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Maybe I should go see Olivia. She won’t want to see me, but maybe if I come clean about everything—the tracker, Holly, the suspicions—she’ll understand.
I set my mind to it. Fuck the plan. Fuck the fact that we haven’t made headway. I need her.
I pull out my phone to call one of the bodyguards, letting them know that I’ll be arriving in a couple hours and to be ready for me. My fingers fumble over the screen, but before I can get through my contacts, my phone starts ringing. I blink, trying to clear my eyesight.
It’s Elliot.
I grumble, drunken stupor knotting my tongue in all the wrong shapes. “Elot?”
“… Reese?” His confusion rings through loud and clear. It’s like he’s right in my ear canal and I have to pull the phone away from my head.
“Don’t talk so loud,” I hiss.
“Jesus fuck, don’t shout,” Elliot mutters. “Are you drunk?”
“Mebbe.”
Elliot mutters something under his breath before returning to normal volume. “My P.I. just got in touch with me. He wanted to run some information by me before it got back to you so it wasn’t a surprise. The second maternity test that Holly put in finally has results. She’s biologically Violet’s mother.”
I blink. My brain buzzes and gets fuzzier than before. “Wait… what?”
“I know. I was certain when the first test got ‘lost,’ that was just her stalling. You should be getting the results in the mail sometime tomorrow. I’m sorry, Reese. My guy’s still digging to find some real dirt. She’s got a surprisingly clean record, but he says there’s an interesting development that he’s following up on.”
“Mm,” I grunt. “What is it?”
“Not sure. He says it might explain a few things. My suggestion is to let him work until he’s got the full picture.” He pauses. “How’re Olivia and Violet doing?”
I steady myself against the wall of the bar. I’m trying to think, but everything is reeling and spinning and it won’t sit the fuck down for just one second so I can get a grip on stuff.
“Reese?”
“Fine. They’re fine,” I say. “Olivia’s… I put her at the safehouse. Violet’s with Grams.”
“Good.” He sighs. “Again, I’m sorry there isn’t better news. I’m hoping?—”
CRACK!
The sound rings out at the same time something blunt and hard hits the back of my head. I stumble, blinking, struggling to inhale. My phone drops to the ground as I reel around off balance. The darkness and my drunkenness obscures my vision, but there’s a figure before me in a hooded sweater. I can’t make out his face.
“The fuck?—”
I ball my fist, punching out to clock the person in the head. He springs backwards out of range and the momentum of the missed swing carries me stumbling forward. It feels like the sidewalk is an ocean of concrete, tossing me this way and that.
I growl. I need to get my shit together. Force down the effects of the booze?—
A sudden glint catches my eyes. The guy pops a switchblade out of nowhere.
“You don’t wanna do that, my guy,” I slur.
He says nothing, like some silent horror movie mass murderer. I lunge forward. I just want to take him off-guard. If I can use my size to my advantage, I can get the upper hand on him. Knock the knife away. Pin him down and wait for the boys to come help.
The only problem? He’s sober and I’m not.
I feel myself moving slower than I usually would, and that’s what fucks me over. I intend to ram my shoulder into him. but before I can, he’s got that knife buried in my thigh.
I crumble with a muted cry, pain shooting through my leg as I falter to one knee. The guy darts back out of reach again. I want to kill this fucker. If I can just?—
The hooded son of a bitch swings his foot toward my face. I have just enough time to cry out, “No—!” before his boot makes contact with my chin.
