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“Just spit it out, King. What’s wrong?”
He sighed again, then finally answered.
“Well, Tommy actually called earlier today, and we had a quick chat. Glad to know that my encouragement to call worked out, but after he got off the phone, about five minutes later he called back.”
And how was any of this a problem?
“And?” I encouraged, curious as all hell as to where he was going with his story.
“As it turned out,” he blurted, “Freya heard him talking about you and managed to get into Tommy’s phone and call me.”
I blew out a long, slow breath.
“And?” I asked again. “What the fuck happened, Yamin?”
“She begged for your number. I guess she wants closure or something.”
Closure?
She still gave a shit about our night together two fucking years ago?
“Did you?” I asked in a low voice. “Did you give it to her?”
“Fuck no. you’ve been spending all this time just trying to rid yourself of her, Ash. Why would I give her your number just to drop you right back into that whole bullshit again?”
“You know that’s not true,” I almost hissed. “Freya didn’t do shit to me. My feelings are my fault, not hers.”
“Doesn’t matter. She’s still poison, even if she’s pretty like fucking nightshade.”
“That’s not fair, and you know it.”
“You know better than to give a shit about what’s fair,” was his comeback.
And he was right.
“Did you get her number?” I asked, hoping beyond hope.
“Even if I did, I’m not giving it to you,” he answered.
“Give it to me, King. We’re all the way across the country. What’s the worst that could happen? Maybe I just need some closure, too.”
“I’ll tell you what,” he bargained. “I’ll give you her number if you can get your therapist to write off on it. Either that, or you’re going to have to beg Tommy for it. And in that case, good fucking luck.”
That would never happen.
“Well, lucky for me, my therapist has already told me to talk to Freya, but I never could because I didn’t have her number. Evidently deleting everyone’s contact and getting a new number isn’t the normal person thing to do.”
He whistled low.
“You’re serious?” he finally asked.
“As a fucking heart attack.”
There was a long pause, then my phone vibrated in my hand, indicating a text. I pulled it away from my ear, pressing the speaker button so I could look at it. It was from Yamin, and it was a screenshot of a single text he’d received not even two hours ago.
Tom Blair: In case you change your mind.
Underneath was a series of numbers that felt like receiving the winning lottery numbers.
