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Clutch & Shift

Brittany Ann
All rights reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or
otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Cover Design: Brittany Ann

Editing & Proofreading: The Fiction Fix

Formatting: Sam Penrod

 Contents

Trigger Warnings
Playlist
For Reference
. Chapter
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Epilogue
Author's note
About the Author
Titles
 Trigger Warnings

This book contains graphic and violent scenes.

Sex. Sexual assault. Murder.
Some characters in this book were victims of mental, physical, and emotional abuse.
Mental Health issues such as: PTSD, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and depression are present in this story.
Attempted Suicide, sex trafficking, child kidnapping, and death is mentioned in this story.
If you have an issue with any of these topics, please proceed with caution.
 Playlist

1.) METAMORPHOSIS by INTERWORLD (Series Theme Song)

2.) Enemy by Azee
3.) Unholy by Santino Le Saint (Leon's Song)
4.) Euphoria by Oneheart
5.) Shut Up and Listen by Nicholis Bonnin & Angelicca

6.) Bullet With My Name On It by Santino Le Saint (Amara and Leon's Song)
7.) Murder In My Mind by Kordhell
8.) Bad Boys by Azee (Amara's Song)
9.) Night Ride by KUTE & BLESSED MANE
For Reference
 To the fighters,
I see you.
Don't you dare stop fighting for what's right.
 Prologue

Amara
St. Louis. Two years ago.
“Fuck,” the man growled deeply in my ear, his hands squeezing my hips. I’d always hated how big my hips were
compared to the rest of my body, but in this moment, I loved them, and I loved that he loved them.
His cock vanished from me, and I whimpered in protest.
“Please, more,” I rasped.
He chuckled, the sound sending goosebumps down my neck. “If this cunt squeezes me any tighter, I may never leave.”
He thrusted back into me, sending my head flying back against his shoulder.
Finally.
He was seated inside of me to the hilt, and I was fluttering around him, the pain was delicious. The man’s rough hand slid
up the front of my body slowly as he fucked me with hard, short thrusts, wrapping around the front of my throat. I let him
take control.
For once, I needed someone else to be in control.
“This what you needed?” he hissed, my ass hitting his jean-clad hips over and over.
“Y-yes!” I choked out, my eyes falling closed.
I needed a release.
I needed to forget the pain his city had caused me.
I needed to feel human.
His cock stretched me in a way that no other man had in my twenty-eight years, hitting the right spot with every single
thrust. My legs began to shake as my knees threatened to give out, his other arm banded around my front, holding me up.
“Put your hands on the wall,” he grunted.
 I did as he commanded without a second thought, and my palms landed on the rough brick, scraping my skin.
He hummed in my ear. “Such a good girl, aren’t you?” he teased, his voice deep—a voice I would never forget. "Obeying
me so well.”
His words sent zaps of pleasure through my body, starting at my nipples before shooting down to my core. I bit my lip to
stifle a moan, trying in vain to grip the brick wall of the bar.
I was letting a stranger fuck me in a dirty alley, a stranger whose face I hadn’t gotten a good look at due to the black
baseball cap on his head. All I knew was that he had a strong jaw and a neck tattoo. That’s all I saw when I came into the
bar and that was all I needed to be drawn to him.
That was enough for me. I was desperate.
He was still fully clothed, his jeans undone to fuck me with his glorious cock.
My dress was shoved up, gathered at my waist under his arm, panties around my ankles.
I felt dirty.
I felt hot.
I felt good.
The image of us grinding against this brick wall flashed through my mind, and I whimpered, my pussy contracting around
him.
I needed to feel human.
This man made me feel that way.
I’d never felt so grateful for anything in my life.
His hard body, still hidden under his clothes, was pressed against my back as he caged me in, shielding me from the
outside world. I didn’t even feel the slight chill the weatherman said we were going to get tonight.
It was just us, in this moment.
It wasn’t dirty.
It wasn’t shameful.
It was fucking beautiful.
Before I knew it, my eyes began to sting as tears formed. I couldn’t control it and I hated that.
I was supposed to be stronger than this, better than this.
I turned my head into his neck, inhaling his musky scent. He smelled so good. I couldn’t describe it, but it’s what drew me
to him when he brushed past me in the bar a few minutes ago. Tears fell freely now, no doubt hitting his hand at my neck.
That was another thing that was beautiful; he wasn’t choking me. He just held me, his thumb stroking the side of my neck.
That had the power to break me. His care. His gentleness.
I felt his hips slow and I swallowed a curse. My eyes opened, and I saw nothing but the brick wall.
“You crying?” he breathed against the shell of my ear.
Shaking my head, I begged. “Please.”
He was silent, his cock still buried inside me.
“Please,” I rasped again, bringing one hand to his wrist, my thumb stroking his skin now.
“Am I hurting you?” he clipped. He was worried.
God, this stranger was something else.
I shook my head against him. “Please. I need this,” I admitting on a croak.
After a moment, he began moving again, pulling out and snapping his hips as I moaned in thanks.
His hand dropped down, sliding over my collarbone to my right breast. With a grunt, he shoved the fabric of my skimpy
dress down, his rough, hot skin wrapping around my breast. My hard nipple against his palm, and I moved my hips back
against him, needing more.
“That’s it,” the man murmured in my ear, sucking on my earlobe. “Take what you need.”
“Yes,” I cried out as he fucked me harder again, deeper with each thrust. I moaned, moving back harder, meeting the
snap of his hips. I could never get enough. “Yes, yes, yes!”
“Jesus,” he growled.
It was coming.
It was finally coming.
Ignoring my tears, I stretched my neck, licking the side of his. He hummed.
He liked that.
I liked that he like that.
I brought my arm up around the back of his neck, anchoring myself and kissing his thick, strong, tattooed neck. I didn’t
know how it was possible but his thrusts became harder, like he was chasing something too.
Maybe we both were.
Two strangers who needed a release.
 “Killing me, Butterfly,” he growled, his hands dropping to my hips.
Butterfly.
I loved that.
I wanted to be his butterfly.
I wanted to be his.
I wanted to feel his cock every day.
I wanted to be shielded like this every single day.
“I’m close,” I rasped, bracing.
“Yeah,” he agreed, turning his head, and I felt his lips against my forehead, my heart skipping. He pressed a soft kiss
against my forehead. “Give it to me.”
My back arched as he began to fuck me savagely, and I turned my face to the sky, my eyes closing as I gave it to him.
White hot heat spread through my body. “It—it’s here,” I stammered, gasping.
My climax took over. His hand snapped up, covering my mouth, silencing my screams as my hands latched onto his
forearm. With a growl, he shoved me forward to the wall, his arm against it, not me. He snapped his hips three more times
with jerky moments.
His deep growl scattered across my skin, adding to my pleasure as he filled the condom.
I wished he’d been filling me. More than anything, I wished we were connected deeper.
Legs shaking, I remained sandwiched between his hard body and the building as we both came down from our highs. The
man slowly brought his hand up from my hip, gliding over my curves. “Fucking gorgeous,” he whispered as he dropped his
hand from my mouth.
My heart skipped another beat. “Thank you.”
I wasn’t thanking him for the compliment—I was thanking him for the most intense orgasm I’d ever had; the harshest,
hottest fuck. I was thanking him for making me feel something other than agony.
He chuckled again, his breath hitting my skin. “Gonna need your name.”
I swallowed, my hands falling away. “Why?”
“You’re going to be in my head for a long time. It would be better if I knew the name of the woman who just rocked my
fucking world,” he said softly, gentle now.
That shocked me.
I didn’t expect him to be thinking about me after this was over.
I didn’t expect gentleness from him, this huge, hard man.
And he was—huge—he was tall and broad. Even under his jeans, hat, and hoodie, I knew he was powerhouse.
He was probably a body builder, which was fine.
I could deal with a hot body builder.
“Amara,” I said, matching his softness. “My name is Amara.”
He pressed another kiss against my head as he flexed his hips, his still—hard cock moving inside me. I moaned, my
thighs squeezing together, and I felt him smile against my skin. “Gorgeous.”
“And yours?” I prompted, the sounds of the city coming back to me. The heat of the moment was fading away, the need
satisfied.
“Name’s Leon, baby,” he replied.

Four days later.

 “Detective Harrison, thank you for coming,” the chief greeted me warmly with a smile.
“Is something happening?” I questioned, my brows furrowing as I stepped into his office. I shoved my hands in my wide-
legged, dark purple trouser pockets, my newly-issued badge and gun clipped to my waistband. In Minneapolis, I was
usually judged for wearing “girly” colors by my peers, but I didn’t give a shit.
I’d bring in a son of a bitch wearing hot pink.
My wardrobe was the only bright thing in my life, and according to me, colors didn’t belong to a certain gender.
Fortunately, no one in St. Louis had said anything to me about it. Part of me doubted that it was respect holding their
lips closed—it was my bloodline. I knew I was untouchable here, under the chief ’s eye. After all, he was my father’s old
partner.
“No, nothing like that,” he said, standing from his desk. My eyes dropped down to the nameplate perched at the front.
Chief John Watterson.
“I just wanted to go over some things now that you’ve had a few weeks to adjust and get settled,” Chief Watterson
explained.
I didn’t think I would ever be able to get settled here. This city haunted me.
My eyes met his. “The Crew?” I guessed.
The Crew was an organization run by Sullivan Jones, designed to keep the streets safe when the people in blue failed to
do so. Sullie and my father were good friends; I grew up around his bar and in Soulard. Once upon a time, I’d considered
members of the Crew family.
That was a long time ago.
“Yes, they’re here,” my boss replied.
I raised a brow. “Why?”
He gave me a knowing look. “Because of who your father was.”
My skin prickled. I knew there was more to it than that. If Sullie wanted to have a conversation with me, he would show
up at my house.
Sighing, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “What else, Chief? Don’t leave anything out. I can smell your
bullshit from a mile away.”
The old man raised a brow. Old would be the wrong term for him—he was middle-aged at best. His white skin was
weathered from the sun, his blue eyes slowly turning gray, much like his brown hair. The mustache he’s sported since my
childhood was still dark, though, leaving no room to question whether he was a badass. His position was well-deserved
after twenty-two years on the force.
“You know I don’t tolerate that kind of disrespect in my precinct, Harrison,” he warned.
I gave nothing away. “I hope not, sir. But you should know that, like my father, I don’t take any bullshit—from anyone,” I
replied, pulling my hands out and crossing my arms. “So spit it out.”
He continued to stare, his jaw hard.
I swallowed the urged to roll my eyes. “Please, Chief. You called me in here, remember?”
“Jesus, you are just like him, aren’t you?”
I said nothing, only raising my chin slightly. He knew the answer to that.
The Chief sighed, shaking his head. “Look, things with the Crew have changed since you left for college, Harrison.”
The Crew never had the police in their pockets—it was more of an understanding, especially with the way Sullie and his
partner, Dom, ran things. Still, no one was stupid and actually believed that Sullie and Dom were squeaky clean. They
weren’t, but they looked out for this city in ways the PD couldn’t. The people trusted the Crew.
“Jeremy Jones, Sullie’s nephew, will be taking over the Crew soon,” he informed me. “And he’s here, too. With his
partners.”
“Why?”
He moved to me, putting his hands on my shoulders. “To keep the peace, and to keep you informed. Everyone in this
building knows about the Crew, Harrison. It isn’t some dirty little secret.”
“While I understand that, sir, I’m a little confused as to why they’re here to meet me,” I said, keeping my voice level.
“To make an introduction, Amara,” he finalized.
My stomach soured at the use of my first name. We had a deal that when the badges were on, it was last names only. I
wanted to keep things professional. I didn’t want special treatment because of my father. Ignoring his mistake, I stepped out
of his hold and gestured to the door. “Lead the way.”
In the hall, my heels clicked on the white tiles, the florescent lights bouncing off it as Watterson led the way. Once there,
he opened the door and led me in.
“Sullie,” he greeted.
“John,” Sullie boomed.
That was the thing about Sullie. He always boomed. I felt a smile tug at my lips but I bit the inside of my cheek quickly to
stop it.
The voices of men began a conversation as I stepped through the threshold. The police chief turned to me, revealing
Sullie. There were men to either side of me, but I didn’t look at them. Not yet.
“Sullie, you remember Detective Harrison,” Watterson introduced.
Sullie was a huge man, with warm brown skin, a thick black beard, and a bald head. He was middle-aged, around the
same age my father would’ve been if he was still alive, and bulky. I remembered him being thinner, but now he had a
slightly rounded gut.
He also had the whitest teeth I’d ever seen as he smiled at me. The bar owner held out his big hand. “Amara Harrison,”
he softly boomed. “It’s good to see you back home.”
I took his hand, shaking it once before letting go. “It’s good to be home, Sullie.”
Smiling, he turned to the taller, darker man with dreads behind him. “You remember, Dom?”
I gave him a single nod. “Hello,” I greeted.
Dom smirked. “Detective.”
Sullie moved to the man standing beside Dom. “It’s been some time, huh?”
Jeremy Jones’ eyes dropped, scanning me quickly before a handsome smile broke out across his face. “Good to see you,”
he greeted smoothly, reminding me about all the times we were around each other as children. We would play hide-n-seek
inside Sullie’s with his adopted sister, Karina.
“Likewise,” I replied.
Jeremy stepped forward. “We want to thank you for taking the time to meet with us. We just wanted to lay the
foundation,” he explained.
“Foundation?” I parroted.
Sullie weighed in next, “In a few years, I will be stepping down from my position in the Crew.”
“So, I wanted to make sure that we had a good relationship,” Jeremy explained.
I inhaled a deep breath through my nose. “I’m just here to do my job, gentlemen. Nothing more.”
“We understand that,” a new voice said.
I turned to find Dontell Michealson leaning against the wall.
My eyes drifted further to the left, to the man leaning his ass against the coffer bar, his arms folded over his massive
chest, clad in dark jeans and a black hoodie.
My spine straightened, and my nipples hardened.
My eyes dropped to his tattooed neck and strong jaw, an image I would never forget. They moved down to his huge,
powerful arms, the fabric of his hoodie clinging to his muscles. I remembered how he held me against him as he moved
inside me.
“Detective Harrison, this is Leon Torrance,” Jeremy said from behind me. “He’s a business partner.”
Name’s Leon, baby.
My eyes snapped up to the man’s face, instantly going to the teardrop tattoo as a zap of pain went through my heart.
Leon’s eyes were on my face, studying me, and when they dropped, slowly trailing down my body—a body he’d controlled
and fucked only two nights ago—I felt my cheeks heat.
When those eyes met mine again, he only said, “Nice to meet you.” His voice was gentle, reminding me of the other night.
I gave him a nod. “Likewise.”
On the outside, I was keeping things professional.
On the inside, I was panicking.
I was a cop who fucked a criminal and no matter how badly I wanted to do it again, it could never happen.
Leon Torrance was bad news.
 Chapter One

Leon

Present Day. St. Louis, MO.

