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Bastard!
“You have a detail, use him.”
I hate him!
Gritting my teeth, I throw my cigarette at his Lexus as he drives off.
I fucking hate him.
Chapter 12
Arabella
Murphy’s quiet the entire drive back to Georgina’s. As soon as he stops the car outside Georgina’s little Mews house, I jump out and head indoors.
It’s strangely quiet, considering it’s past eight in the morning and Georgie is always up at the crack of dawn doing her exercises. Dropping my overnight bag on the bottom step, I head for the kitchen.
“Georgie?” I call loudly.
All the curtains are still drawn, and Mr. Chips, her little black-and-blonde tabby, is meowing at the patio door.
“Did she forget about you this morning?” The cat continues whining and trying to climb up my legs as I let him out. “There you go.”
I slot a coffee pod into the coffee machine and grab a mug from the cupboard. As I wait for it to brew, I check the fridge for one of her chalkboard messages. There’s nothing, which is odd. I know Casper was here last night, but between moving cars and doing whatever he and Christopher are currently up to…I wouldn’t have thought it would’ve been a late night.
“Mmm…you’ve got to love the smell of fresh coffee. Too bad it tastes like shit.”
I spin so fast that my hip catches on the edge of the granite kitchen side.
“Fuck!” My gritted curse echoes around the kitchen. “What the hell are you doing here, Freddie?”
The look he gives is filled with ire. “Unfortunately for me, I’m your babysitter for today. Don’t worry, I’ve got shit to do, so you can sit in your room and be a good girl.”
“I have places to be.” Grabbing my coffee from the machine, I take a scalding sip and push past him. “Where’s Georgina?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. She’s not my problem.” Leaning up against the door frame, like he owns the place, he shrugs.
“I’m not your problem either. I’m no one’s problem.” I grab my bag and head up the stairs.
“Wrong!” He glares up at me. “You’re a big motherfucking problem right now. You’re fucking him up in the head with your shit.”
My stomach twists at the sharpness of his words.
He’s serious.
His glare and broad stance are protective of his cousin.
“What’s wrong with you?” Shaking his head, he turns and disappears into the lounge.
“What wrong with me?” I yell down at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He’s one to talk.
My inside
s betray the impassive front I’m trying to keep in place as I stalk to my room. I’ve barely made it through the door when my phone starts ringing. I haven’t heard this ringtone in weeks. Not since he saw me at the club.
Up until that night Christopher called on repeat every day.
