“I didn’t come forward because I couldn’t. In case… the man who attacked me, he was involved in sex trafficking. I guess my mom had made some sort of deal with him, and I was the product he was supposed to deliver, and never did. Both he and my mom wound up dead, and my brother was worried that if I came forward and people recognized me, I’d be in danger.”
“Look, we didn’t mention it because someone showed up right after you left and threatened our lives if we did.” Jenna’s words at the tattoo shop, making me think it’d been Riley who’d contacted them.
Riley continues. “And then I got an envelope in the mail, and it was this extreme breakdown of my entire life. My location, my medical history, and a note that said they knew what I’d done.”
Tears well in her eyes as she looks up at me. I reach out, because I can’t stand not to touch her right now, and she leans her cheek against my palm.
“I didn’t know what else to do,” she admits, closing her eyes. “I was scared, and… I don’t know. I copped out, I guess. It was selfish, and awful, and I’m so sor—”
My hand slides from her cheek to cover her mouth, my chest pinching at her apology. God, no wonder she lives with shame on the tip of her tongue.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, moving my hand just enough so she can answer. “Why now?”
Her hand lifts, reaching into my suitcase; it dives to the very bottom, and she tugs out a garment, draping it over my extended arm.
Emerald green.
Satin.
I can still picture how perfect she looked in it.
“You kept it,” she whispers, smoothing her fingers over the material. “And you were right. You deserved to know.”
44
I’m not sure what I was expecting my confession to do.
Not even sure what I wanted it to do.
The idea of keeping Aiden sounds good in theory, but he’s a rock star and I’m a social pariah from Maine. He’s a bad guy, and I’m a traumatized girl who finds solace in his depravity.
Star-crossed doesn’t even begin to cover our story.
He doesn’t even say anything after my spiel; just kisses me and says he can’t miss his flight. He stops by the bathroom one last time, and I quickly stuff my hand in my pocket, pulling out the late Christmas gift I came to give him in the first place.
I store it down in the side of his duffel bag, and then slip out the front door before he comes back out, disappearing into the brush by the cabin so I can watch him leave.
When he strolls outside and starts loading his Volvo up, I try to memorize every little thing about him; the slight, almost imperceptible limp in his step from a stage injury when he was a teenager. The tattoos that cover his body, the smirk that seems permanently etched into his lips.
The circle imprint in his cheek as he sucks on a peppermint.
He glances around the area, and for a second I wonder if he can see me. Or if maybe he’s checking for paparazzi, or a stray fan.
His head turns toward my cabin, and he takes a step in that direction.
I hold my breath, waiting.
Go, my mind screams. Go over there and make me come back with you. Or stay. Don’t pretend you’re done.
But then he shakes his head and gets in the vehicle anyway.
The last thing I see as he drives down the road is the fiery glow of his brake lights, reflecting off the white snow, and then he’s gone.
“I’m going to throw that television off the fucking balcony if you don’t turn it off in the next three seconds.”
“Good luck explaining that to the owners. What if they’re sentimental people, and you destroying their stuff sends them into a murderous rage?”
Silence.
I roll over in bed, looking at the light filtering beneath my closed bedroom door.
“Fiona. Are you not hearing what I’m saying? I’m about to start breaking necks, and I can promise I have the rap sheet to back that threat up, unlike the elderly owner of this fucking cabin. Turn it off.”
Folding back my sheets, I get out of bed and peek into the hall; Kal Anderson and Fiona stand at the top of the stairs, locked in some sort of face-off.
Her arms are crossed, her face as red as her hair, and his flat expression somehow holds enough aggression that I feel it waft toward me.
“I hate men.” She spins on her heel, stomping downstairs, her ponytail swishing back and forth between her shoulder blades.
Wiping the sluggishness from my eyes, I venture farther out into the hall; Kal’s head whips in my direction, surprise lighting his sharp features.
“Riley.” He nods, as professional as ever.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was told you’re returning to King’s Trace.” He holds up a detached security camera in one gloved hand, shrugging. “Supposed you wouldn’t need these anymore.”
“God, you guys don’t waste any time, do you?”
“Procrastination is a poor man’s game.” He sweeps past me, the air chilling as it bends around him. The tail ends of his trench coat fly behind him as he walks to a cardboard box at the end of the hall, dumping the camera inside.
I watch him disassemble the device and then seal the box, mesmerized by his precise movements.
“If you have something to say, Ms. Kelly, by all means. Before I’m dead.”
Smirking, I rock back on my heels, a tiny vein throbbing in my forehead. Weirdly, I think I’ll miss this.
“Thank you.”
He blinks. “For?”
“Everything, Kal.” Emotion wells in my throat, and I bite down on my tongue, suppressing it. “Everything.”
For a few silent beats, he just looks at me; his black eyes unfocus slightly, as if he’s seeing through me, but then he blinks again and nods. There isn’t a single shift in his expression, nothing to suggest that he feels anything right now.
“You don’t owe me your gratitude,” he says finally. “You owe it to yourself.”
I nod, starting down the stairs with that sentiment knocking around my skull.
Then, “But you’re welcome, anyway.”
Rolling my eyes, I go in search of Fiona, finding her crouched in front of the living room television with her ear pressed against the screen. I stop behind her, crossing my arms and cocking my head to the side.
“What are you doing?”
She screams, practically jumping out of her skin. Stumbling back onto her ass, she glares at me, her hand flying to her chest. “God, Riley, you can’t fucking sneak up on people. Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?”
“It’s hard to sleep when you and Kal are arguing outside my room—”
My eyes flicker to the television, bright flashing lights catching my attention; the camera pans around a rooftop stage where some color guard is performing for a New Year’s Eve party.
A banner of text glides across the bottom, an array of upcoming acts streaming on a continuous loop.
Only one stands out, though.
Aiden James, in big block lettering. The Man, The Myth, The Legend.
Fiona follows my line of sight, wincing, and lifts the remote in her hand. “See, this is why you were supposed to be asleep. I’ll turn it off—”
“No, it’s fine.” Holding my palm up, I shrug, pasting a fake smile on my face.