I hated how gorgeous she was.
I hated how her dark hair stuck to her cheeks and neck as the rain fell down around us.
I hated her hazel eyes.
I hated her bow-shaped lips.
I hated her curves.
I hated the heat in her cheeks.
I hated everything about her.
Most importantly, I hated that fucking badge on her hip.
I tilted my head, watching her snoop around Dominique’s car, the newest addition to Oasis.
Jesus, this was a fucking memorial and the detective couldn’t fucking help herself.
“Amara,” I called, planting my feet wide as I stepped out from the shadow of Sullie’s alley.
The rain fell harder now, soaking me and my suit. My eyes dropped to her clothing, her black trousers and thick sweater
were soaked.
 “I just came to pay my respects,” she said, her voice hard.
Her voice was never soft with me. Not anymore.
I hated that, too. I hated hearing her voice when she talked to other people. The second she would turn her attention to me,
she would grow cold and hard, like a fucking vampire. Anger boiled in my gut and I clenched my jaw.
I warned her. “Don’t bullshit me, Butterfly. Lying isn’t your strong suit.”
Butterfly.
Fuck. I ground my teeth together to the point of pain for letting that slip.
Get a fucking grip.
“I’m leaving, alright?” she spat at me. There was that hatred, that venom. All just for me.
I resisted the urge to smile.
Moving, I closed the distance between us, dropping my arms.
When I was close, my body took over, one arm shooting out, wrapping around the back of her delicate neck, yanking her to
my chest. She collided with me and I heard a faint gasp. Immediately, she tried to push off me but it was no use. I could hold
her here forever if I wanted to. The detective was strong and skilled, but I was better—stronger. She could bitch and moan,
kick and scream--I didn’t give a fuck.
She was going to learn this lesson, and she was going to learn it now.
For the last few weeks, she had been snooping around Oasis, looking for something. About a month ago, when I was in
Colorado, D caught her on the security cameras at Oasis. He confronted her, and when Jer told me about it, I pulled in a favor
with Casey.
I was in possession of Detective Harrison’s private number. I called her and told her to leave.
She just couldn’t stay away.
Cain found her next on the day I’d discovered my sister was in love with my best friend. When I dragged her outside, she
didn’t give anything away—like always.
However, seeing her here, tonight, I knew something was up. Something pressing.
I wanted to know what.
I wanted to know everything.
“What are you looking for?” I asked, my voice cold.
She looked at my face, her eyes landing on the teardrop, and my jaw tightened, my fingers flexing on the back of her neck.
“Let go of me,” she hissed, showing me her pretty teeth. I hated those, too.
This was pointless. She was never going to give me anything, not like this.
I would have to find another way and I would. For the sake of my family and Oasis. I just got my family back, and there was
no way in fuck I was losing them again.
Detective Harrison snooping around only added to the pile of bullshit I had to fucking deal with.
A few nights ago, my fucking sister was ambushed by the Bratva. A few minutes ago, Shayla, a member of Oasis, just brought
us an envelope full photos. Someone was watching us, but the one that gave everything away was the photo of Cain working on
an engine in Oasis—taken on a day when no one, besides Oasis members, was there.
Which meant that we had a fucking rat.
I didn’t have time to play with Harrison tonight.
Tomorrow, though, was a different story.
“Get the fuck out of here, Amara. I thought I made myself clear the last time,” I growled, putting my finger in her face.
“I don’t take orders from you,” she hissed, her eyes bright with anger.
I stared back her, ignoring her beauty, her strength, and everything else, only focusing on the fact that she was a fucking cop.
Nothing more.
“I’m an officer of the fucking law, Mr. Torrance. Touch me again and I’ll put you back where you came from: in a fucking
cell,” she threatened.
My hands fell away from her, and as she stormed off, I tilted my head, studying her.
Anger wasn’t the only thing in her eyes tonight.
I saw fear.
The next day, I swung my R8 into Oasis, still on a high from my training session this morning with Dontell. I shifted into park
and rolled my neck, feeling the tension there. I needed a fucking massage. Pulling out my phone, I texted my girl, asking if she
could stop by sometime this week for a session.
My engine hummed, and another one sounded beside me. I looked up just in time to see a flash of electric blue fly into the
building. I shook my head.
“Fucking showoff,” I muttered, shutting off my car.
I bent, unfolding myself out of the car, the crisp fall air greeting me. Absentmindedly, my right hand went to my left bicep,
rubbing a cramp that had begun. The cool air felt great on my skin; I’d been too hot from the gym to throw my hoodie back on
after my workout, so I was just in sweats and a white tank. As much as I would love to, I couldn’t walk into a meeting like this.
Sighing, I bent back down, swiping my hoodie out of the cab and threw it on over my head.
“You’re getting big, Leon,” a man said behind me.
I looked over to find Agent James Garner getting out of his SUV. I knew he meant it as a compliment, and if I was different
person, I might have accepted it, but I wasn’t.
I was Leon Torrance. I had no choice but to be this way.
“A little early for you, ain’t it?” I drawled, shutting my door and locking it with the key fob. It was six in the morning. After
last night, and my conversation with Harrison, everyone decided to turn in early. We were going to need our rest for the literal
war we were facing.
Garner came up beside me, burrowing a hand into his dark wool overcoat. In his other hand, he was carrying a file.
“Considering I was up all night, no,” he sighing, running a hand through his messy dark hair.
“You too, huh?” I grunted as we headed inside.
“Hard to sleep when the enemy is in your territory,” the agent replied.
He, along with his tech genius, Casey, were the only feds I trusted. Everyone else was labeled untrustworthy until proven
otherwise. Casey was Jer’s woman and she was carrying his child. James was engaged to Haley. Both of them had proven
themselves enough in my book.
I would die for either of them in a heartbeat, and I know they would do the same for me.
Garner and I stepped through the industrial-sized door and into the showroom. D’s Porsche, Cain’s Silva, Jer’s Challenger,
and Dean’s Mustang were parked there; last week, I removed all my cars, storing them in the private section of my parking
garage under my apartment. I looked over to the garage, noting Cain working on a car in bay one, dressed in coveralls, tied at
the waist.
“Have you boys talked to him?” Garner asked, his eyes following mine.
“Not yet.”
“Do you trust him?”
That was the fucking question.
Two months ago, when Jer brought him in, I wanted to kill him, to rip his pale skin from his body with a pair of needle noses.
I wanted him to suffer just as I have. Jer, Collin, and D convinced me to work with him for the sake of everything we’ve built.
He was good driver, there was no doubt about that. He had a brilliant mind and built top tier super engines that racers from all
over the world paid top dollar for. Since joining us, he’d built two, and he was working on a third. I admired his work; despite
everything we’d been through.
Did I trust him?
Not completely.
 Was he growing on me?
No, not really.
Maybe he would. Maybe he wouldn’t.
“No,” I answered simply. “But I owe him my life, and he has proven himself loyal to Oasis.”
James raised a brow. “No?”
“My trust isn’t a freebie at a kid’s birthday party, Garner. You have to work for it.”
He nodded. I knew he understood me. Hell, with his background and job, I knew he did.
“So, what are you going to do?” he asked. “I offered to have Casey do a background check, but Jeremy declined.”
“While we appreciate that, this has to be handled in house,” I returned, making my way to the garage. He moved with me,
keeping the pace. When we passed through bay two and three, with him behind me, I looked over my shoulder. “Need a favor
from you.”
“This oughta be good,” the agent sighed before shooting me a smirk.
Once we were in the back hall, I laid it out for him. “I need a full background on Amara Harrison.”
If James was surprised at my question, he didn’t show it, keeping his face neutral. “The detective,” he stated—not asked.
I nodded, leaning back against the wall across from the office door. I didn’t want anyone else to know about this, not yet.
There was more information to be obtained first. Putting my hands in my hoodie pocket, I looked left and right quickly before
explaining, “Pretty sure she’s got a whiff of the shit we’re dealing with.”
His brows furrowed. “What’s wrong with that? The more manpower we have on the legal side, the better chance we have of
keeping this clean.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want this touching her.”
“Touching her,” he repeated, cocking his head to the side.
My jaw tightened. “She has her lane, and we have ours, Garner. That’s where she needs to stay.”
“I understand that, but now I want to know how she knows about this.”
“I agree. I’m going to find out, but I need that favor from you,” I stressed.
He ran his hand through his hair again. “Are you going to hurt her?”
“No,” I said flatly. “Don’t fucking hurt women. You know that.”
“I do, but she isn’t just some regular woman. She’s a detective,” he deadpanned.
“Know that,” I ground out through my teeth.
He was silent for a moment, trying to read me.
I wasn’t fucking letting him.
If he wouldn’t do this for me, I would understand and find my own way. The only reason why I hadn’t gone directly to Casey
was out of respect for him and his rank. That, and I didn’t need my two idiot friends making this into more than what it was.
Amara Harrison was an annoyance and meant nothing to me.
That didn’t mean I wanted her to die.
I was doing this to protect her, nothing more.
“Fine. I’ll drop what I find by your place tonight or are you training again?” he asked.
I normally worked out twice a day, in the morning and evening, usually before the races began. It helped me clear my head. I
was addicted to it, and I wasn’t ashamed.
“Nah, I’ll be at home,” I answered. “Around eight. Gotta see my niece first.”
He smiled at that. “Yes, you do.”
It wasn’t a secret that having Cleo and Mina back in my life lifted a weight off my shoulders. For the first time in my life,
outside of racing, I felt a small sliver of hope.
“So, the question is,” Jer began, “who?”
I looked to my Nikes, jaw and shoulders tight. For the last thirty minutes, we’d been going over those photos, stamping the
time and day on each. According to Jeremy and Dontell, there were some explicit photos they would not be showing, and that
pissed me off.
This piece of shit was doing this to my family.
We concluded that someone has been watching us for at least the last four months, before Mina arrived, which meant that
before D and I discovered the Bratva in Houston, they were planning on moving in on us. I had a gut feeling Kavi began
planning this take over since the day Collin stepped up at head of the Italian Mafia.
“We need to go over everyone, not just the newbies. Someone could’ve been planted,” Dontell said from beside me. We
were both leaning against the liquor cabinet, the wall of security monitors directly across from us.
James and Dean leaned on the front wall across from the desk, nodding.
“Did you run background checks on everyone before hiring?” James asked Jer, who was sitting at the desk, leaning back in
the chair. He looked just as tired as me.
“Yeah, but what good did that do? Nick had a fucking gun pointed to Leon’s head.”
Nick had been a new hire, only here for a couple of weeks before he decided to pull a fucking gun on me. His background
check came back clean, so that meant the Bratva approached him after and offered him a reward for killing Oasis leaders.
“That’s being handled tomorrow night, gentlemen,” the Mafia leader drawled from one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“Handled?” Dean parroted.
Collin nodded, looking back at his friend. “Yes.”
“You in on it?” Dean pressed.
Collin stood, buttoning his suit jacket and turning to face Dean, a wicked smile spread across his face. “Of course.”
Confliction flashed in the ex-baseball player’s eyes, but he didn’t say anything else.
“We need to know how long they have been in Greens,” I said, my voice low. Greens was one of the biggest underground
auto parts suppliers in the nation. It’s where we got the majority of our NOS and a chunk of guns as well. The Irish were
supposed to be in charge of it. “We need to know if McFadden is still alive. Last time I talked to him, he was perfectly healthy
and he hated the Russians.”
McFadden was the leader of the Irish Mafia. They were peaceful, sticking to what they knew: selling guns and ammo. They
mainly resided in New York and Boston. McFadden hated the previous Italian Mafia leader, Ray Romano, but when Collin
took over, they’d made peace.
“Pretty sure he is underground,” Collin noted. “He has a family to protect—a little baby girl.”
“I don’t fucking blame him,” Dontell said from beside me, a rumbling fury lacing his voice. I looked at him, a feeling of
gratitude washing over me.
“You think he gave up Greens?” Jer asked, putting his hands behind his head.
“Hard to say,” Collin answered. “But I’ll find out.” He looked to us. “You boys just work on finding the rat. I’ll take care of
Greens.”
“We’ll bring them in, one-by-one,” I said.
“Interview them,” Jer agreed, her pointed a finger at D and me. “But no spilling blood. Not yet.”
“Always sucking the fun out of everything, Jer,” Dontell complained, flashing Jer a big smile.
Fucking joker.
The world could be falling down around us and Dontell would be the first to crack a motherfucking joke.
 Our partner shot him a glare. “For that, you get to start the interviews.”
Dontell laughed. “Oh, brother, I was going to be starting them anyways,” he said, darkness coating his voice.
“Good. Now, we need to discuss something else,” Jer began.
Collin turned to look at Cain, in the corner, watching over everything. “Xander is here.”
Cain nodded once, and Collin pulled out his phone.
“Before it gets too fucking crowded, let’s take this to the table,” I grunted, pushing off the cabinet and leaving the room.
Everyone followed me down the hallway, out into the break area, through the bays, and past the showroom to the big round
table near the bar.
Pulling out my chair, I took a seat, looking up at the wide steel industrial beams that ran across the vaulted ceiling of the
warehouse, noting how the autumn sun was higher than before. Dontell took a seat to my right, Jer to my left. Dean sat across
from Dontell, James beside him across from me, and Collin took a seat next to Jer. Cain pulled out his seat beside Dontell and
his brother, Xander, appeared a second later, in a black suit, taking a seat next to him.
“Dominique,” Jer stated.
James slid the file he carried across the table to my friend. “Checks out. No arrests. No tickets. She’s clean, too clean to be
doing what she does.”
I rumbled, “She’s damn good.” I folded my arms over my chest, leaning back in the chair as Jer’s eyes scanned over the file.
“My honey girl is fucking great,” he murmured.
“The best,” Dontell agreed.
The skills Casey Gomez possessed were other-wordily.
“So, the question is, now that you know she’s clean, do you bring her in?” the Mafia leader drawled from his place, his
tattooed fist on the table.
I expected a silence—a pause for complementation—but instead, there was a single word. One syllable.
And it came from Cain.
“No,” he growled.
Everyone’s head turned in his direction, but my eyes landed on his brother, who, at that one word tightened his jaw.
“Cain?” Jer prompted. “Why not?”
The pale man’s eyes sharpened as he leaned forward in his seat. “No.”
Dontell and I looked at each other and I knew we had the same thought.
Aside from all the secrets Cain had in his life, Oasis’ new driver was perhaps the most important.
 Chapter Two

Amara

“When?”
I glanced up from the case file on my desk to find my old partner glaring down at me. Sighing, I closed the file and sat back,
looking up at him. “It isn’t any of your business, Patrick.”
“Bullshit, Harrison. You—”
“Nothing in my life is your business anymore. You lost that privilege when you dumped me for a new partner,” I reminded
him, looking over to Curt’s desk.
Patrick Morrie and I were made partners shortly after I got to here, and I knew immediately that he didn’t trust me or my
judgment for multiple reasons: I had a vagina, my father, and my relationship with the chief. He made assumptions before he
even got to see me in action, which made our case work difficult. We butted heads all the time, arguing at crime scenes and in
interrogation rooms. He would try to undermine me in front of the suspects and our colleagues. I put up with it for a year, and
then one day, when I thought he and I were making progress, I find out he picked a new partner.
Which was fine.
I didn’t care.
I worked better alone.
 Patrick sighed, rubbing the red scruff that covered his jaw. “Harrison, I know you and I were never really on the same page
but trust me when I say this: that case isn’t for you.”
Fortunately, he wasn’t talking about the missing kids. No one in the department knew I was still working on it, even after the
chief told me it was cold. It wasn’t. It was piping hot.
The case Patrick was referring to was the one that just landed on my desk an hour ago.
A homicide.
It was a high profile case, considering it involved the mayor’s daughter and her new husband. This morning, he was found in
their bathtub of their new home, dead. I was just about to head out to the scene.
Patrick’s words had my blood heating, the hair on the back of my neck standing rod straight. Slowly, I cocked my head to the
side, a pretty smile stretching across my face. “What did you just say to me, Morrie?”
He glared down at me, putting his hands in his pockets. “You can’t handle that case, Harrison. You would be better off
handing it over to Curt and I. We’ll get it closed before the end of the week.”
My brows rose as I acted shocked. “No, will you?” I stood up, gathering the case file. “Gee, Morrie. That sounds swell!” I
said, gasping. Bending back down, I grabbed my badge and clipped it to the waistband of my trousers before I looked back at
him. “How about, since you and Curt are the best detectives in the station,” I offered cheerfully, “you take this case. In fact,
take all my cases!”
He stared at me and I raised my chin.”It’s not like you and Curt don’t have three unsolved cases sitting over there, right?” I
asked in a bubbly voice, pointing over to his desk.
His frown deepened. “Are you done with your valley girl act?”
I came around my desk to stand in front of him, my facade dropping. “Question my abilities again, Morrie, and you’ll find
yourself drowning in harassment accusations,” I warned. I shot a glare to his partner who was watching with his brows to the
ceiling.
“Have a good fucking day, gentlemen. I have a case to solve.”
With that, I gave them a “fuck you” smile and walked out, my hips swaying as my hand tightened on the case file.

