she settled back on the couch for an episode of Cupcake Wars.

A bike growled outside. Faith jumped up, holding her wine glass out in front of her so that the liquid didn’t slosh over the rim. She hurtled herself to the door and pressed her eye against the peephole. Sure enough, there he was. She glimpsed the large dark outline of him through her window before he passed out of range. The door clicked shut.

Huh. She stood back, her blinds snapping into place. Alone on a Friday night. That must be a first for him.

She stood there for some moments, listening. It was silent on the other side of the wall. She tossed back her wine, then moved into the kitchen and poured herself a third glass. Or was it a fourth?

Shrugging, she set the bottle down on the counter with a satisfying clink. She wasn’t going anywhere. If she wanted to get soused in the privacy of her own home, then that was her right. She had tomorrow to sleep in, after all, and all afternoon to recover before her date with Brendan.





EIGHT




North woke up sweating with a curse on his lips. Sitting up, he swallowed his gasps and ran a hand through the loose strands of his hair.

He dragged his hand down his face to his chest, stopping directly over his heart. He pressed his palm there, where it pounded with frenzy beneath his perspiring skin. Moments like this reminded him of before. Of all those nights in his cell. Sometimes he’d wake to the sounds of men crying, being beaten or assaulted. His cellmate was neither friend nor enemy, but the same couldn’t be said for everyone else. For other inmates, nights were the worst. The longest. When the strong preyed on the weak.

He lifted his hand from his pounding chest and dragged it over his face. He should be over this shit by now. He wasn’t locked up inside there anymore. He didn’t have to look over his shoulder. He didn’t have to stand silent witness as others were broken.

His breathing gradually slowed and evened. He shifted on his bed, the mattress creaking slightly. The sheet slid low on his hips, rasping against his skin.

He slept naked. That was the luxury of being a free man. He could sleep naked. Walk around naked. Eat leftovers in front of his fridge buck-ass naked. Walk in his backyard and stare at the moon without a stitch on if he wanted. He had the freedom and privacy to do whatever he desired in the confines of his own property. So why the f*ck did he still have nightmares?

Suddenly his bedroom felt claustrophobic. After flinging the covers back, he rose from the bed and walked downstairs. The nightmares were the same in that they always varied.

Sometimes it was Katie, sobbing, wild-eyed and shell-shocked in her ripped-up dress. Sometimes he was with Knox and they were beating on Mason Leary, North’s knuckles stinging and covered in blood. That was a common-enough nightmare. Leary under him, taking his punches and blows, but then the bastard would transform into someone else. Often it was Katie. Sometimes it was his brother. Sometimes North himself.

Other times he dreamed of the riot at the prison—the one that nearly killed him and left his face cut up. At the time, he’d thought he would die in that riot. The swell of writhing bodies had been like a storm around him and he thought surely it was the end. But it hadn’t been. He’d survived.

Scarred, but not dead.

The worst days actually came after the riot. Knox was gone; paroled. Reid, the leader of their crew, escaped Devil’s Rock, abandoning North, too.

The crew he ran with was weaker, more vulnerable to the other gangs in the prison. It was a testing period, to see how North and the remnants of Reid’s crew could stand up to attacks without Reid or Knox. North had survived. At a price. There was always a price.

He pulled open his fridge and grabbed a beer. Shutting the door, he turned and headed out back. After opening the back door, he stepped outside into the night. Dry air crackled around him as he walked through the yard, indifferent to the sensation of his bare feet crunching over dry grass. A slight wind stirred his hair and rolled over his exposed skin. He took a long pull on his beer. With a sigh, he stretched his neck muscles and looked up at the night, at the blanket of darkness studded with stars. He’d never seen a view like this from his prison cell. He was always shut in before dark fell.