Daring Devlin

Excerpt

Devlin

The Wilson residence stood on a tree-lined portion of Linney Avenue, the only blue house on the right side. When I’d lived here as a delinquent teen, I mowed the yard and trimmed the shrubs and restacked the bricks around the lush Japanese maple out front—bricks that now lay in a haphazard stack around the neglected tree.

Pulling my leather coat tighter to keep from being pelted by the light rain that would soon turn into snow, I sidestepped several waterlogged newspapers scattered across the drive.

The hedges I’d once perfectly squared were scraggly, their leafless arms clawing at the filthy windows. The formerly manicured home that had been my refuge for almost two years now looked more like a place I’d take the long way home to avoid.

Paul Wilson, chronic gambler, might not seem the best father figure, but since he was my dad’s gambling buddy (as close to a best friend as my dad ever had), he’d been the only one left to offer me a place to stay. Unlike my father, who gambled and scammed his way through most of his life, Paul had a career as an accountant. He was an honest one, as far as I knew. He and his then-wife gave me a place to stay when Dad died, and they let me stay even after I’d been busted gambling shortly after.

I was a good gambler, thanks to a fail-safe memory for facts and figures, but I hadn’t been so good at not flaunting my wins at the restaurant. Sonny quickly put a stop to my bad habit. If saving me had been a two-part plan, he was the other half of what Paul had started.

An interior light was on inside the house, and a shadow passed in front of it. It had to be Paul. Joyce had divorced him last year, and his son, Cade, was away at college. The only current resident of the Wilson place was the man who used to make sure he always had Cinnamon Toast Crunch in the kitchen cabinets for me. Sucked that I was here to squeeze money from him.

I knocked. “Paul!”

He knew better than to run from me when I needed a payment. And he was late. He hadn’t shown at Oak & Sage for a week. A week. He’d never been a week late before. I didn’t typically collect money in person. Sonny had guys who did that part of the job. Big guys with baseball bats. My job was maintaining the restaurant—my future—and acting as drop-off point for Sonny. There were a few reasons for this.

One, I owed Sonny a lot of money since my dad died indebted to him; and two, Sonny had stepped in and helped me run the restaurant when I’d been left in charge. He likely stepped in at first to ensure he’d get the money Dad owed him, but I liked to think I grew on him.

Either way, our paths merged, and bettors began frequenting Oak & Sage to place bets and meet with him. They still frequented, but the betting was now done via Sonny, and I played the role of collector in addition to owner. Since I was familiar with the business and had no need to write down who owed what, it worked out well for both of us. Plus, Sonny knocked a percentage off my dad’s debt for the exchange, which allowed me to make a profit while still paying what Dad owed.

That part was important. I didn’t want to owe anyone anything. If I ever had a kid, I wouldn’t want him to be responsible for my debt when I died.

Wet, chilled, and aggravated, I knocked again. Over the last several months, Paul’s demeanor had changed. It’d been a while since I’d seen him at “his” table, ordering the cordon bleu and peach iced tea, either dropping off a payment or picking up his winnings. Since Joyce left, he’d become more reclusive and had visited the restaurant less and less. Where he used to be a straitlaced numbers guy who enjoyed betting on sports more for fun than profit, now he reminded me of a twitchy chipmunk on the lookout for the neighborhood cat.

At first I thought he was depressed because of the divorce. His wife had left and, as far as I knew, hadn’t contacted him at all. Paul had mentioned she’d taken her dream job as a flight attendant, but I suspected she stayed in touch with Cade. Joyce was a great mom. She mommed Cade, she mommed me—and hell, I hadn’t even deserved it.

Now, though, I’d begun suspecting Paul was on the lam, or had developed a substance-abuse problem. I hoped it wasn’t the latter. The thought of the man I’d once admired throwing his life away for a hit made me sick.

I’d seen the decline of many a man in this business, my father included. Gambling had a way of dismantling lives piece by piece. Not surprising, considering that most bettors were degenerates to start with. Wasn’t like they had far to fall.

I glanced around at the jaunty Christmas lights dangling from some of the homes in the neighborhood, already hung despite Thanksgiving being a week away. Luxury cars were parked in every other driveway, and giant blow-up cartoony Grinches, Rudolphs, and Santas decorated the yards.

The rain shifted to sleet. I changed my knock to a bang, slamming my fist into the door and shouting Paul’s name with more urgency. He opened the door.

Fucking finally.

“I’m freezing out here, man,” I let him know.

Paul was my dad’s age, or the age my dad would have been if he was still alive. He was a few inches shorter than my dad and had a potbelly from too much Heineken. Tonight, his belly was prominent beneath a hideous patterned sweater. His normally round cheeks were sunken, his eyes dark underneath.

Heroin? Cocaine? Meth? My stomach flipped. Sonny dealt with bettors who used. If a bettor came to him strung out, Sonny turned him away. Sonny and I ran a respectable illegal gambling ring. Everyone knew we didn’t mess with guys who couldn’t handle themselves. Especially guys who knew better—like Paul.

“Hey, Dev.” He fidgeted, rubbing his fingers together as he continued looking around nervously.

“Five hundred,” I stated. Lost causes weren’t my specialty. Whatever problems he had were his own.

His Adam’s apple worked as he swallowed. I stuck my hands in my pockets and watched as his eyes followed the movement, probably wondering if I had a gun or not. I let him wonder.

His nostrils flared. “Go away, Dev.”

What the hell? We were friends… or used to be, anyway. Even if we weren’t, he knew better than to challenge me. Saying no to me was saying no to Sonny. But it was hard to intimidate the guy who’d seen me as a scrawny teen.

Simple solution: I’d remind him who sent me. “If you don’t have it, I’ll have to call Sonny. I don’t want him to take you down, man, but…”

Voices rose in the house, then two goon-sized men were towering in the doorway behind him. I widened my stance in preparation for trouble, giving the pair of bozos a meaningful glance as I lifted my phone to dial.

Showing weakness would only get my ass kicked. Thanks, but no thanks.

One of the guys was bald, the other had a mop of messy brown hair and a cleft upper lip. They outweighed me. Hell, both of them together could probably lift my SUV. The back of my neck prickled with premonition, or good old-fashioned instinct.

Paul was in trouble.

If I didn’t stand a chance in a fight against Dumb and Dumber, he was screwed. He had pudding where there should have been muscle.

I lowered my voice and leaned in so only Paul could hear me. My thumb was still on the phone, ready to dial Sonny if it came to that. “Look, man, if you need help, just—”

A blinding light resembling a nuclear blast bloomed behind my eyelids as my head snapped back on my neck. I staggered backward from the punch, hearing a splash as my phone dropped into a puddle on the pockmarked driveway.

Hand on my throbbing jaw, I glared at Paul. He’d sucker punched me. My swelling lip curled as I stumbled to my feet. I surged toward him, latching onto his sweater with two fists. He was about to find out what that chicken-shit sucker punch cost him. Then I’d let the goons do whatever they damn well pleased to him.

I drew back a fist, and heard Paul wail, “Take him out!”

And then my world went black.