The mayor’s daughter, Cammie, was in shock when I pulled up to the scene. Cruisers were scattered all over the new
neighborhood, just outside of Chesterfield. Grabbing my now- cold coffee, I swallowed a few gulps down before exiting my
car. I shut the door, scanning the area, my eyes landing on the concerned and nosy neighbors standing their yards. My eyes
stopped when they landed on a blacked out Tahoe.
Sullie.
Pulling my trousers up more, I made my way across the street. The house was a standard two-story, craftsman-style home
with a wrap around porch and crisp, white paint. There were pumpkins lining the porch steps and a cute, inviting scarecrow in
the garden between the potted mums.
Cammie sat on the porch in one of the wooden rocking chairs, surrounded by uniforms and paramedics. I climbed up the
porch steps, my eyes on the open front door.
“Detective Harrison,” a male voice called.
I twisted my head, my ponytail swaying, to look at the uniform approaching me. “Officer Bryce,” I greeted, holding out my
hand. He was younger, new to the force, but he was sharp, graduating at the top of his class. I knew he wanted to be a detective
in the future, and he was busting his ass to make that happen. He reminded me of myself. He had determination and drive.
A wash a gratitude flowed over me knowing he was here.
“Wife call it in, I assume?” I asked.
 I knew she did. It was all in the 911 report in the file. However, I found that repeating my questions to different people
helped me gain multiple perspectives. Bryce nodded. “I was the first on the scene,” he told me, his voice quiet.
Nodding, I stepped closer to him. “Stick around, okay? I need to hear your side, yeah?”
He held my eyes and I saw it—-the same look I had in my eyes the night I worked my first murder. You never forget your
first. Eight years later, it still haunted me. I knew Bryce was strong, but I also knew that this would stick with him for the rest of
his career.
“Yes, Detective.”
I gave him a pat on the shoulder before he moved out of my way, and I approached Carrie. She was a strawberry blonde,
with goldielocks curls and freckles. She looked like a princess from the fairy-tales I used to enjoy as a child. Her cheeks were
red, as well as her neck. She was makeup free and in a matching gym set, pale blue—the outfit brought out her eyes. The other
officers stepped away, leaving only the paramedic kneeling at her feet, a blood pressure cuff around her upper arm.
Carrie looked up at me in question, her bottom lip shaking.
“Morning Mrs. Hale,” I greeted softly. “My name is Detective Harrison. Would it be alright if I asked you a few questions?”
She looked all around her. “There are so many people,” she whispered.
Taking the hint, I looked from her to the officers and I jerked my head to the side for them to move off the porch. The
paramedic removed the cuff, packing everything in her bags as she stood. I’d worked with her before on multiple cases—-
Amanda.
Amanda turned to me, giving me a small smile of pity. It wasn’t for me, though. She came to my side as she passed me,
leaning in. “When she found him, she passed out. Her body is still in shock, and her BP is going crazy. If she starts to get dizzy
or confused, I’ll be in front of the garage. Just holla for me, Detective.”
I nodded. “Thanks for the heads up.”
When we were finally alone on the porch, I gave my attention to the new widow, my chest aching. “You mind if I sit?” I
asked, gesturing to the empty rocker beside her.
Carrie looked over to it, silent tears leaking down her cheeks. “That was Robert’s seat.”
Noted.
Instead of taking a seat, I lowered myself down to my haunches, inhaling deeply through my nose. I hated this part of my job,
especially in a case like this when I had to ask a family member to relive the trauma of finding someone they love dead.
“I need you to tell me what happened,” I started the conversation softly.
Carrie Hale had her arms wrapped around herself, bent slightly at the waist, her skin pale. Her eyes avoided mine as her
mouth began to move. “I-I go to the gym every morning. Started doing it right after we got engaged so I could look my best for
my wedding day, ya know?”
She looked at me then, as if some part of her needed me to agree she wasn’t crazy for wanting to look good on her wedding
day. I nodded, urging her to continue. “I don’t—I don’t know—I got addicted to it, the high that the gym gives you, and I went
down two pant sizes. Not wanting to lose everything I worked so hard for, after the honeymoon, I kept going, every day at a
five in the morning. Robert—he works—” she paused, shaking her head and looking to her lap as she caught her mistake. “He
worked for my father, and in the mornings, he would sleep in until six.”
“You knew his routine well?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle.
Carrie nodded again. “Six in the morning wake up. Then, he would stretch out on the back porch…”
I made a mental note to check the backyard. “After that?” I prompted.
She pressed her lips together, looking away from me. “He would make us breakfast, set it in the microwave, and go up stairs
to shower.”
Nodding and keeping my attention on her face, I asked, “When do you get home from the gym?”
“Around seven. I like to do cardio after my weight sessions,” she answered. Then, her face crumbled again, and she dropped
her face in her hands.
Normally, this would be the time a person would reach out and pat her on the shoulder, giving her an ounce of comfort to
fight against the overwhelming agony. However, I wasn’t a normal person.
I was just a detective trying to solve a murder.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
“Right,” I murmured. “Is your father around?”
She lifted her head up, anger flashing in her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about my father.”
My spine tingled. “Why not?”
I watched at the sweet, grieving woman before me transformed into something else—someone else. “He doesn’t care about
Robert.”
Willing my voice to remain neutral, I pressed, “Why is that?”
“Because he was the first one I called and do you want to know what he said?”
 I waited.
She was about to explode.
“He told me it was unfortunate and that he would send the cops! Unfortunate, Detective Harrison!” she wailed, shooting to
her feet. I followed her, noticing she swayed a bit.
Putting my hands on her upper arms, I steadied her, looking over my shoulder in search of Amanda. “Carrie, I think you need
to take a seat.”
She started pushing at me, trying to get out of my grip, but I wouldn’t let her. “I want to go back inside. I want to see Robert.”
I shook my head. “I can’t let you do that,” I told her, moving so my body was blocking her way to the front door.
She looked up at me—she was petite thing—and whispered, “He’s my husband.”
“I know that, Carrie,” I whispered back.
More tears formed. “I just want to hold him again. Last night, I wasn’t in the mood and I told him that we could tonight….”
Her eyes drifted to the street. “He’s never going to make love to me again. He’s never going to kiss me again. He’s never going
to bring me flowers again.”
She began swaying again, her skin paling.
That’s enough of that.
“Amanda!” I called over my shoulder, easing her down into the rocker again.
The EMT was there the next second with her partner. “We are probably going to take her to the hospital, that good?”
“Fine by me,” I answered. I would be stopping by there later in the afternoon to ask her more questions. She probably hadn’t
had any food yet today, considering that her breakfast might still be in the microwave.
I backed away and headed into the house. The first thing I noticed was that they were clean people, not a single thing out of
place. Making my way through the entry way, I came into the living room, immediately veering off to the left, heading to the
kitchen. An unfinished cup of coffee was on the small butcher block island, next to a newspaper. I heard footsteps behind me
and then Officer Bryce appeared at my side. “Didn’t even get to start his day,” he muttered.
“CSI been upstairs yet?” I asked, turned away from the kitchen. It was time to see the body.
“They’re on their way,” he answered.
My feet came to a halt.
The time line didn’t make sense to me. When the file landed on my desk, the call had been made about forty-five minutes
prior, enough time for the file to be created, approved, and handed off to me by the chief. However, she said that she got here at
seven and it was nearly ten in the morning. “Bryce?”
“Yeah?” he called behind me.
“How long was she passed out for?”
“She told me it was only for a few minutes. Why? What are you thinking?”
My mind went to Sullie’s SUV parked down the street. “I’ll let you know,” I said, disappearing upstairs. There were
hardwood floors throughout the house, which meant there wouldn’t be any impressions for evidence to pick up. When I reached
the top of the stairs, I smelled it.
Blood.
Some people couldn’t smell blood. Some people have never had the displeasure. Some people, like me, would never forget
the smell.
Grinding my teeth, I made my way to the room at the end of the hall, sunlight flowing in from the ajar door. Holding my
breath, I pushed the door open to find a perfectly-made cream bed with navy pillows. My eyes narrowed at the wrinkles in the
comforter on the right side. Above the headboard, a portrait of the couple was hung, painted on their wedding day. Looking
away from the perfect, clean room, I turned to the bathroom.
My eyes dropped to the floor.
Pink liquid pooled just outside, and the dry floor told me that no one, not even Carrie, had been inside. She must’ve taken in
the scene and fainted on the bed.
Watching my footing, I stepped in front of the doorway, tilting my head at the sight.
My stomach soured, as it always did when I saw a dead body. No matter how many years my career in this field lasted, that
was something I knew would never go away. My throat dried the longer I looked at it.
Minutes passed as I studied every single inch of Robert Hale’s mutilated body.
The tub was filled with water, his blood coloring it.
His eyes were open, staring at the ceiling.
His hands were detached from his body, floating in the water near his face.
His genitalia was also detached, but it was on the tile floor, just outside the tub.
His mouth was sewn shut.
This wasn’t just a murder.
This was a fucking message and I knew just who to interrogate next.
 Sullie.

Pulling open the heavy wooden door to the bar, I pushed my shades to the top of my head, letting my eyes adjust. Sullie’s was
empty, of course—it was only eleven in the morning. The neon signs were on, decorating the walls in either liquor bottles or
framed photos. His most famous photo was of him and Nelly. It was perched by one of the antique registers behind the long
wood bar, which was shining this morning. Round tables with mix-matched chairs covered the majority of the space, and a few
booths lined the walls. The stage was completely empty—no instruments or microphone stands.
That was strange.
There was usually always a band lined up to play here. It didn’t matter what day of the week, people came to Sullie’s Bar
for the food, vibes, and music.
A deep voice was singing in the kitchen, and my eyes went to the double doors by the bar.
Sighing through my nose, I made my way to the bar, pulling out one of the stools loudly, the legs scratching the wood floors.
The singing didn’t stop. Impatient, I tapped my heel on the floor for a moment, contemplating whether I should just bust in there.
He would shoot you, Amara. Don’t be dumb.
This was true--Sullie Jones wouldn’t fucking hesitate to shoot anyone who came into his bar outside of business hours and
stomped into his kitchen. Knowing that, I took a seat, leaning back and crossing my legs, facing the double doors.
He was still singing. “Baby got back,” he boomed as the kitchen entrance opened. He emerged back first and spun, a tower
of mug crates in his massive arms. His bald head gleamed with sweat as I watched him carry the crates behind the bar.
“Amara,” he boomed in greeting, not looking at me as he unloaded mugs.
“Sullie,” I greeted back, my patience wearing thin.
“If you’re here for the bartending job, it’s already been filled,” he informed, setting at empty crate on the ground before
moving to the next, setting the clean glasses out on the bar top.
“Not here for that, Sullie. You know that,” I shot back, folding my arms over my chest.
“I know, sweetheart,” he said, his voice gentle.
I fought my flinch. I really did.
It would be easier if he didn’t have that kindness in his voice—if he just treated me like a cop and nothing more. He
wouldn’t, though. That wasn’t the kind of man Sullie was.
Behind me, I heard the door open, and sunlight flooded the space just for a moment. Heavy footsteps sounded behind me, but
I kept my eyes on Sullie.
I knew who it was.
Dom.
“Detective,” he greeted, coming up beside me.
I twisted my neck, looking up at the massive man. “Dom.”
Dom jerked his thumb to his partner. “He getting arrested?” The question was meant to be a joke, but the image of Robert’s
body was anything but.
“Not today,” I replied coolly, looking back at the retired King of St. Louis.
The man pulled the small towel off his shoulder, wiping the sweat from his face and head. “What is it, Amara?”
I lifted my chin slightly. “What do you know about Robert Hale’s murder?”
Sullie’s warm brown eyes turned cold.
Shit.
This just got a lot more complicated.
 Chapter Three

Leon

“Cain,” Jer called from my side.

The man pulled his eyes from the engine he was currently working on to look at the three of us. Dontell sighed on the other
side of me. “This is going to be like pulling teeth,” he muttered.
I grunted.
It was.
Cain was a stubborn son of a bitch--not that I could blame him.
After the meeting, Sullie got a call from the a member of the crew.
The mayor’s son-in-law had been found dead this morning--by his daughter. Sullie left to head to the scene, James headed
back to the field office, and Oasis employees started showing. Collin stayed for a while, remaining seated at the table,
watching the mechanics. One of the employees came to me, clearly uncomfortable with the man in a black suit watching them.
We questioned him first, bringing him back into the office while the Mafia leader continued studying the Oasis workforce.
The man, Blake, had been with Oasis since the beginning. He was loyal and a decent driver, hopelessly in love with his
boyfriend, Lane, who was an accountant in the city.
During his questioning, he began trembling; Dontell made him cry when Lane was threatened.
 In the end, Blake was clean, just like I knew he would be.
Dean headed to Busch Stadium for the day, needing to take care of some business.
In the middle of the morning, Collin and Xander left, but Cain didn’t notice, his head buried in the engine. After mentioning
Dominique, he shut down and got pissed off.
There was something there, something we needed to know about.
In fact, we needed to know everything about Cain, most importantly, his involvement with the Bratva. His confession was
filled with shame the other night. He wasn’t proud, and that was something we all knew about the Bratva—they were proud.
Jer asked Dontell and me if we should just go to his brother and get the information from him, but I shut that down. Cain was
Oasis. Xander wasn’t, plain and simple. We needed to hear Cain’s story from himself. Even Collin mentioned that he had no
idea about Cain’s story—just that he and I were in prison together.
We closed the distance as he wiped the oil and grease from his hands.
“Guess we’re doing this now, huh?” he asked.
“Not here,” Dontell said, his voice low.
“Let’s take a drive,” I said, making my way to the door. I turned my head and called out over my shoulder, “Try to keep up,
yeah?”

