Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 91064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Until I grab hold of something metallic and heavy.
His gun.
He left it on the counter next to his keys, and what a fucking rookie mistake. It’s heavier than my revolver was and I use both hands to hold it up and aim in his direction.
Our eyes meet, and I wonder if he knows that I couldn’t hit Ethan when I tried because he’s laughing at me.
He lunges, and I pull the trigger.
It hits him in the gut, and he collapses.
But he’s still cognizant and his teeth are bloody and he’s fucking smiling at me.
My hands are clammy, and I’m fumbling with the trigger, huddled in the corner I backed myself into. The knife fell in the chaos and there are no other weapons in my reach and the gun won’t fire again.
It’s jammed or… I don’t know how to get it to work.
I’m screaming for it to fucking work, desperate in a way that I’ve never been before.
My eyes are blurry and distorted and my ears still ringing from the shot.
But when I look down again, all I see is blood stained tile.
Alexander isn’t there.
And after arming myself with several kitchen knives and checking the apartment three times over, I realize he isn’t anywhere.
“Jesus,” Mack says again.
“I know,” I say again.
The apartment is a blood bath.
I still can’t bring myself to look at the body lying in the middle of the floor. I can’t even think her name, because that makes it real.
I’ve already vomited twice since Mack’s been here.
There is nothing left in my system now.
Nothing but regret and emptiness.
“You know I’m going to need some answers,” Mack tells me. “Right, Scarlett?”
“I know. But I just can’t… right now.”
“I don’t like keeping secrets from Lach,” she says.
I’m quiet, and for a minute I think I’m on my own again. That she’s not going to help. Her loyalty lies with them and I don’t blame her. But then she speaks.
“I’ll call Fitzy,” she says. “He’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Just do me one favor.”
“What?” I ask.
“Please don’t be alone tonight,” she begs. “Come to our house.”
“Thank you,” I tell her again. “But I have somewhere else I need to be.”
Twenty-Three
Those days are over. I have to be won all over again every time you see me- F. Scott Fitzgerald
There is one universal truth about men.
They want to feel like Kings.
They want to eat like Kings. Fuck like Kings. Sit on the sofa (AKA throne) and watch TV like Kings. If they fixed something around the house, you better damn well tell them they are a fucking King. Because in their hearts they are sensitive little beasts who want to be regarded as the Alpha by all their brethren and any woman who might stumble into their path.
Rory is no different.
So it is with little surprise that I find him in the VIP lounge at Slainte.
The VIP lounge is dark. Crimson and black and sultry. Men are meant to feel like Kings here while women take off their clothes and dance only for them.
There is a dancer up on stage and she’s beautiful, and I respect what she does because I used to do it too, once upon a time.
I also want to rip her heart out.
I don’t know if Rory is watching her or not. It’s difficult to tell from behind him. But I watch him in the shadows for some time.
If I just left, then things would go back to the way they were. We wouldn’t cross paths, except for the rare occasion. There would be no drunken phone calls filled with regret because Rory and I aren’t those people.
He would go back to having quick fucks to satisfy his appetite, and I would go back to my revenge, either accomplishing what I set out to do or dying in the process.
I should go.
He deserves better than this. Better than me. That imaginary family he’s building his home for. He should have those things.
I’m good at leaving.
Pushing people away. Keeping everyone at a distance and burning anyone who flies too close to me.
But I’m bad at leaving Rory.
Tonight, I am broken and tattered, and in my heart I am selfish. I want his body and his warmth and the calm that exists only when we are together. I want those things even if I fucked up and pushed him away and I am willing to play a role to get them.
I move around him. And he isn’t watching the dancer on stage. His head is tipped back and his eyes are closed, and he is napping. There is a full bottle of Jameson beside him. He came here to feel like a King, but I still haunt him.
I’m no good at being helpless, so I do what I do best.
I climb onto his lap and his eyes open slowly.