Read Online McQUEEN: Las Vegas Bad Boys by Frankie Love - Free Book Online
Authors: Frankie Love
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car, okay?” I open the passenger door and help her inside. Taking the keys from her shaking hand, I get in the other side. Turning on the car, I take her hand in mine, squeeze it tightly. “It’s going to be okay.”
“You don’t know my family.” She looks straight ahead, out the window, numb. Not at all like the fierce fighter in the ring this morning.
Right now she looks beat up, with a bruised heart, a battered mind. Putting the car in drive, I’m determined to find out why.
* * *
JoJo
I didn’t notice that he started driving, let alone that he pulled up to a house. All I remember is seeing the photo, freaking out, and then him telling me he was going to take care of me.
I blink, hearing McQueen’s voice tell me we’re here, at his place.
I pull my gym bag out of the car with me. Stepping into the cool air of the garage, I quickly see McQueen’s place is a lot different than the mansion I live in.
“Wait here,” he tells me. “I’m gonna check the house first.”
I wait a few minutes, and when he returns, giving me the all-clear, I follow him inside.
Walking into the house, I step over a pile of tennis shoes in the doorway, and McQueen slips his off into the heap. I keep mine on, suddenly feeling incredibly vulnerable in a way I wasn’t out on the street.
My chest tightens; fear lodges in my throat.
“What if someone is following us right now? On their way here?” I ask, pulling myself closer to him.
“It’s okay. Let me make a call.” He pulls out his phone and slides away the lock screen. He walks into a kitchen and flicks on a light.
“Who are you calling?” My eyes adjust to the lighting. McQueen’s place is unremarkable. It looks as generic as a model home. I don’t know why I’m noticing the details, except that maybe it’s easier to focus on McQueen’s suburban house than the reality of my life.
A leather couch sits in the great room, flanked by end tables holding lamps. Everything look like it could have been purchased at Costco. There are two stools at the granite bar in the open kitchen, but there’s no dining room table, nothing hanging on the walls. Nothing making this place his.
“I’m calling the fucking cops.”
“No,” I say, lunging for the phone.” My family may be crazy in a lot of ways, but I would never give the police a lead on them. “Are you nuts? You can’t call the cops.”
“Why the hell not? Someone is fucking with us, and we need to know who, and why.” He holds back his phone, studying me. “Unless you know something about all this. JoJo, you can talk to me.”
“No, I can’t. Trust me McQueen, it’s complicated.” I exhale sharply, knowing that coming here was a bad idea. “But you cannot involve the cops. That’s like, Rule 101 when it comes to the O’Malleys.”
I should have called my brothers before coming to this house. Peter, Paul, and John need to know about whatever danger I’m in. They have more force—and can offer me more safety—than any cop. My brothers may think I’m a stupid woman, but they’ll take my virginity less personally than my father will.
Except maybe not. They threatened to knock out the one guy I ever brought home. If they get wind of what McQueen and I did this afternoon, they might castrate him.
Or worse.
I swallow, shaking my head at my own ideas. I can’t call my brothers. I’d be leaking my own story. Best case scenario, the photographer was some creeper at the gym who got off by freaking us out.
Worst case, it has something to do with my father, with my impending marriage to Grotto…. I don’t know. Someone wants me to look bad, wants to freak me out.
And I don’t know which it is. But if I start explaining things to McQueen, he’ll know too much. And that will put him in a zone that looks nothing like a no-strings-attached scenario. If I tell McQueen, suddenly he’ll be caught up in my life in a way that will hurt him.
In a way that will possibly destroy him.
I can’t make
“You don’t know my family.” She looks straight ahead, out the window, numb. Not at all like the fierce fighter in the ring this morning.
Right now she looks beat up, with a bruised heart, a battered mind. Putting the car in drive, I’m determined to find out why.
* * *
JoJo
I didn’t notice that he started driving, let alone that he pulled up to a house. All I remember is seeing the photo, freaking out, and then him telling me he was going to take care of me.
I blink, hearing McQueen’s voice tell me we’re here, at his place.
I pull my gym bag out of the car with me. Stepping into the cool air of the garage, I quickly see McQueen’s place is a lot different than the mansion I live in.
“Wait here,” he tells me. “I’m gonna check the house first.”
I wait a few minutes, and when he returns, giving me the all-clear, I follow him inside.
Walking into the house, I step over a pile of tennis shoes in the doorway, and McQueen slips his off into the heap. I keep mine on, suddenly feeling incredibly vulnerable in a way I wasn’t out on the street.
My chest tightens; fear lodges in my throat.
“What if someone is following us right now? On their way here?” I ask, pulling myself closer to him.
“It’s okay. Let me make a call.” He pulls out his phone and slides away the lock screen. He walks into a kitchen and flicks on a light.
“Who are you calling?” My eyes adjust to the lighting. McQueen’s place is unremarkable. It looks as generic as a model home. I don’t know why I’m noticing the details, except that maybe it’s easier to focus on McQueen’s suburban house than the reality of my life.
A leather couch sits in the great room, flanked by end tables holding lamps. Everything look like it could have been purchased at Costco. There are two stools at the granite bar in the open kitchen, but there’s no dining room table, nothing hanging on the walls. Nothing making this place his.
“I’m calling the fucking cops.”
“No,” I say, lunging for the phone.” My family may be crazy in a lot of ways, but I would never give the police a lead on them. “Are you nuts? You can’t call the cops.”
“Why the hell not? Someone is fucking with us, and we need to know who, and why.” He holds back his phone, studying me. “Unless you know something about all this. JoJo, you can talk to me.”
“No, I can’t. Trust me McQueen, it’s complicated.” I exhale sharply, knowing that coming here was a bad idea. “But you cannot involve the cops. That’s like, Rule 101 when it comes to the O’Malleys.”
I should have called my brothers before coming to this house. Peter, Paul, and John need to know about whatever danger I’m in. They have more force—and can offer me more safety—than any cop. My brothers may think I’m a stupid woman, but they’ll take my virginity less personally than my father will.
Except maybe not. They threatened to knock out the one guy I ever brought home. If they get wind of what McQueen and I did this afternoon, they might castrate him.
Or worse.
I swallow, shaking my head at my own ideas. I can’t call my brothers. I’d be leaking my own story. Best case scenario, the photographer was some creeper at the gym who got off by freaking us out.
Worst case, it has something to do with my father, with my impending marriage to Grotto…. I don’t know. Someone wants me to look bad, wants to freak me out.
And I don’t know which it is. But if I start explaining things to McQueen, he’ll know too much. And that will put him in a zone that looks nothing like a no-strings-attached scenario. If I tell McQueen, suddenly he’ll be caught up in my life in a way that will hurt him.
In a way that will possibly destroy him.
I can’t make
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