“Cold as shit out here,” Dontell grumbled, getting out of his Porsche.
“Then get back in your car, ya big baby,” I shot at him, my hands in my hoodie pocket.
He shot me a glare, stuffing his hands into his over coat as he came around his car, leaning against the hood.
Jer got out of his Challenger, Cain swinging out of his Silvia. The blonde male looked around, his pale eyes scanning the
trees above us. Our vehicles were parked in a circle, in the middle of an old cemetery, about forty minutes outside the city, in a
small run-down town. This cemetery was closed, the last person who was buried here died in the late nineties. This was one of
the meeting places for the Crew, even though we normally met at Sullie’s.
Unfortunately, we had ears everywhere.
“Alright,” Jer said, looking at Cain. “Let’s get one thing out of the way: if it weren’t for me and your brother, you’d be dead
right now.”
My eyes widened a fraction, my jaw jumping as I looked at my friend as Jer continued. “Collin wanted you dead the other
night, Cain. You get that, right? The second you mentioned your history with the Bratva, he wanted a bullet between your eyes.”
I believed it. Collin was ruthless, and when it came to protecting the woman he loved, his family, and the empire he built, he
would do anything.
“Jesus,” Dontell muttered.
Cain didn’t look fazed in the slightest—-he only nodded.
“But you’re Oasis. You’ve proven yourself to me,” Jer said. “I don’t take that shit lightly.”
“Agreed,” Dontell confirmed.
Cain nodded once more. “I know that.”
Jer sighed, shaking his head. “My brother-in-law is a crazy son of a bitch, but he has a big heart. Majority of that heart
belongs to my sister, and now she’s in danger—”
“You don’t have to justify his feelings, Jeremy,” Cain said calmly. “He’s a man who protects his own. I get that.”
Now that we were done with that…
I gestured to the space between us, no really in the mood to share my feelings on the subject. “Start,” I ordered.
Keeping his eyes on me, he began with, “One of the many regrets of my life was leaving you in that prison, Leon.”
 I remained still, not giving anything away. There was a burning pit of anger forming inside me, ready to consume him, to take
vengeance. However, I promised my boys I would be on my best behavior while Cain was around, though, I had a feeling that
after this Bratva shit was over with, Jer would want him to stay with Oasis.
Part of me didn’t know how to deal with that; therefore I chose to ignore it.
Cain realized I didn’t have a response for him and he decided to move on with his story.
An hour later, the three of us were watching him drive away, heading back to St. Louis. When his car disappeared in the
distance, Dontell was, as always, the one to break the silence first.
“Fuck,” he groaned, rubbing a hand down his face, stroking his beard.
“Yeah,” Jer grumbled, glaring at the ground.
I kept my mouth shut, as always.
“What the fuck are we going to do about that?” Dontell barked out. “He has inside information that could help us—”
“—I know that, D, but he worked for Kavi nearly a decade ago. How can we be sure this information is still accurate? I
mean, Cain literally escaped from the Bratva. I have a feeling Kavi isn’t the type of man to just sweep that shit under the rug,”
Jer pointed out.
Dontell looked at me, lifting his chin. “What do you think, Lee?”
“I agree with Cain,” I admitted, rising to my full height, my muscles aching.
“On which part?” Jer pressed, looking at me as I rolled my shoulder.
“We keep his girl out of this.”
“His girl?” D parroted, cocking his head to the side.
“Dominique,” I answered.
Dontell stared at me.
I looked back to Jer. “What’s going on with Sullie?”
He pulled out his phone, staring at the screen with a furrowed brow for a moment. “No updates. I know that he showed up at
the house earlier, but the mayor wasn’t there.”
“The mayor’s son-in-law was murdered and he didn’t show?” Dontell spat, shooting me a look.
“Don’t trust that,” I added.
“I know he’s running for another term, so maybe is security team thought it would best…” Jer trailed off. “Gotta go see
Carrie, though. She must be a fucking mess.”
“His name was Robert, yeah?” I asked, recalling that Dean and I met the couple at the benefit a few weeks ago.
Jer nodded. “Yeah, he was a good man. A little stiff, but he loved Carrie.”
We were all silent for a moment, allowing my mind to drift to Harrison. Was she on this case?
Something to check on later.
“We should offer her some support. When the dust settles, of course,” D said softly.
We agreed. The widow would need a support system now more than ever. She was too young to lose herself to grief.
“Right, well…it’s been a hell of a morning, but I have to go get lunch for Casey,” Jer said, moving on from the all the painful
shit.
“What’re we having?” D asked with a smirk.
Jeremy cursed under his breath, moving to the driver’s side of his Challenger. “Can we just have one simple day, guys?” he
called.
“No,” Dontell and I answered at the same time as we headed to our cars.
Jer bent and got into his driver’s seat. “It’s time we start.”
I hummed in agreement, pulling my door open.
“Last one to Sullie’s is a pussy,” Jer shouted, starting his engine.
He flew out of the lot, dust trailing behind him.
My best friend scoffed. “Did that motherfucker—”
“Guess you’re the pussy today, D.” I grinned at him before getting in my car.
“Son of a bitch!” he yelled as I revved my engine and switched gears, pressing my foot on the gas.
On the way back to my favorite city, the three of us chased each other in the mid-morning traffic, switching lanes as the sun
gleamed down. For just a few minutes, I let myself forget everything.
For just a few minutes, I was just a man in a car.
For just a few minutes, I gave in to the idea that someday, I could be completely happy as I gained speed and weaved through
cars.
I wasn’t a pussy today.
Then again, I never was.
“Damn,” I muttered, eying Harrison’s Atlas in Sullie’s parking lot as I pulled in, Jer and Dontell behind me. I parked next to
her car, and got out, looking back to where Jer and D were parking their cars.
Both of my fucking friends had smirks on their faces.
My jaw tightened as I closed the car door and prowled to the entrance of the bar. Pulling open the door, I stepped inside,
only to be greeted to an empty room. The boys stepped in behind me, letting the door fall closed. The neon lights were on, the
stage was empty, and the smell of Sullie’s famous burgers lingered in the air.
“Where is everyone?” Dontell asked, stepped around me.
“Yo, Sullie!” his nephew called out.
My feet didn’t move. I wasn’t leaving this spot until she showed herself, and then she wasn’t leaving this fucking building
until I got a fucking explanation.
Jer went behind the bar, and Dontell took a seat in his favorite booth with a smug look on his face, settling in for the show, no
doubt.
Bastard.
What my friends didn’t understand was that Amara Harrison was the fucking thorn in my side. Every since she recognized me
in the police station two years ago, she treated me like the scum underneath her fucking boot. Because of who we were and
what we did, our lives were bound to cross, and I understood that. I could see that past that.
What I couldn’t get over was her snooping around and sticking her nose in places it didn’t belong.
She was going to get herself killed one day, and because I was a man with a fucking soul—despite what she believed—I was
keeping her out of the line of fire.
Once this bullshit was over, she could go back to solving her little cases and back the fuck off my family and everything we
built. We put blood, sweat, and fucking tears into Oasis, and there was no way I was letting some pretentious cop ruin it.
A moment later, Dom emerged from the kitchen with a couple of to-go boxes. He lifted his chin to us in greeting. “What’s
up?” he asked.
“Where’s Sullie?” Jer asked as the big man set the containers down in front of him.
“In his office. Detective Harrison is here,” he explained.
“We know,” we all said at the same time.
Jer pulled out his wallet and put some cash on the counter. “What’s she doing here?”
“Well, I thought she was here to pay respects for Tiggy. You know she lives right down the road from his mom,” he began.
“But she’s actually on the Hale’s murder.”
“What?” I asked, my voice low.
Dom nodded. “Called the chief, and he said she was perfect for the job.”
Something in my stomach twisted.
“You have any details? How’s Carrie?” D asked, leaning his forearms on the table.
Dom sighed through his nose, looking solemn. “She’s not good, boys. She loved that man. I knew it, and so did Sul.”
“And the details?” I pressed.
Dom shrugged. “Don’t know any. When Sul got the call, he told me Robert Hale was found in the bathroom.”
The twist in my stomach turned to pain at the thought of Harrison having to see that.
It’s a part of her job, asshole.
“I’ll call one of the contacts at the station,” Jer declared.
Dom chuckled, taking Jer’s cash to the register. “Amara is leading this investigation, boy. I doubt she’ll give you anything.”
 “Bryce might,” Dontell offered.
“No, he won’t,” a beautiful female voice said.
Snapping my head to the right, all I saw was her.
Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, her lips painted a dark red that made my body tight. Unable to
help myself, my eyes quickly scanned her, admiring her outfit. Those fucking trousers made her waist look incredible.
I hated it.
“Amara,” Dontell began, but she held up her hand.
“Save it. This is police business, Mr. Michealson,” she snapped before she turned to Sullie. “I’ll see you at the station.”
The bar owner stared down at her, his eyes kind. “Of course,” he said softly.
With that, she spun on her heel and headed to me—to the door I was blocking. She glared up at me, hatred gleaming in those
hazel eyes. “Excuse me,” she barked, and my jaw jumped.
“Get the hell out of my way, Mr. Torrance,” she ordered, her voice cold.
I moved to the left, letting her pass me. She pushed the door open, the sun sinking into the entryway of the bar for a moment.
When she was gone, Jer spoke up. “The station? You getting arrested, Uncle?”
“No,” he answered as I looked back at him. Then he hit us with it. “But I am a suspect.”
 Chapter Four

