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“Again.” Her eyebrows raise as she, too, has a sip of her drink. “But I checked and you weren’t in there.”
“You checked?” I sound so defensive.
“I was worried.”
“Maybe I was in the kitchen getting a drink.”
“I checked in there too.”
“Maybe I was using the bathroom.”
She smiles. “Checked there too.”
I direct my stare to my drink. “Maybe I was?—”
“In Brad’s room?”
I still, my eyes widening on my glass. Shit. “I?—”
“Pearl, I am not stupid.” Anya gives me a tired look, turning on her chair to face me. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, giving up on my lame bullshit excuses.
“You hate him.”
I laugh to myself. “I did,” I admit. “For a while.”
“So what happened?”
My self-restraint snapped. That’s what happened. I sigh, giving Anya my full attention. “I know what I’m doing,” I say. That’s not true at all. I have no idea what I’m doing, all I know is that I tried to leave and I couldn’t, and one week later, I’m in really fucking deep. He doesn’t know who I am. No one does. The shit won’t only hit the fan, it’ll slap it, hit it, kick it, and punch it. I want to hope Brad might step in and save me from the repercussions. No one will ever touch me again. Except him. It sounds too good to be true, because it probably is. But the past week? It’s been incredible. I’ve followed his lead and discovered my body along with Brad. And the cuddles in bed?
Safe.
Anya’s mobile interrupts me, and she sweeps it up. “Mason,” she says, getting up and walking away. I watch her, sighing, and finish my drink. My eyes fall onto Anya’s handbag on the table—or something poking out of a side zip. I tilt my head, trying to see it. Is it a driver’s license? I don’t know. Definitely not American issued, the writing foreign, so perhaps Romanian? Pursing my lips, I look at Anya. She’s near the back of the café, her back to me. I walk my fingers across the table and push a fingertip into the card, dragging it out a little. Anya’s face greets me, looking a little younger than she does now. Her heart-shaped face, her hair a bit shorter. She’s so unique looking, it’s no wonder she was taken. The only thing I can read is her name, and I laugh at how ridiculous it is that I didn’t know her surname. “Anya Dimitri,” I muse, pushing it back in her handbag. “Pretty.” I get back to my phone and reply to Brad.
Anya knows I was with you last night. And every other night. I tried to lie. Turns out I’m not very good at it, and Anya is a master sleuth. I’m sorry.
Kiss? No kiss?
I roll my eyes to myself, adding a kiss. Because that’s who I am. And Brad is a professional killer.
Oh dear.
I frown, my fingers working fast across my screen.
What does that mean?
The dots pulse across the top, my attention split between them and Anya on her phone.
It means I don’t get to keep you a secret for as long as I’d like.
Oh?
You want to keep me a secret?
Yes.
I scoff.
