Swallowing, I push my shoulders back, slip my feet from the desk, and sit up. “I could ask my brother, but you specialize in secrecy, right? Well, I did something… bad, and I need to disappear.”
“Disappear,” he repeats, that same monotone voice sending chills down my spine. “You’ve tormented me, violated my privacy, and yet you’re asking for my assistance? Either you’re very brave, or very stupid.”
“I like to think I’m a fun mixture of both.”
Flipping the lapel of his suit jacket back, Kal removes a pistol and slides it against his knee. His eyes don’t leave mine, and his fingers don’t leave the trigger, training the mouth of the gun right on me.
Fear percolates in my stomach, almost propelling me from my chair, but I dig my fingernails into my palms, forcing myself not to react.
It’s what he wants—a reaction. Proof of my inferiority, as though I haven’t managed to trick him.
Kal isn’t the kind of man who gets tricked often, so it’s not surprising that he isn’t taking it well.
Still, I don’t bite the bait.
“Boyd will fire you as a client if you get blood on his carpet,” I say, glancing at the ticking clock hanging on the gray wall, wondering how long I have before my brother returns.
Kal smirks. “I’ve already seen your blood, Ms. Kelly. I have no intention of drawing it today.”
A shiver coasts over my skin, a memory flashing across my vision; the feeling of being carried, my body freezing as it’s jostled in someone’s sturdy arms. The smell of clean whiskey, nothing stale or repulsive like my mother’s boyfriend’s.
Dark eyes, soothing me as I drift in and out of consciousness. Hands showing mercy, healing when I know what they’re capable of.
There’s a certain level of trust you put in the person who saved your life. Maybe that’s why I called Kal.
I trust my brother, but Dr. Anderson yields results.
He pulls a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and wipes the barrel of the gun, tilting his head as he inspects it. I can’t help wondering if maybe he’s just come from a “job,” and he’s cleaning the remnants off.
“The help I can offer…” His lips twist, and he pauses, eyes lost in thought. Those pupils dilate, then return to their normal size as he looks at me. “It’s a permanent kind, you know. The secrecy, the privacy. What you’re asking is possible, but it requires a certain amount of dedication.”
My heart pinches, but I nod anyway. “I know. That’s… that’s why I came to you.”
“I’m sure your brother is fully capable of giving you the same thing.”
“I don’t want him involved,” I say, my throat tightening around the words. “Not in this.”
Partly because it feels safer, but also because I don’t want to see the look in his eyes when I admit what my plan is. Don’t want him to try and talk me out of things, or convince me not to go through with it.
And if I stay, beyond the simple fact of my safety being at risk, I’ll never stop lamenting my night in New York. The girl I left behind there, on a park bench with the world’s hottest rock star.
After weeks of mourning her, I’m done.
I want to move on.
He’s quiet for a long time, seeming to consider my acquiescence. “Why not just ask? Why go through all the trouble of harassing me?”
“Insurance.” One word all men in the Mafia understand.
Something my mother understood, too.
You never, ever, do something unless you have a way to back it up.
Clasping his hands together, Kal nods once, then pushes to his feet.
“Okay, then. Let’s kill Riley Kelly.”
16
Pinching my pick between my fingers, I drag the triangular tip over the strings on my bass, letting the sound reverberate against my bones.
Once upon a time, that somber tune would’ve been enough to get me out of a funk, but now, all it does is amplify the hollow feeling resonating in my chest.
I pluck absently, leaning my head back against my mattress. I’m sitting on the floor of my bedroom, shrouded by darkness. Only a sliver of light shines through a crack in the closet door, which I leave partially open now that no one bothers coming around anymore.
Callie comes, but I know it’s only to make sure I haven’t jumped off the balcony. She never says anything, just peeks in, lets her disgust fill the room, and then leaves.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered jumping.
My fingers lift to the scars on my wrist, the only evidence of former attempts hidden beneath a myriad of colors.
Liam visits every couple of days, as well, staying the longest. He lounges on the sofa at the foot of the bed, playing video games on the television mounted on the far wall and keeping me up to date on the happenings within our inner circle.
My father hasn’t been back, having gone home to my ex in LA. He says he’s doing damage control, working out a plan, but frankly, I’m just glad he’s staying away.
I can feel his irritation from across the country.
Even though he knows I haven’t done anything, I’ve still brought shame to the James name, and that’s practically grounds for excommunication in his eyes.
In any case, I’m trying to find a shred of peace in the solitude.
Trying to ignore the fact that I can slowly feel my sanity slipping away, breaking off into my bloodstream and disintegrating into dust.
I want to blame it all on the fact that my life was flipped completely on its axis months ago, and that I haven’t been able to create a single fucking thing since, but my heart knows the truth.
My tormentor, my sweet little lying angel, keeps me awake at night. The memory of her soft voice and silken flesh, the taste of her innocence and that goddamn peppermint lotion.
Fuck, the lotion.
Digging into the pocket of my plaid pajama pants, I pull out a handful of individually wrapped peppermint candies, tearing one open with my teeth and dropping it in my palm.
Goddamn, I shouldn’t crave the reminder of the beautiful viper, but even through all of the despair, her disappearance bothers me far more than it should.
It feels like she got off scot-free, and I’m here to suffer in the aftermath, even though I didn’t do anything wrong.
My only sin was taking a fucking chance for once in my life.
Callie’s had several lawsuits opened up against various news outlets, but they find clever ways around the situation, evading exact details and refusing to name specifics.
As if “Rock star plummets to Loserville after allegations ruin his career” could be about anyone but me.
Bringing the candy to my nose, I inhale deeply, and for a moment in time I’m back at Gio’s tattoo shop in New York City, kneeling between her spread thighs and marring her creamy skin.
It should probably be more alarming that I can’t seem to cancel the weekly delivery of peppermints from a candy store in Brooklyn, but I’m choosing not to think too much about it.
If I do, then I have to take note of the emerald dress, the shoes, and every other item of clothing sitting in my closet, staring me down each time I sit and try to write something.
With a sigh, I glance at the instrument in my lap, sending a silent plea to the Muses to strike me with inspiration.