Amara

“When will you be home?” his voice sighed in my ear. He was annoyed with me, but that couldn’t be helped. I had a job to do.
I put the phone between my head and shoulder so that I could open the door to the station.
“Cliff, I don’t know. Maybe seven or eight,” I guessed, stepping in the lobby.
“Great. Just fucking great,” he muttered.
“Did we have plans?” I asked, heading up the stairs, ignoring the look of death my friend, Angelica, was giving me from
behind the information desk.
He scoffed on the other side of the line, muttering something I couldn’t hear, but my gut knew what it was about.
Today was out six-month anniversary, the day I was supposed to sleep with my boyfriend.
However, sex was the last thing on my mind. Sex was always the last thing on my mind—it had been that way for the last two
years, ever since—
No, don’t go there, Harrison.
I moved into the bull pen, heading straight for my desk as I said, “I have a serious case, Cliff. It just landed on my desk this
morning.”
He was silent for a moment, but that didn’t stop me from getting settled and logging into my desktop. Immediately, I went to
our database and searched Robert Hale.
“Sweet girl,” Cliff murmured in my ear, “You are taking on too much.”
My upper lip curled slightly at his nickname for me.
Sweet girl.
What was I? A five year old?
My grip tightened on my mouse as I clicked on the victim’s profile, my eyes scanning over a police report from 2018. “What
did you just say to me?” I asked, failing to keep my voice from shaking with anger.
“Amara, I just meant that—”
Something in the report caught my eye. “Sorry, Cliff. I’ll be home when I’m home, not a minute sooner. Thanks for believing
in me.”
“Sweet gi—”
I hung up and gently flung my phone to the other side of my desk, a sound of disgust leaving me.
“Terrible time in shitty boyfriend land?”
I didn’t bother looking up at my friend as I replied, “Tonight’s our six month anniversary.”
“Pop out the champagne,” she deadpanned.
“Ange,” I started, “what do you know about the the Hale family?”
She raised a perfect brow. “Are you asking me a question that involves the super high profile case the chief gave you this
morning that has the whole department buzzing?” She turned and perched her ass on my desk, the hunter green fabric of her
dress stretching.
“Cute dress,” I complimented, smiling at her.
Ange gave me the death glare. “Don’t try to butter me up, Harrison. You know damn well you bought me this dress two
weeks ago.”
I leaned back in my chair, pursing my lips. “Tell me what I want and I’ll buy you the shoes you were eying last weekend.” It
wasn’t a bribe…well not completely.
My love language was gift giving, and I loved the hell out of my friend. She was the first one to welcome me with open arms.
She didn’t judge me because of my sex. She didn’t find me incapable or ditsy. She thought I was brilliant, and I her. We were
some of the only women in the central police department, and we stuck together.
We stared at each other, minutes passing. She narrowed her eyes. “My husband thinks you’re my sugar momma.” Her
husband was a hot shot lawyer. He was also one of the kindest men I’d ever met in my life.
The right side of my mouth lifted. “How can I be your sugar momma when you don’t give me any sugar?” I pouted.
Normally, when it came to cases, I didn’t run to Ange. It’d get the information I needed my own way. However, this wasn’t a
normal case and she wasn’t a normal receptionist.
She was like Donna from Suits. She also knew the ins and outs of the social ladder of this city. Her father owned a country
club in Chesterfield, and her mother was the queen of it all. My friend looked around us quickly and leaned in, putting her
finger under my chin. “Size nines, Amara.”
Like I didn’t know her dang shoe size. We were the same. I smiled widely. “Give it to me, oh mighty one.”
“Break room. Twenty minutes,” she ordered, bouncing off my desk and walking away.
I laughed, shaking my head as I turned my attention back to my work, knowing full well that all the male officers in the bull
pen were gaping. You had to keep them on their toes.
Twenty minutes later, I was neck deep in, not Robert Hale, but the mayor’s background check. Something wasn’t sitting right
with me. How could a father not comfort his daughter during a time like this? Did Carrie and her father have a strained
relationship?
With a sigh, I locked up my computer and grabbed my work mug before heading to the break room. I was halfway there,
coming down the stairs when I heard, “You have a lot of fucking nerve.”
Jeremy Jones.
My eyes collided with his as I descended the rest of the steps, and I didn’t blink as I approached him. “Mr. Jones, don’t make
a scene,” I suggested. The new leader of the Crew wasn’t having it. His nostrils were flared- his clean shaven jaw tight as he
glared at me.
“What the fuck are you doing bringing my uncle in here for questioning?” he barked.
The people lingering in the lobby focused on his outburst, a few of them being uniforms.
I didn’t break eye contact.
Breaking eye contact was a sign of weakness, and I would not be bowing to the new King of St. Louis today—or any other
day for that matter. “I haven’t brought anyone in, Mr. Jones. He is coming on his own free will.”
His jaw jumped, and those dark eyes flared. “You don’t mess with family, Amara,” Jeremy said, his voice low. I knew what
he was trying to do; it was the oldest trick in the book.
“He isn’t my family, Jeremy.”
 The man blinked; it was time to shut this down. This strange relationship between the STLPD and the Crew was on thin ice
anyways—it was time for me to crack the foundation. I was tired of living in the gray. “Our childhoods have nothing to do with
what’s taking place here and now, Mr. Jones. Your uncle is a suspect in a case, and he offered to come in for questioning. He
should be here shortly. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a long morning. I need some coffee.”
I stepped around him, ignoring the pit forming in my stomach. My heels clicked against the lobby floor, and I felt his eyes on
my back the entire time. Finally, I released the breath I was holding as I entered the break room, my chest heavy.
Angelica was leaning against the coffee bar, a granola bar in her hand. “Whoa, are you okay?” she asked, her mouth full.
I spared her a glance and nodded. “Jeremy Jones was in the lobby.”
She swallowed as I went to the coffee maker, pouring some into my mug. Setting it down beside her, I went to the fridge to
grab my creamer.
“What did you do, Amara?” she asked softly from behind me.
The thing about Ange and I, we came from different worlds. She grew up in a rich neighborhood with loving parents. I grew
up in a poor neighborhood with a single cop father. My mother died during child birth, a C-section complication. So from my
first breath, it was just him and me. On a cop’s salary, we couldn’t afford much. Even though she and I came from different
worlds in the same city, we both grew up with the Crew’s influence. She agreed with the Crew’s methods—the ones that
protected the city and kept drugs off the streets. However, she only saw the pretty side of Sullie’s empire.
I saw the good, the bad, and the ugly.
“Sullivan Jones is coming in for questioning this afternoon,” I finally told her, stirring my coffee.
“Table. Now,” she ordered.
“Ange, that’s not what I’m in here for,” I protested. I didn’t have time for a table talk.
My friend’s sweet face hardened as she raised her pointer finger to the table. “Now, Amara.”
Fuck me.
Taking my coffee, I reluctantly obeyed. The second my ass was in the chair, she laid it on me. “You’re playing with fire,
girl,” she warned, going to the door and locking it. I held in my sigh.
I tilted my head, watching her as she took her seat. The table in the corner of the room was our place, so to speak.
“Angelica,” I deadpanned. “There is nothing wrong with bringing in Sullie. It’s not like I’m bringing the man in handcuffed.”
She raised a brow. “Would you?”
I blinked. “If I had to, yes.”
She began to chew on the inside of her cheek. “Girl, we both know you have nothing to prove—to anyone—but bringing in
the retired leader of the Crew—”
I leaned forward and hissed out, “He was there this morning, Ange. He was there, and her fucking father wasn’t.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“Yeah,” I spat, leaning back in my seat and taking a gulp of coffee. I was going to need a second cup by the time we were
done with this conversation. “Now, can we get to the reason why we’re here in the first place?”
Two minutes later, Sullie was forgotten.
“So, the Hale’s aren’t from St. Louis originally?” I asked, making sure I got this right.
Angelica nodded. “Correct. They moved here from Philly around ten years ago—Robert had just graduated high school. His
parents joined the country club almost immediately.”
Why would a couple uproot their entire lives to follow their son to college, pulling his siblings out of school? My finger
tapped on my mug cradled in my hands as I pondered this new information.
“I know. It’s weird,” Ange confirmed my exact thoughts.
My eyes flicked up from the table to meet hers. “Is your mom working today?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yeah, she’s there until six.”
“You good if I go ask her some questions?” I pressed.
A laugh escaped her. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I slowly rose from my seat, downing the last of my coffee. “Just making sure. You were up my ass about Sullie.” As I
rounded the table, she smacked me on the arm.
“Don’t be a little shit, Amara,” she snapped to my back. “You know I’m just looking out for you. The last thing I want for you
is to get hurt.”
I refilled my coffee, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Sullie wouldn’t hurt me.”
“I know that. Sullie is like a giant teddy bear, and his business partner is just the same.”
Jeremy wasn’t. He was lethal.
I returned to the table, taking my seat again. “You got anything else for me?” I asked, sighing.
“You’re exhausted, girl,” she cooed.
I let my head fall back, my ponytail hanging over the back of the chair. “Long nights and even longer days,” I murmured to the
ceiling.
 “Just dump him.”
Of course, she figured I was talking about Clifford, but it was the opposite.
My long nights consisted of searching for those missing kids. Tonight, I was meeting with one of the victims mothers in
secret, because if the chief got wind of what I was doing, he would have my ass and my badge. So for now, I had to keep this
from her, and it was killing me.
“I don’t know what to do about him,” I admitted, telling her the truth about that.
The days got away from me, time slipped away. I wasn’t ready to have sex with him yet—I didn’t trust him. After that night
two years ago, I made a vow to my self and my body that I would only fuck someone I trusted from the inside out. At this rate,
the only person I would be fucking is Angelica.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t attracted to women.
“I hate him, you know,” she reminded me. “He’s a pretentious asshole.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “Your hubby dearest seems to like him.”
She stared. “Honey, David hates him.”
I nearly chocked on my coffee. “What? I thought you said he liked him!”
Ange turned up her nose. “Amara, the guy is a loser.”
“He is not,” I defended. “He’s responsible. He has a good career. He’s healthy—”
“Clifford is boring,” she cut me off.
He was.
He was boring.
He had a routine. He had a steady job. He had a clean record.
He was safe.
However, after six months, I expected to feel something for him.
Unfortunately, I didn’t.
“Alright, I gotta go question Sullie. He should be here by now,” I said, ending this conversation.
Ten minutes later, I was seated across an interrogation table from the man himself. His massive hands were folded on the
table as he looked around, nodding to himself. “They fixed this place up since the last time I was in this chair.”
“Yeah?” I drawled.
“New paint on the walls,” he noted, his booming voice soft. He pointed to the wall to my right. “Blood stain is gone. That’s
good. Dom wasn’t having a good day that day.”
I knew what day he was referring to, but we weren’t here to rehash out old traumas. “Why were you at Carrie Griffin’s house
this morning?” I asked.
“She’s family,” he said shrugging.
“Family?” I parroted slowly, and he nodded once, studying me. “How long have you had a relationship with Mayor Bradley
Gelling?”
The big man pursed his lips. “Twenty years or so. Started when he was just a defense attorney a few blocks from here.”
“Is he family too?”
“Yes.”
I jotted down a note on my legal pad. “Then can you tell me why he wasn’t there for his daughter this morning?”
The big man sighed, rubbing a hand over his bald head. “It’s complicated.”
“I agree. Why the hell would a father not be there for his daughter when she found her husband dead in their bathroom?”
He stared at me with his warm brown eyes—the same one’s as his nephew. “Amara—”
“Detective Harrison is just fine, Mr. Jones,” I said, cutting him off.
“I suppose I need to respect that,” he muttered, looking at his hands.
“It would be appreciated. Now, are we done playing?”
His head snapped up, his brows coming together. “Playing?”
“Yes, playing,” I confirmed. The family card was overused, and I was tired of it. I wanted a real answer. “Why were you
really there this morning?”
“I told you—for Carrie.”
“Why?” I stressed, leaning forward.
He stared at me.
Grinding my teeth, I decided to try a different angle. “What was your relationship to the victim, Robert Hale?”
“He was Carrie’s husband.”
I sighed. “Yes, Mr. Jones, he was. Did you like him as a person?”
Sullie cocked his head to the side. “I wasn’t around him often.”
“But Carrie is family. Wouldn’t that make him family?”
Just when I thought I had him, the man threw me for a loop as a wide, beautiful smile stretched across his face. “Jesus,
Amara, you are just like your pop.”
I didn’t have the strength to hide my flinch.
He continued, “He was like you, questioning everyone, taking every angle. It’s what made him a wonderful cop.” I folded my
arms over my chest, letting my fingers stretch out so I could dig my nails into my sides. I didn’t like talking about my father, and
doing it with Sullie only made it worse. Whether he saw my reaction or not, he kept at it. “To answer your question, the reason
why I didn’t know that poor boy well was because he never wanted to be around us.”
I found my spine straightening.
“Carrie would invite him to Sundays at Sullie’s—and no, I didn’t pick out the name—but he would never show. As time
went on, Carrie stopped by less and less,” the bar owner explained. I knew he didn’t pick the name. He didn’t have to tell me
that. His niece did. Every single time I saw Kay, at the coffee shop or in Soulard, she would invite me. I used to go as a child
with my dad, but that wasn’t me anymore.
“Very well,” I said, writing that down. “What do you know about the Hale family?”
Sullie didn’t answer until I looked back up at him. “Not much. They aren’t from Soulard.”
My throat felt like it was home to a new set of knives. “Right. The neighborhood.”
“Your home. You still at your pop’s place?” he asked kindly.
He knew I was. “Why are you asking me that? You know the answer,” I ground out, frustration building.
The man hummed. “Good. It’s a good house. Your pop worked hard for it.”
Alright, I wasn’t getting anywhere with this. I rose to my feet in a flash, gathering my things. “Right. Well, the St. Louis PD
appreciates your time. If I have anymore questions for you, I’ll call,” I finished, opening the door.
I kept my eyes straight ahead as I heard his chair scrape the floor. With each of his heavy footsteps, the pain in my chest
burrowed deeper, and Sullie blocked my view with his broad body.
“Look at me, girl,” he whispered. Sullie never whispered.
My eyes betrayed me, meeting his. His brown eyes were filled with pain—regret. “If I could go back, Amara, I would. If I
could go back and agree to get lunch with your pop, I would’ve. I would’ve talked his ear off to keep him from walking down
that street—”
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Jones,” I said, looking at his chest. “You are free to leave. Have a good day.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his hand raise, hovering for a moment, as if he wanted to touch me…
With a sigh, he dropped it. “Stay safe, Detective Harrison.”
I shut the door, locking myself away from the world.
I just needed four seconds.
Four seconds to take a breath and compose myself.
One, two, three, four.
“Don’t look back, Amara,” I whispered, pulling the door open.
 Chapter Five

Leon

Jeremy punched the bag in my hands over and over again, huffing with each blow. I held it steady so my friend could let his
anger out while I was barely holding on.
She overstepped for the last time.
That’s what Jer said to us when he returned back to Oasis four hours ago. Now, the sun was about to set and the streets
would be ours tonight. I would be able to lose myself in a race before paying the nosy detective a visit. After Sullie returned
from the police station, he gave Dom and Jer the run down, explaining she was curious as to why he was at the scene of the
crime this morning.
I didn’t buy that shit one bit. She was just looking for an excuse to tear down everything we’ve built and she thought Sullie
was going to be the fucking key.
Not today.
Not ever.
Detective Amara Harrison was about to be put in her fucking place.
“Take a breath, brother,” I ordered over the blaring music of the gym.
With a final punch, Jer stepped back, ripping the velcro of his gloves open with his teeth, his chest heaving. “You want a
round?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I finished up before you got here.”
My friend nodded, taking a drink of water before asking, “You think she’s up to something?”
Yes.
“I don’t know. I know she’s been snooping, but I don’t think that’s related to her bringing in your uncle today,” I explained.
“If something were to happen between you two, you would tell me or D, right?”
My jaw tightened to the point of pain. “Nothing will fucking happen. She is just fucking nosy cop.”
He shook his head. “Right. A nosy cop.”
I cracked my neck. “I’ll see you later,” I grunted.
“Where are you going?” he called to my back.
Looking over my shoulder, I gave him a smirk. “I have a date.”

“Uncle Lee?”
“Yes, Cleo?”
“Why do you have so many records?” my sweet niece asked from the other side of my living room. I twisted my head to find
her standing by my record player, fingering through the albums, her kindle forgotten on my black leather couch.
“Music is one of life’s greatest gifts, bug,” I answered, turning back to plating our dinner. Since the breakthrough I had with
my sister, Cleo came over for dinner or I took her out once a week. Dontell wanted to take my sister out tonight, and I jumped
at the opportunity. I missed five years of Cleo’s life, and I didn’t intend on missing another second.
“I like music,” she stated plainly.
My lips twitched as I picked up our plates, heading over to the dining table that sat behind my couch in the corner. Floor to
ceiling windows took up the corner stretching out in both directions, giving me plenty of natural light. The table overlooked the
city, the Arch standing tall and proud in the distance.
“Come eat, Cleo,” I said, setting her plate of pasta down.
Her little dress up shoes clicked and clacked on my hardwood as she ran to the table. “Smells amazing!” she cheered,
hopping into her seat. My chest tightened as I remained frozen, staring down at her while she put her napkin across her lap,
something that her mother taught her, no doubt, and picked up her fork. “What’s the green stuff?” she asked, looking up at me.
“Broccoli, bug,” I answered.
“Oh.”
“It’s good for you.”
“Mom usually cuts it up smaller for me,” Cleo noted.
“I can do that for you,” I said quickly, bending down and reaching over for my dinner knife.
“Why don’t I have a knife?” She watched me cut her broccoli into smaller chunks.
“Because they are dangerous.”
“When I’m older, can I use a knife?”
The pain in my chest grew. I didn’t want to think about her getting older. I wanted her to stay this age forever. “Do you—do
you want to learn? I can teach you,” I offered softly. Her eyes shined bright as she beamed up at me, nodding. “Give me your
hands.”
For the next five minutes, I showed my girl how to use a knife to cut a steamed vegetable. Ten years ago, I would’ve laughed
at myself for doing this, but now? It was the best feeling in the world, having the privilege to actually teach her something, to
be a part of her precious life. After her broccoli was cut, I took my seat next to her, asking her about her day as we ate.
 She told me about how Aiden stood up for her on the playground when someone told her that it was stupid to read outside,
how she didn’t understand why she had to learn math.
“Math isn’t for me, Uncle Lee,” she stated.
I suppressed a chuckle, trying not to choke on my chicken. After washing it down, I replied, “That’s alright. Some people
hate math.”
“Do you?”
I shook my head. “No, I don’t. Math doesn’t have to be boring. Numbers are in everything you do.”
“Really?”
Nodding, I pointed my fork to the record player. “Musicians have to know a bit of math to play their instruments or to sing.
They have to count to make sure they are in time with the song.”
“What about cars?”
“Cars?”
“Yeah, like your fast ones downstairs. Do you have to know math for that?”
I nodded, my lips twitching. “Yeah.”
Cleo licked the Alfredo sauce off of her lips. “I have another question for you, Uncle Lee.”
I picked up my water. “Shoot,” I offered, taking another drink.
“I told Aiden that for Christmas, I wanted a cousin. He’s having a baby sister soon. He told me that to have a cousin, you
would have to have a baby. Can you have a baby so I can have a cousin?”
Now I really choked. Leaning back, I coughed and beat my chest. “W-what?”
Cleo smiled. “A baby! Can you have a baby for me?”
“Uh—bug, that’s not how that works—”
“Oh, I know that, too. Aiden said that the baby would need a mommy,” she explained, as if I didn’t know. “Do you have a
mommy to have a baby with?”
I shifted in my seat. “Cleo…don’t…don’t listen to Aiden, okay?”
My niece tilted her head to the side. “Do you want a baby?”
Yes.
I wanted three of them.
I wanted a house full of laughter.
I wanted a woman in my bed every night.
I wanted a lot of things, but I wasn’t going to get them. I didn’t deserve them.
Clearing my throat, I desperately tried to change the subject. “What book are you reading?”
Thirty minutes later, after she gave me the play by play of her current book, we sat on the couch together and watched a
cartoon. By the time Dontell and Mina arrived, she was passed out and tucked into my side. I twisted my head, looking over the
back of the couch as the door unlocked and they stepped inside.
Happiness was painted all over my sisters face as her eyes met mine and Dontell lifted his chin at me. “You pinned down?”
he asked softly.
I found myself smiling.
Mina made her way over to me, bracing her hands on the back of the couch to peer over at her daughter. “Thanks for
watching her,” my sister whispered.
“Don’t thank me for something like this,” I replied, my voice thick, holding her eyes. “I should be thanking you.”
“Lee…”
“Thank you, sis. Seriously. Thank you for giving me a chance with her.”
Mina’s bottom lip began to tremble. “I thought we agreed on no more heartfelt conversations.”
“Mom?” Cleo moved away from me, rubbing her eye with her fist.
“Hi,” her mom greeted sweetly. “You ready to go home to your bed?”
Cleo nodded, rising to her feet. “I gotta pee.”
When she was out of the living room, D spoke. “Please tell me her urinary announcements are just a phase.”
Mina giggled. “Aiden does it.”
“That boy,” I muttered, standing up, my body sore. “He convinced Cleo that she needs a cousin.”
As soon as the sentence was finished, my best friend threw his head back and let out a howl, his hand going to his abdomen.
I glared at Mina. “This one? Really?”
She was trying her hardest to suppress her laugh. “W-what did she say to you?”
“She told me I needed to find a mommy for the baby and give her a cousin,” I summed up the conversation that would haunt
me for the rest of me days.
Dontell fell over the couch, laughing his ass off.
I looked at my sister again. “I’m going to kill him.”
 “Don’t kill the man I love,” she said, laughing.
“I’ll find you a new one,” I spat.
“Why are you guys laughing?” Cleo asked, running out of the hallway.
“D has a boo-boo,” I told her.
“No, I don’t,” he said, sitting up.
Looking at my niece, I bent down and whispered, “He’s about to.”
She grinned at me.
That’s my girl.

