Free Elect (Eagle Elite) by Rachel Van Dyken

shoulders slumped in defeat.
    “Nixon.” She placed her hands against my chest. “I need you to do me a favor.”
    “Anything.” My voice was hoarse with emotion.
    “Trust me. Trust in us. No matter what I say, no matter what I do—and I’ll do some terrible things—know that I love you. No matter what.”
    “Kind of sounds like the speech I gave you a few weeks ago.” I sighed.
    “Sucks huh?” She laughed a bit and leaned her head on my chest where her hands had just been. “Regardless of what I do, you have to know, I love you, Nixon. I choose you and only you. I’m going to break your heart every day I hold his hand instead of yours. It’s going to kill me to laugh at his jokes knowing you’re dying just a little bit inside. And if he kisses me—I’ll kiss him back, Nixon. I’m going to break your heart—because you’ve given me no other option.”
    “I know.” Damn if I wasn’t ready to burst into tears myself. I knew it would be hard—not this hard. “Just do me a favor, Trace?”
    “Anything.”
    “Think of me…”—I smirked—“not him. When you’re kissing him, do me a favor and just keep your eyes closed so you can imagine it isn’t my best friend and yours. And I swear to all that is holy that if he puts his tongue in your mouth I will cut it the hell off.”
    Tracey laughed against my chest. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Godfather.”
    “Heard about that… Wanted to give some of the men some entertainment?”
    “It was more of a history lesson for me.” I tensed as she kept talking. “Mo said that the writers of the movies had to actually talk to real mafia members in order to keep it realistic. They even had to ask permission to make the movie. Crazy, right?”
    Nope, not crazy at all. It was a world people rarely got to see, and if they did they either went blind afterward or wished that God would strike them dead. Living in a constant state of fear wasn’t living—it was hell on earth.
    “Don’t pollute your mind with Hollywood’s version of our reality, okay, Trace?” I kissed her head. “Now, let’s go get some of those cookies before Chase eats them all.”
    She pulled back from me and linked her arm through mine. “Nixon.” She stopped walking and looked up at me. “Tell me there’s a happy ending.”
    “Trace, I—”
    “Lie,” Tracey ordered. “Lie if you have to. I just need to hear you say it.”
    “Trace.” I twirled a piece of her hair around my fingers. “For us? There will always be a happy ending. Always.”
    She squared her shoulders and gave me one silent nod before dragging me out of the room. Hell if I didn’t feel like the world was literally resting on my shoulders—
her
world, to be exact.

Chapter Thirteen
Phoenix
    The room was cold and dark. Hell, I had every crevice, every plane of the wall memorized. Ironic that the very room I used to play in when I was a kid had been turned into my own personal chamber of Hell.
    I deserved it.
    All of it.
    I was too selfish to kill myself, although the thought had crossed my mind more times than I’d ever admit to anyone, let alone Nixon.
    My eyes adjusted to the darkness and focused on the door. I knew it was only a matter of time before Nixon came bursting through, guns blazing. At least I was dealing with Nixon instead of Chase.
There
was a melodrama I didn’t want to deal with—two guys both in love with the same girl—and lucky me, I was the object of both of their hatred.
    I would hate me, too. I did hate me. I hated what I was, I hated what I did, I hated what I represented; but most of all, I hated that the legacy I would leave behind as a De Lange was that of an attempted rapist and a rat.
    I would hang. And I would deserve every damn second the noose tightened around my neck. Some things can’t be undone—or unseen—and my eyes, they’d seen and experienced it all. My dad had made sure of that. He’d wanted to expose me to the darkness of our family—I prayed for the