REAPER (Boston Underworld Book 2) Read Free

myself.
    My pupils are dilated, and when they sweep over him tonight, he’s distorted. Even in a blurred state, he’s faultless. You’ll never find him in anything other than a suit. His skin is sometimes shadowed, but only one day’s worth of stubble at most. His hair is shaved at the sides and worn longer on the top. He’s clean cut, well-manicured and polished, and the complete opposite of the flaws that stitch me together.
    Beneath his black-framed glasses, child-like brown eyes appraise me. They are fringed with thick dark lashes which he often tries to hide behind. Because he knows those eyes betray him. Those eyes fracture his cold veneer with an underlying innocence. There are times, like right now, when he can be downright benevolent. They skim over my body in a speedy appraisal and then darken. It’s never hunger I find there, but madness.
    Oh, I love that madness. Because madness is better than nothingness. Madness means he isn’t completely immune to feelings. Madness means it isn’t apathy he feels when he has to look upon me.
    Fucking asshole.
    “Hi, Ronan.” My voice is laced with sweet venom, and I hope he hears it. “So nice to see you too. Yeah, my mom’s doing great, thanks for asking. Dying, but you know, that’s life. Oh and Em’s great too, in case you’re wondering.”
    He blinks at me, and for a second I almost think I’m hallucinating. Because I could have sworn a frisson of guilt flashed through those brown irises. But it quickly turns cold under his stare, and I feel the sudden urge to hug myself.
    I don’t know why I’m being such a bitch to him. But he’s irritated with me and I want to irritate him too. These pills make me act crazy, but it’s either that or collapse from exhaustion. I want to pick a fight with someone, and right now that someone happens to be him. He doesn’t respond though. He never responds.
    He adjusts his collar and glances towards the door, mentally seeking an escape. In his eyes, he counts the steps to the door. He always does that. He doesn’t think I notice. But I do. The numbers are there in my head, and I’m counting right along with him.
    I make him uncomfortable. It isn’t hard to guess why. I’m sure he often contemplates ridding the one loose end that could unravel him. I have no doubts whatsoever he regrets the thing that happened two years ago. To hammer that thought home, he dismisses me by dragging his phone from his pocket.
    One of the clients snaps his fingers, and it breaks me from my reverie. The moment I leave the table, Ronan is up and out of the door.
     
    ***
     
    When I stumble into the run-down apartment in Dorchester that I call home, I can barely keep my eyes open.
    The place isn’t much to look at. It’s the same apartment I’ve spent my whole life in, with a mother who worked hard to keep the water-stained roof over our heads. There are two bedrooms, a parlor, a kitchen, and the most basic of furniture.
    We never had nice things. After my father died, Ma spent her money keeping me and Emily fed and clothed and healthy, and that was pretty much the extent of it. But the place was always neat and tidy, and it always felt like home.
    Now there is dust collecting on the furniture, and a musty smell that I can’t seem to rid no matter how much I air the place out. My clothes from work are scattered around the apartment, along with the various pill bottles and medical equipment mom needs.
    Emily’s in California, on a scholarship to UCSD, so most of her stuff is gone. Without all of her pink girly things around, everything is washed out in gray. It’s the same place I’ve always lived. But looking at it now, it doesn’t feel like home anymore.
    I plod into the kitchen and find Amy sitting at the table, flipping through a magazine.
    When Ma got too sick, I had to hire a home nurse for when I couldn’t be here. Amy was the woman for the job. She’s sweet and kind and very good at what she does, and she makes Ma as