Flying over the finish line, I rolled down my window to hear the crowd cheering for me. Slowing to a stop, I put my car in park
before taking a breath. Taking my hand off the wheel, I let it fall into my lap, leaning back against the head-rest. I closed my
eyes, taking in everything around me, images of the race coming back.
It was only a two mile stretch. Since the night of Tiggy’s death, we’d been keeping the distances short and trying to stick to
the track more.
I hated the track.
I wasn’t a damn NASCAR driver; I was street racer. There was something beautiful and exhilarating about hurling down a
stretch of concrete, not knowing what was waiting for you around the next turn. It’s what made me a better driver.
That was my secret.
I wasn’t chasing the ghost of my father.
I wasn’t running from the pain of my past.
I was chasing the unknown.
It was an addiction.
My father was a rotten soul, down to his very core, filled with greed and blood lust. When he discovered my talent, he
exploited it, using it for his own gain. I was his secret weapon, and unlike my sister, who detested everything about where we
came from, I was addicted to racing. It wasn’t in my blood when I started, but it would be when I died. I’d never been good at
anything else. Everyone around me had their skills and talents.
I was just a racer.
Looking to my left, I saw Shayla approaching with the crowd behind her. For a moment, I saw a flash of concern on her
features but it vanished quickly as I gave her a single nod.
I was good.
I just needed a minute of peace.
Another engine roared in the distance and I couldn’t help the cocky smirk that formed on my lips. Dominique’s car came to a
stop the side of the crowd, and a few people drifted over to her. I opened the door and swung out, the cold air hitting my skin
and waking me up.
“No surprise here,” Shayla shouted back at the crowd, holding up a wad of cash. “The king never loses, ladies and gents!
Remember that when one of y’all gets a wild hair up your ass.”
I let my face remain passive. I never boasted about my wins, unless it was with Jer and D. They could handle my bullshit, but
the last thing I needed was to break someone’s spirit before then even had a chance.
“Here you go, Lee,” Shayla purred, putting on a show as she handed me the money. Without a word, I unfolded the roll and
pulled out a few hundreds for her.
“Thanks, Shay,” I said, my voice firm as I handed it to her.
 Her eyes snapped up to mine, gratitude shining bright. I knew that she and her girlfriend were going through a tough time, and
even though we paid Oasis employees well, it still wasn’t enough. Shayla was family. She held up the bills to the crowd and
shouted, “He may be ruthless on the streets, but he has a heart of gold!”
Smiles spread wide across the small sea of people, but I didn’t pay any attention to them. My eyes drifted to Dominique.
Leaning down, I whispered, “Temps dropping, Shay. Get them inside or tell them to fuck off.”
It was the end of the night, and I had shit to do. The sooner these people were gone, the better. Shutting my door, I made my
way over to our newest racer as she crouched down in front of her car, her eyes on the grill.
“You good?” I rumbled, stopping behind her.
She flicked her sleek, straight brunette hair over her shoulder as she looked back up at me. “Something’s wrong.”
My brows came together and I lowered myself down beside her, pulling my hands out of my hoodie. “What do you mean?
You feeling something?”
Her green eyes met mine. “Yeah, she’s sticking in third. That last turn—I nearly lost control.” She swallowed. “I’ve never
done that.”
I believed her. She was a damn good driver and she knew her car inside and out. “Bring it in and put it in bay two. I’ll take a
look at it,” I ordered, standing once more. She followed me.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said.
It was just us on this side of the lot now as the people migrated to their cars or headed back inside for a few more minutes.
“You’re Oasis, Dominique,” I reminded her.
She blinked. “Yeah, but—”
“You stick around and you’ll probably become family. We take care of our own here. Get used to it. See you in bay two.” I
intended on leaving her with that, the rest of the night heavy on my mind, but she stopped me.
“What about Cain?”
I turned back to her, standing about three feet from her. “What about him?”
Those green eyes drifted back to the building as her lips moved. “I’ve heard talk. You don’t like him.”
“Correct.”
“He and I—we have history.”
I tipped the side of my mouth up. “I know that. We all know that.”
“I appreciate you accepting me, but I have to ask that you try to accept him, too,” she called out to me, raising her chin
slightly.
I lifted a single shoulder, dropping it quickly. “Already trying, Dominique.”
Relief washed over her face. “It’s just Nikki, by the way. Only my mom calls me Dominique.”
“Get that slow piece of shit to bay two, Nikki,” I ordered, heading to my car.
“I am not slow,” she shouted at my back.
I grinned to myself.
Yeah, she could take my shit.

“Fuck me, girl. What did you do?” Dontell grumbled, bending down into Nikki’s engine.
“I don’t know,” she sighed. “It started when I first got here.”
Feeling eyes on my back, I looked over my shoulder to find Cain leaning against his Supra, fuming. I already did a once over
as D and Cain were closing the building down for the night. Then, my best friend had to bring his nosy ass over here.
“I may have to take it apart,” D said finally, rising back up.
 “I said that shit five minutes ago,” I muttered, looking to the high ceilings above.
“Don’t get snappy with me, Lee,” he shot back.
“Now, children,” Jer drawled, coming through bays three and four, wiping his hands with a clean towel. “No fighting in the
house.”
I shook my head at him and he grinned before lifting his chin to Nikki. “You need a ride back to the loft tonight?”
She looked at me. “My car isn’t getting free, is she?”
Shaking my head, I confirmed, “Nope.”
“Then yes, Jeremy, I need a ride,” Nikki sighed.
“Then let’s roll,” he ordered, heading to his Challenger in the showroom.
She put her hand on Dontell’s shoulder. “Thank you for taking a look. I appreciate it.”
We both watched her walk away, Cain’s eyes following her every move. “I don’t know what went down there, but he needs
to pull his head out of his ass. She’s sweet,” D murmured beside me, leaning against her car.
“She is. That’s why Jer and I wanted her here. She’s genuine,” I told him.
“We need more of that in this city.”
“That we do,” I agreed.
We both watch Cain’s pale eyes linger on her for a bit longer. “You think he’ll tell us?”
I looked at my brother. “Not about her, no. That’s his business.”
When Cain confessed everything to us this morning, he refused to talk about her, only giving us a small glimpse into their
history. He said working with her wouldn’t be a problem but he didn’t want her knowing about the Bratva. We could give him
that.
“What are you doing tonight?” Dontell asked, dragging me out of my thoughts.
“Hopefully getting some fucking sleep,” I muttered. This was true. If there was a God above, He would make this Harrison
shit easier on me. However, I’d never really been in His favor before.
“Right. I’ll close up here.”
I disagreed, telling him to get his ass home to my sister and niece. I didn’t like Dontell leaving them unattended, not with the
rat stalking us. But it wasn’t my place to say anything, so I kept my mouth shut. Once Dontell was gone, it was just Cain and I.
He looked at me, unfolding his arms and pushing off his car. “She do okay out there?” he asked.
“Who?” I was playing dumb.
I wanted him to say her name.
He hasn’t said it once since her arrival. He’s barely talked to her.
“Dominique,” he replied, coming to me.
“She told me only her mother calls her that.” Another test. He didn’t take the bait.
“Did she do okay or not?” Cain clipped.
My jaw jumped for a moment. “She held her own.”
He nodded, running a hand through his waves before gesturing to her car. “I’ll take a look at it.”
“I know you will.”
His eyes met mine again. “How’d you know that?”
I found myself wanting to smirk at him but I didn’t, keeping my face passive. “You’re the best engineer on the streets, Cain.
You two have history. Even though I want to put a bullet in your face half the time, I know you aren’t a complete asshole.
Despite your history, she’s Oasis, and so are you. We take care of each other.”
The man raised a brow. “You still wanna kill me?”
I shrugged a single shoulder. “Crosses my mind once a day.”
He nodded, looking over to Nikki’s car. “Guess I deserve that much.”
“But now, I know the truth, and that thought will fade. Eventually,” I told him, getting ready to leave.
“I know you don’t trust easily, Leon, but there’s something you need to know.”
I waited, but he tipped his head towards the bar. “A uniform was in here tonight. Name’s Bryce. He came here in casual
clothes—”
“Then how did you know he was a cop?”
Cain smiled, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Because my first night in the city, that bastard pulled me over.”
“What did he want?”
“You. He said he just wanted to talk. I told him you were racing.”
I muttered a thanks and headed out, my stomach starting to sour. Once I was in my car, I pulled out my burner and dialed the
number. Bryce answered on the first ring. “Got news from Little Rock.”
I started the car, the engine roaring to life. “Hit me with it,” I demanded, putting him on speaker.
“Miranda Johns went to the hospital last night…She lost the baby.”
Bending my head, I felt the anguish wash over me. “Damn it.”
 “She’ll be discharged tomorrow morning.”
“Right,” I muttered. “I’ll take care of it.”
Looks like I wasn’t going to be dealing with Detective Harrison after all tonight--I was heading to Little Rock.
I got out, popping the truck to make sure my emergency overnight bag was ready. before I sent a text to Mina and Dontell in
the group chat. As I headed for the interstate, I called Jeremy.
“Sup?” he answered.
“Know that this is shitty timing, brother, but I have to head to Arkansas.”
It only took him a second to read my tone. “One of your shelters?”
“One of the women who checked in a few days ago was beaten, bruised, and pregnant,” I explained, shifting gears and
increasing speed as the anger began to take over.
“Fuck,” he bit out. “Alright. Be safe.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be sorry for being a good person, Lee. We got shit handled here. Keep me updated, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
As I sped through St. Louis, my mind drifted back to Amara, and suddenly, I found myself praying to God above that she
would be safe tonight and not do anything too stupid.
 Chapter Six

Amara

“That’s gross,” I hissed, kicking the dead rat away from me and lifting my flashlight back up.
You could be inside, curled up on the couch with a tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream and Sons of Anarchy right now,
Amara.
I could.
One hundred percent, I could.
But I couldn’t get those kids out of my mind. For weeks, I’d been scaling this side of the river, searching for anything.
Reports told me that one of the children used to ride their bikes through here—on a dare. It sickened me. This was about a mile
away from East St. Louis, the most dangerous place in America, and none of the missing children were from that area. Majority
of them were from the other side of the river. I looked across the river, the Arch standing tall, telling me I was an idiot for
coming out here on my own. My eyes drifted further down to where Oasis was located. Tonight had been a race night, but I
knew there weren’t any going on right now. For some reason, Jeremy Jones had been shutting down the races earlier than
normal.
A boat sounded off in the distance, the moonlight glimmering over the Mississippi as the wind picked up around me. It was
too cold for this tonight, but it needed to be done. The river was to my left and a structure to my right, a thin cobblestone
Another random document with
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conduisit sous la pompe, oui, sous la pompe ; là, il leur rinça le
visage, comme à des petites filles malpropres. Blessées, indignées,
mais conquises, elles pleuraient de vraies larmes et poussaient des
cris qui étaient des cris.
« Antoine alors les embrassa et leur dit :
— Sœurs adorables, je suis celui qui vous aime le mieux. Mais je
veux que vous vous rappeliez constamment que vous êtes des
demi-déesses (je ne sais pas si c’est conforme à la classification
mythologique, mais c’est mon avis). Demi-déesses, vous valez
mieux que des déesses, parce qu’à la grâce souveraine, vous alliez
la faiblesse toute humaine des femmes !… Je ne vous empêcherai
pas d’être belles, comme des personnes naturelles ; mais gardez-
vous, ô demi-déesses, de la moindre tentative de « chiqué » !

Quand j’ai eu fait apprendre par cœur à mes enfants cette

légende, je leur ai raconté tout ce que je savais d’Antoine.
Je n’ai pas hésité à leur dire que presque tous les auteurs de ce
temps ne seraient rien de ce qu’ils sont, si Antoine n’avait pas existé.
Il y a sans doute moins de pièces « bien faites » qu’au temps où
Antoine n’existait pas. Cela tient peut-être à ce qu’il est plus difficile
d’établir une pièce bien faite, quand on veut qu’elle soit humaine et
vraie. Il est moins aisé de justifier les actions d’un homme vivant que
celles d’un fantoche.
A une reprise d’une pièce à grand succès d’il y a trente ans, qui
nous sembla un peu puérile, je rencontrai, dans les couloirs, mon
vieux routier…
— Eh bien ! s’écriait-il, en voilà du théâtre !…
C’en était.
Je me dis à part moi qu’il n’est pas très difficile d’en faire, du
théâtre, quand on n’a rien à dire.
Seulement, Antoine, qui, au Théâtre Libre, nous a révélé Le
Canard Sauvage, et a su mettre en lumière des hommes comme
Georges Ancey et François de Curel, le dangereux Antoine a donné
au public français le besoin d’entendre quelque chose.
Grâce à Antoine, toujours à Antoine, on s’est aperçu que cet art
du théâtre, dit inférieur, n’était inférieur que lorsqu’il n’était pas
pratiqué par des gens supérieurs.
Encouragés, des écrivains, que rebutait la terreur du Métier, se
mirent à écrire des pièces, parce qu’Antoine avait su leur montrer
que le métier soi-disant nécessaire était, pour faire de belles pièces,
moins nécessaire que le talent.

Ayant ainsi parlé d’Antoine à nos petits-enfants, il faut leur dire,

pour continuer leur instruction, que cet être extraordinaire a été, il n’y
a pas longtemps, sur le point de faire naufrage.
Il n’y a pas d’homme, si extraordinaire qu’il soit, qui puisse être à
l’abri de la mauvaise fortune. « Nous ne sommes pas les premiers,
disait Cordelia au roi Lear, qui, avec la meilleure intention, aient
encouru malheur ! »
Et il faudra raconter aussi aux petits-enfants que Henry Irving —
qui fut un homme considérable, mais pas plus considérable
qu’Antoine — qu’Irving s’était trouvé, au moins une fois, dans une
très mauvaise passe. Alors, trois ou quatre Anglais avaient réuni
vingt mille livres — cinq cent mille francs — et avaient donné
simplement cet argent à Irving, comme un hommage reconnaissant
à une de leurs gloires nationales.
J’admire assez, pour ma part, ce nationalisme-là.
 CHAPITRE X
UNE ENQUÊTE

L’autre saison, quand s’est posée cette question palpitante : « Un

critique a-t-il le droit de publier son compte rendu avant la
première ? » j’ai frémi d’espoir à l’idée qu’on allait parler encore des
« répétitions générales ». Je n’ai pas oublié la séance héroïque,
historique, où cent cinquante dramaturges réunis à la salle Charras,
décrétèrent d’une presque commune voix la suppression des
répétitions générales, qui furent rétablies sournoisement six mois
plus tard.
Je pensais donc, à cette époque, qu’on allait rallumer ce vieux
débat… Mais ça n’a été qu’une courte flambée. On s’est occupé
d’autre chose, et une enquête, que j’avais faite auprès de quelques
confrères, m’est restée pour compte.
Pourquoi, au fait, me resterait-elle pour compte ? Pourquoi ne la
publierais-je pas maintenant ?
Seulement, je ne puis plus révéler les noms des interviewés ; ce
ne serait pas honnête. Je n’ai que leur opinion de l’autre saison ; je
n’ai pas celle d’aujourd’hui.

Le premier de ceux que j’allai voir était un auteur plein de talent,

mais qui est atteint d’un défaut très grave chez un dramaturge : il est
intelligent…
Au lieu de se servir de son intelligence comme d’un humble et
prudent petit cornac, pour guider à peine son instinct, il s’est avisé
de donner à cette intelligence prétentieuse la place suprême dans
son atelier intime de fabrication de pièces. Il a agi comme un
directeur d’usine qui flanquerait à la porte tous ses ingénieurs-
inventeurs, et dirait à son honnête contremaître : « Dirigez et
inventez… »
Cet auteur, quand il lui arrive d’avoir un four, se console au bout
de quarante-huit heures, aussitôt qu’il en a trouvé la raison. Alors, il
s’énonce une loi ; par exemple : « Ne pas faire intervenir de
nouveaux personnages au dernier acte » ou « ne pas parler de
politique ni d’argent ». Il s’applique, dans sa pièce suivante à
respecter cette loi, et, si cette pièce ne marche pas, il en tire,
infatigable, une bonne leçon et une loi nouvelle.
Le dernier ouvrage qu’il avait fait représenter avait eu, la saison
dernière, un sort assez fâcheux, devant le public de la répétition…
« Ne me parlez pas de ce public-là, me dit-il… Ce sont des gens
féroces… Le jour de ma générale, il était entendu d’avance que ça
n’aurait pas de succès. En arrivant, ils avaient leur siège fait… Avant
le lever du rideau, mon cher, ils disaient qu’il n’y avait pas d’action
dans ma pièce… On m’a signalé, à l’orchestre, un petit monsieur, un
blond, paraît-il — je n’ai pas encore pu savoir qui c’était — croyez-
vous qu’il empêchait sa femme de rire ? Elle essayait, la
malheureuse… Il lui faisait : « Chut ! Veux-tu te taire ? C’est idiot ! »
Alors, elle n’osait plus s’amuser…
… C’est tout de même malheureux, ajouta-t-il, que nous soyons
obligés de passer devant ce jury-là, avant d’arriver au grand public,
au vrai…
(Ici, sa voix s’attendrit.)
… Au public bon enfant, qui vient au théâtre pour s’amuser, et
non pas pour « juger »… Ah ! ces gens des générales à qui on
demande une opinion sur la pièce, et qui la cherchent pendant toute
la représentation, au lieu de s’abandonner à leur plaisir…
 … Et ils sont plus gobeurs que les autres… Les avez-vous vus, à
la pièce de T…? Cette pièce, je n’en parle pas, je ne voudrais pas
en dire de mal. T… est un bon garçon que j’aime énormément. Il se
figure avoir beaucoup de talent… Ne le détrompons jamais. Qu’il
meure avec cette idée !… Il met dans ses pièces des « beautés » !
Des beautés pour poires, bien entendu. Les bons snobs de la
générale font des oh ! et des ah !… Et quand on arrive au grand
public, au vrai, on se trouve en présence de braves gens qui ne
comprennent plus — tout simplement parce qu’il n’y a rien à
comprendre… A la pièce de T…, dès la troisième, la salle était froide
à attraper des pneumonies. On toussait, d’ailleurs, tout le temps…
Aucune espèce d’effet, bien entendu… Après leur générale
délirante, il semblait qu’ils allaient jouer ça cinq cents fois, mille fois,
toute la vie… Ils ont fait quarante représentations passables… Ils
sont parvenus à la centième en tirant sur la ficelle, en truquant le
chiffre des représentations. J’ai vérifié : le samedi de Pâques, ils
affichaient la soixante-dixième ; le mardi de Pâques, après deux
matinées, ils arrivaient à la quatre-vingt-deuxième. La pièce se serait
jouée douze fois en trois jours. C’est un record… Ils sont donc
arrivés péniblement à une centième ; c’est ce qu’on peut appeler une
centième en caoutchouc… Ils ont recraché, dans les dernières, le
peu d’argent qu’ils avaient encaissé au début.

Il était intéressant, comme vous pensez, d’aller voir T… lui-

même, et de lui demander son avis sur les répétitions générales…
— Être joué devant ce public-là, me dit-il, ce sont de pures
émotions d’artiste qu’on a de la peine à retrouver plus tard. Certes,
jusqu’à la dernière de ma pièce — nous avons fait cent cinquante
représentations — je n’ai vu que des salles enthousiastes… mais ce
n’était plus cette impression délicieuse de la générale, devant ce
public de choix, unique au monde, unique dans l’histoire, qui saisit
les moindres intentions, s’arrête aux nuances les plus finement
indiquées. Il suffit de les regarder. Quel pétillement dans leurs yeux !
quel esprit dans leur sourire ! On ne voit pas, parmi eux, de ces
visages bouffis, hagards, hébétés que l’on aperçoit dans les salles
de « payants » !
(J’ai souvent entendu médire du « payant » par les gens de
théâtre. On lui reproche souvent de ne pas être assez intelligent, pas
assez démonstratif et pas assez nombreux.)
… Enfin, conclut T…, mon avis formel est que si l’on supprimait
le public des générales, cette élite, ce tribunal de haut goût, ce serait
la mort de notre beau théâtre national… »

En rentrant chez moi, après avoir enregistré fidèlement ces

opinions, également judicieuses, je terminai mon enquête par cette
phrase fortement pensée : « La question de la suppression des
générales n’a pas fait un pas. Elle nous paraît insoluble… »
Il n’y a, d’ailleurs, que ces questions-là qui soient intéressantes.
Foin des questions solubles ! C’est la mort des interviewers.
 CHAPITRE XI
SOCIABILITÉ

Il était à la fois aveugle et paralytique, et ne trouva aucun

avantage à la combinaison de ces deux infirmités.
Il était devenu aveugle parce qu’il s’était approché beaucoup trop
près d’un fourneau incandescent, et parce qu’il avait oublié à ce
moment-là, de penser, comme Michel Strogoff, à sa mère.
Il était devenu paralytique, il ne savait pourquoi, peut-être pour
faire comme son père, son grand-père et son arrière-grand-père.
Quoi qu’il en fût, son sort ne semblait guère enviable. Et pourtant
c’était un des hommes les plus heureux, les plus joyeux que j’aie
connus.
Il était doué d’une belle humeur invincible, inexpugnable. Et puis
il était fier. C’était, comme disent les gens de boxe, un « cherreur ».
Le Destin voulait l’avoir. Le Destin ne l’aurait pas.
Il se trouvait privé de tous les agréments, de toutes les joies, que
donnent l’usage de la vue et le mouvement. Il lui restait d’autres
plaisirs, d’autres façons de jouir de l’existence. Et il prétendit qu’en
se spécialisant dans un plus étroit domaine, il était plus heureux que
ceux qui se dispersent, et qui passent leur temps à se demander
auquel de leurs penchants il faut obéir.
 J’ai l’air de parler de lui avec une indifférence un peu féroce.
Mais ce ton détaché, c’est lui qui l’avait pour ainsi dire inspiré à son
petit cercle très intime. Il ne voulait pas être plaint. Il détestait la
commisération, et même la sollicitude. Il aimait qu’on lui parlât sans
ménagements, et presque avec rosserie. Les gens qui n’étaient pas
prévenus, et qui arrivaient pour la première fois chez lui, étaient
suffoqués et indignés de la façon dont le traitaient ses frères, ses
sœurs, ses neveux.
On lui disait :
— Il fait un soleil magnifique. Je connais un sale fourneau qui
n’en profite pas.
Il répondait :
— Ce fourneau-là se fiche de toi. Il va se faire pousser jusqu’à la
fenêtre et jouira bien mieux que toi de ce soleil. Tu ne sais pas ce
que c’est que de sentir la douceur du soleil sur les mains et sur le
visage.
Ses neveux s’écriaient :
— On va faire une balade en vélo épatante. C’est bon de rouler
en vélo sur les routes. C’est un plaisir qui n’est pas à la portée de
tout le monde…
— Ça ne vaut pas, disait-il, celui de se faire pousser sur un
fauteuil à roulettes dans les allées du jardin. Vous n’êtes pas
sensibles comme moi à l’air léger qui me caresse au passage. Allez-
vous-en, courez, démenez-vous au hasard, Béotiens de la vie. Allez
frôler mille joies pour n’en connaître aucune. Et faites-moi apporter
le téléphone.
C’était un de ses passe-temps favoris. Il s’installait sur une
chaise à tablette. Son bras gauche se mouvait suffisamment pour
saisir l’appareil et appliquer à son oreille un des récepteurs. Quand
le petit bonhomme qui le gardait se trouvait là, il lui faisait chercher
des numéros dans l’annuaire, des numéros de personnages
célèbres avec qui il s’entretenait. Il proposait aux gens de lettres
d’admirables affaires de traductions, à des acteurs en vue de
magnifiques engagements à l’étranger. Il fixait des auditions qu’il
discutait âprement, remettait sa réponse au lendemain, puis
demandait un nouveau délai. Il intriguait aussi des femmes du
monde. Il affirmait les connaître, et leur adressait des déclarations
passionnées.
C’était aussi sa joie de faire des commandes importantes chez
les fournisseurs. Mais il dédaignait la plaisanterie banale, vraiment
trop exploitée, qui consistait à faire livrer à un de ses amis des
pièces de vins, des plantes exotiques, des bains sulfureux ou des
cercueils. Il ne donnait jamais la commande ferme. Mais il s’amusait
à faire naître des espérances dans l’âme d’un commerçant avide. Et
plus cette joie était injustifiée, plus il en ressentait un plaisir pervers.
C’est ainsi qu’il eut de nombreuses conférences avec un opticien
pour se commander une combinaison de lunettes d’une fabrication
tout à fait anormale et d’un prix très élevé. Tous les fabricants de
bicyclettes furent mis à contribution. Mais il ne s’en tenait pas à ces
commandes paradoxales. Il n’avait au fond qu’un goût très médiocre
pour ces fumisteries. Il se plaisait simplement à causer avec les
gens et à les faire causer. Il communiquait à des fabricants
d’automobiles et à des carrossiers tous ses projets de la belle
saison. Sous prétexte de demander conseil pour le choix des
pneumatiques, il racontait, il évoquait tous les pays qu’il allait
traverser.
Pour quatre cents francs par an, il forçait l’intimité de tous les
Parisiens. Il envoyait son petit domestique dans les grands hôtels
pour connaître les noms des arrivants, et aussitôt qu’il pouvait, il se
mettait en communication avec les plus fameux d’entre eux. Il apprit
pour cela cinq ou six langues européennes. Il donnait d’ailleurs sur
sa personne des détails toujours fantaisistes et qui variaient
constamment selon les auditeurs.
Il finit par parler aux gens uniquement pour le plaisir de vivre leur
vie avec « un cœur multiplié ». Il était arrivé à être un causeur
captivant, pour s’être spécialisé dans ce rôle, si bien que des
quantités de personnes, qu’il n’avait jamais vues, lui parlaient
comme à un véritable ami. On l’invitait à des mariages, et il
téléphonait, désolé, en improvisant toutes les raisons qui
l’empêchaient de s’y rendre. On n’hésitait pas à le prendre comme
confident, quand on avait l’impression qu’il n’y avait personne d’autre
sur la ligne.
Une belle semaine, il s’affaiblit et il sentit qu’il ne serait pas long à
quitter ce monde. Il fit préparer les lettres de faire-part pour un grand
nombre de personnes, qui vinrent presque toutes à son enterrement.
— Tiens, disait un monsieur à une dame, vous le connaissiez ?
— Si je le connaissais !
Et tous deux, parlant de lui, donnaient de sa personne des détails
qui ne concordaient pas. Il avait parlé au monsieur de son obésité, et
il s’était dépeint à la dame comme un jeune garçon très svelte. Mais,
entre personnes bien élevées, on finit toujours par se mettre
d’accord, on se fait des concessions mutuelles, on concilie des
détails contradictoires. On le pleura à l’unisson, on l’accompagna à
sa demeure dernière et, de retour chez eux, deux mille abonnés au
téléphone regardèrent avec tristesse leur appareil, où ne vibrerait
plus jamais la voix du cher disparu.
 CHAPITRE XII
ENSEIGNES ET TITRES

Les Parisiens et autres gens des villes qui, à la belle saison,

errent sur les côtes flamandes, normandes, bretonnes, vendéennes
ou du Midi, en quête de villas à louer ; les groupes errants que l’on
voit s’arrêter devant les grilles, les chercheurs d’édens au mois et
d’oasis à la saison, tous ces affamés de bonheur agreste ont eu
l’occasion de faire de douloureuses expériences sur l’exagération
mensongère des indicateurs et des écriteaux.
Ils savent que, dans l’annonce d’une superbe maison ou d’un joli
cottage, il ne faut pas s’abuser sur le sens des mots « joli » et
« superbe ». Mainte « villa des Hortensias » n’a tout juste, dans un
coin de poudreuse verdure, que deux ou trois fleurs justificatrices de
son titre. Mais « le cœur des citadins » est toujours prêt à s’exalter
pour des noms de fleurs, comme à des musiques guerrières. Et il
suffit de consulter, au passage, les plaques des petites résidences
d’été pour se rendre compte du besoin de poésie qui orne l’âme des
gens, et l’ornera toujours.
Ce qu’il y a d’admirable, c’est que les propriétaires des nombreux
« Mon Rêve » qui bordent les routes des stations balnéaires, c’est
que les parrains de ces sèches petites bâtisses n’ont pas voulu
simplement en faire accroire aux locataires possibles, et que cette
villa sans ombre, entourée d’une petite cour d’arbustes, répond
parfaitement à leur propre idéal. Et c’est avec une pleine bonne foi
qu’en rédigeant leur annonce, ils n’ont pas craint d’écrire : Élégant et
charmant cottage.

Un matin, en rentrant chez moi, au petit jour, je goûtais avec

délices l’air frais du matin… Il n’y a que les gens, je l’ai souvent
remarqué, qui se couchent tard, qui puissent apprécier les charmes
de l’aurore. Ceux qui se lèvent tôt sont encore endormis et bouffis.
Ils n’ont pas l’esprit dégagé et cette perspective agréable d’aller se
coucher. Et puis, ils ne lisent pas les enseignes.
On ne lit bien les enseignes que lorsque les boutiques sont
fermées. Quand le magasin dort, ainsi que toute la maison, quand la
rue est déserte et silencieuse, les vieilles enseignes chevrotent un
peu plus haut ce qu’elles ont à dire. Je n’avais jamais remarqué que
ce marchand de vins, devant lequel je passe tous les jours,
s’intitulait : « Au bouquet de lilas ».
Je pense qu’il y a quarante ans, quand ce titre a été choisi, il a
été discuté par toute la famille, puis que l’on a fait venir un peintre, à
qui l’on a dit : « Vous allez me peindre une enseigne, avec ces
mots : Au bouquet de lilas. »
Quand cette enseigne a été placée, on est venu la regarder. Des
voisins se sont approchés et ont donné leur avis, généralement
favorable.
Et le patron, encaissant leur suffrage, a dit à sa famille : « Untel
est venu voir l’enseigne. Il la trouve très bien. »
Comœdia citait, l’autre jour, des enseignes très plaisantes. J’en
ai rencontré souvent d’inexplicables.
Par quelle outrecuidance étonnante cette petite laiterie de deux
mètres de façade, s’intitule-t-elle : Laiterie continentale ?
A Ostende, il y avait, jadis, un superbe magasin de chaussures
qui doit exister encore. On y voyait, à la devanture, des chaussures
d’un luxe inouï, en cuir de Russie vert, avec des ornements d’or et
des boucles en vrais brillants. L’enseigne portait ces mots : Au
Pauvre Diable.

Rien n’est si difficile que la recherche d’un titre. J’ai fait bien
souvent des pièces dont le titre n’est venu qu’après. Les meilleurs
titres que j’ai trouvés, c’est pour les pièces qui n’ont jamais été
faites.
Mon bagage dramatique, déjà considérable, s’accrut de trois
pièces jamais écrites : Le Second dans Rome, Les Deux Cloches,
Les Vertus à la mode… On les a annoncées plusieurs fois. Et c’est
de celles-là que je parle, quand on me demande ce que j’ai sur le
chantier.
Un auteur devrait toujours choisir un titre à sa pièce avant de la
porter au directeur. Il s’éviterait ainsi de pénibles recherches, au
moment où le directeur lui dit : « Eh bien, nous passons dans huit
jours, et il me faut votre titre pour combiner une affiche. »
On est agité, mal disposé. L’approche de la première vous a
enlevé toute confiance. Les interprètes répètent sans conviction. A
quoi bon chercher un titre pour cette pièce mort-née ?… On cherche
tout de même. On trouve quelque chose qui vous emballe. Un
parent partial vous déclare que c’est merveilleux… On apporte le
titre au directeur.
— Et c’est pour ça que vous avez réfléchi toute la nuit ?
Le directeur appelle un de ses pensionnaires.
— Nous avons un titre pour la pièce. Vous allez me dire ce que
vous en pensez.
Et il prononce le titre d’une voix molle.
L’artiste regarde l’auteur, puis le directeur… Puis il fait la moue.
On cherche autre chose que l’on soumet à un autre artiste, qui a
la spécialité de ne se tromper jamais sur les titres. Or il déclare que
les titres que vous lui proposez sont des titres de fours.
 Cet artiste a un sens mystérieux de ce qui doit réussir. Il raconte
lui-même à ce sujet des histoires édifiantes. A Deauville, il prend un
nom de cheval sur le programme, et, sans s’y connaître, trouve le
gagnant. C’est incompréhensible, mais c’est comme ça.
On découvre le lendemain un autre titre. Pas mauvais, dit le
directeur, mais trop long pour l’affiche. Vous auriez des lettres
grêles, qui ne se verraient pas.
« Après vous, s’il en reste », est un titre de revue. « Le mécano et
la danseuse »… ça n’est jamais qu’une pièce en un acte.
— Le titre ne signifie rien, dit le théoricien de la maison. Le public
ne sait pas le titre des pièces. Il va voir la pièce de la Renaissance
ou la pièce des Variétés.
— Pourtant, si le titre est plaisant, engageant ?
— Un bon titre n’a jamais sauvé une mauvaise pièce.
C’est entendu. Mais un bon titre ne fait pas de mal à une bonne
pièce. Et, comme ce jour-là on est persuadé qu’on fait une pièce
admirable, on rentre chez soi, on réfléchit, mais on réfléchit
sérieusement ; le cerveau travaille, et ne fait pas du sur place. Et l’on
finit par trouver un titre qui plaît à tout le théâtre… On envoie
immédiatement la note aux journaux. La pièce est annoncée le
lendemain avec son nom, son étiquette éternelle que répéteront nos
petits-neveux… Le surlendemain paraissent des lettres de
revendication : d’un romancier dont le roman a été imprimé en
feuilletons il y a douze ans ; d’un auteur dramatique qui a remis un
manuscrit au directeur d’un théâtre suburbain.
— Excellent, dit le directeur. Gardez votre titre. Ne le changez
qu’à la dernière extrémité. Attisez la polémique…
Le conseil est bon. Je prends désormais, par principe, sauf à le
changer après, le titre de pièces déjà existantes, avec l’espérance,
jamais déçue, que les intéressés le revendiqueront.
 CHAPITRE XIII
L’AUTEUR

Si, pendant les répétitions de sa pièce, l’auteur n’était pas

préoccupé du résultat final, s’il ne se demandait pas constamment :
« Ça va-t-il marcher ? » en passant alternativement par le pronostic
adorable du succès triomphal et l’affreux pressentiment de la tape
noire, si, au lieu de se dire : « Oh ! que cette scène est longue et
ennuyeuse ! » ou bien : « Les personnages n’ont aucun intérêt », il
pensait, en somme, à sa pièce avec plus d’insouciance, s’il ne
croyait pas, comme il le croit, que Paris et le monde entier attendent
avec angoisse l’événement qui se prépare, s’il avait le courage, la
lâcheté, la sagesse de laisser aller les choses comme elles vont, ah !
comme il s’amuserait à l’avant-scène ! Mais il n’a pas le cœur à
s’amuser.
Il n’y a pas au monde un autocrate plus absolu, un dictateur plus
inflexible que ce personnage souverain qui s’appelle le metteur en
scène. Il est jaloux de son autorité à un point que l’on ne saurait dire.
Quelquefois, des artistes de grand renom se permettent de n’être
pas tout à fait de son avis. Comme ce sont des personnages à
ménager, il veut bien entrer en discussion avec eux. Mais que cet
être misérable, minable, infime, au-dessous de rien, qui s’appelle
l’auteur de la pièce, esquisse une timide intervention, ou bien le
metteur en scène (s’il est bon enfant) enverra dinguer l’importun, ou
bien il affectera un ton plein de condescendance ironique, et dira à
l’acteur :
— Écoutez les indications de Monsieur. Monsieur est l’auteur de
la pièce. Il a le droit de faire jouer sa pièce comme bon lui semble.
Parlez donc, cher ami. Je ne vois pas la chose comme vous.
Montrez ce que vous désirez…
Alors, au milieu d’un silence de mort, l’auteur, blême de timidité,
avec des gestes courts, hésitants, avec des paroles vacillantes et
troublées, fait un essai d’indication, sous les regards apitoyés du
metteur en scène et de tous les interprètes.
D’ailleurs, s’il s’enhardit, s’il surmonte sa gêne, s’il indique à tous
ces gens hostiles quelque chose que l’on puisse imiter, le metteur en
scène a bientôt fait de quitter l’avant-scène, de se désintéresser de
toute la suite de cette aventure. Sous prétexte d’un ordre à donner, il
disparaîtra brusquement ; ou bien sans quitter le plateau, il ira
s’entretenir à voix basse avec un des artistes qui attendent leur tour
de répéter. L’important pour lui, capitaine du bord, est de ne pas
accorder, par sa présence, même silencieuse, l’apparence d’une
approbation aux funestes conseils que ce passager sans mandat a
l’audace de donner à l’équipage.
Quelquefois, le metteur en scène ne reviendra pas de tout
l’après-midi. Et peut-être, le lendemain, quand l’auteur, tremblant
d’être en retard, arrivera à l’heure juste sur la scène, il verra la chaire
directoriale inoccupée. Le régisseur dirigera, ce jour-là, la répétition.
Peut-être même le régisseur s’abstiendra-t-il par ordre et n’y aura-t-
il, à l’avant-scène, que le souffleur (jeune homme distrait ou vieillard
à bout de souffle). Les artistes ressembleront à de pâles
naufragés… Ils s’en iront, au hasard, à droite et à gauche, sans
guide et sans direction… Un texte incolore coulera mollement de
leurs lèvres désenchantées…
Il ne restera plus à l’auteur qu’à se déchausser, à passer autour
de son col un fil emprunté à un des machinistes, et à courir effectuer
sa soumission aux pieds du metteur en scène. Celui-ci sera bon
prince, d’ailleurs, si l’auteur est très repentant. Il reviendra à son
poste, fera signe à l’auteur de s’asseoir à côté de lui, et
recommencera son travail avec la hâte fébrile d’un monsieur qui doit
rattraper le temps perdu. « Je ne peux pas attendre davantage. On
mange de l’argent tous les soirs. Il faut que nous passions jeudi en
huit. » L’auteur sait que ce n’est pas vrai, qu’on passera huit jours
plus tard, mais il se trouve mal tout de même.
Vous pensez bien qu’à partir de cet instant il se tiendra toujours
coi. Il se décide à tout tolérer… Que l’on pousse au comique des
scènes sentimentales, qu’on fasse disparaître tous ses « mots »
dans un « mouvement vertigineux », c’est bien, c’est parfait, le
metteur en scène sait son métier, il a toujours raison. Et quand,
magnanime, le Maître l’interpelle brusquement pour lui demander :
« C’est bien votre avis, Untel ? », il sait qu’il faut répondre, « Oui, oui,
absolument ! » sans la moindre hésitation, sans la plus petite
réticence…

Au fond, toutes les qualités du metteur en scène se résument en

une seule : l’infaillibilité ! Il peut indiquer des choses absurdes, il est
admis qu’il ne se trompe jamais, et si, un jour, il pense qu’il se
trompe, il faut qu’il donne à l’interprète l’indication contraire avec la
même autorité. « Mais, Monsieur, vous m’avez dit de faire ça ? »
— C’est possible. Mais, d’après la suite du texte, je vois qu’il faut
jouer ça autrement.
… C’est toujours la faute du texte. L’auteur fait semblant de ne
pas écouter et de penser à autre chose.
Il est bizarre que ces mots : « auteur » et « autorité » paraissent
avoir la même racine. Personne, dans un théâtre, n’a moins
d’importance que l’auteur de la pièce… Il semble toujours qu’on l’ait
fait venir là, parce qu’il fallait un auteur, comme il faut un pompier de
service, ou un sergent de ville à la location. Les artistes s’adressent
quelquefois à lui pour avoir un mot de sortie, parce que leur scène
finit mal. Une petite soubrette lui demande de la faire revenir au
troisième acte, ou un acteur de second plan, qui voudrait être libre
de bonne heure, désire, au contraire, qu’on lui coupe ses deux mots
du « trois », afin de ne pas être obligé d’attendre la fin. Mais les
grosses légumes de la maison, directeur et artistes en vedette, ne
tolèrent l’auteur parmi eux que s’il se montre soumis, doux et plein
de réserve. Quand la pièce a du succès, on le félicite de sa chance.
Mais on ne pense pas qu’il ait rien fait pour ça…

Un jour — tout arrive — un vaudeville d’un auteur que je connais,

remporta, à la répétition générale, un succès marqué. Or, on n’y
avait pas cru dans la maison. A la lecture aux artistes, le « un » avait
beaucoup porté ; les « mots » avaient fait rire. Le « deux », tout en
situation, avait semblé très morne, surtout au directeur…
Le premier acte, à la générale, porta gentiment, sans excès. Mais
le second acte fut un long éclat de rire. La pièce eut un très beau
départ, fit le maximum tous les soirs, et pas mal de location
d’avance.
A une des premières représentations, le directeur et l’auteur se
trouvaient sur la scène derrière un portant. C’était pendant le
deuxième acte, et l’on entendait d’énormes vagues de rire se
soulever dans la salle…
— Voilà, dit agressivement le directeur à l’auteur, voilà où le
public s’amuse !…
Et il ajouta avec mépris :
— Ce n’est pas à vos « mots » du premier acte.
Et l’auteur, très confus, dut penser que si le second acte amusait
autant les gens, c’était sans que lui l’eût prévu ; et il se dit
humblement que son succès s’était produit en dehors de ses
intentions, comme un cataclysme…
 CHAPITRE XIV
LES PRÉPARATIONS INVOLONTAIRES

Le premier acte de la comédie de mon ami Gédéon, joué dans

un mouvement excellent par une troupe remarquable, venait de se
terminer, et le rideau, en s’abaissant, avait déchaîné un ouragan
d’enthousiasme. Quatre fois, la toile peinte était remontée et
redescendue, et, dans la salle, ils n’en avaient pas encore assez. Ils
criaient comme des fous. Trois ou quatre auteurs dramatiques,
impuissants à calmer la tempête, avaient pris le parti d’acclamer
comme tout le monde… On se précipita dans les coulisses. C’était
une bousculade pour arriver à l’auteur, que l’on attrapait par les bras,
et que l’on se repassait de mains en mains, comme un seau
d’incendie. Le directeur souriait avec bonté… Il avait répété pendant
quinze jours que le premier acte ne valait rien. Maintenant, il avait
noblement oublié ce mauvais jugement. Il avait pris conscience de
ses hautes fonctions ; il savait qu’en cas de succès, le directeur doit
être le seul responsable…
L’encombrement des couloirs, quelques visites à faire dans les
loges, un bock à prendre hâtivement, les mille (et une) obligations de
l’entr’acte m’avaient contraint à remettre à plus tard ma visite à
l’auteur. Quand je parvins sur le plateau, la foule, autour de lui, était
moins dense. J’avais rencontré des gens émus, éreintés
d’admiration… — Croyez-vous que c’est bien ? — Il n’a jamais rien
fait de mieux !
Des gens mal embouchés prononçaient le gros mot de « chef-
d’œuvre ».
Chacun adoptait l’auteur, l’accaparait… Il appartenait aux jeunes
gens par la hardiesse de son dialogue, et aux vieux par son âge
avancé… J’arrivai enfin jusqu’à lui, au moment où il gagnait la porte
de fer qui mène au couloir des loges.
— Viens avec moi, me dit-il… Il fait doux dehors. Tu n’as pas
besoin de pardessus.
— Mais… c’est que… je voudrais bien voir ton deuxième acte…
— Ne te dérange pas, dit-il. Maintenant, c’est fini… Ça n’a plus
aucun intérêt. La pièce est cuite.
Je pensai d’abord qu’il voulait rire. Mais je vis dans ses yeux une
sincérité effrayante.
— Prenons un taxi-auto et allons très loin d’ici, dans un petit café
que je connais. Nous ferons une partie d’échecs, et je m’efforcerai
de ne plus songer, du moins pour le moment, à cette aventure.
« Je n’aime pas penser aux choses désagréables… à l’instant où
elles me seraient trop désagréables. J’attendrai, pour y réfléchir et
pour en tirer une leçon, les jours où je serai plus calme, moins
énervé par l’événement récent et le travail forcené de la dernière
semaine. »

Le taxi-auto s’était mis en marche.

— Quand j’ai vu que le public s’amusait tant au « un », continua
Gédéon, quand j’ai vu qu’ils saluaient avec tant de joie cet acte que
je jugeais indigent et mauvais, je me suis dit : « Ton affaire est claire.
Tu marches tout droit vers la gueule sinistre d’un four ! »
Il sourit, un peu consolé déjà par le sentiment de sa clairvoyance.
— J’ai vu, continua-t-il, bien des pièces obtenir, au premier acte,
un succès retentissant. Ce n’est pas difficile de satisfaire le public