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I paid the check, even though my parents tried to argue about it, and Daddy drove us back to the house.
My room remained the same as when I’d left it ten year ago. Interpol and Donnie Darko posters. The cherry blossom mural, the colors slightly faded—that was what I loved about oil colors, they grew old with you. Some pictures of me with Rosie scattered around. The room reflected my teenage years pretty accurately. Only it didn’t have a huge picture of Vicious squeezing my heart until I mentally bled out.
I plopped down on my bed—with its floral pink quilt Grandmama made for me—and drifted into wine-induced drowsiness…
My nap was interrupted by a scowling Vicious standing at my door, dressed in a suit and scary as hell. He still hadn’t learned the art of knocking.
Which was a perfectly fitting metaphor for our relationship. I was always expected to ask for permission to enter his space, but he was always barging into mine unannounced. Much like how he’d found me at McCoy’s.
“It’s time,” he said, hands in his pocket, giving me his profile. He looked on edge, even more than usual.
I sat upright on my bed before grabbing my handbag from my nightstand, still woozy from sleep. My mouth was dry from drinking too much wine and eating too little food. He didn’t budge from the door when I got to it. Just stared at me like a psychopath—the same cold, rich jerk who watched me like I was prey but who still hadn’t decided if I was good enough to be his next meal.
And I was still the servants’ daughter who wanted him to love her or leave her alone, just as long as he put her out of her misery.
I tilted my head sideways, refusing to pass and risk touching him. “Are you going to let me through?” I huffed.
His eyes, lazy yet brooding, gave me a slow once-over before they landed on mine. He offered a little smile that said, Fight me for it, Help.
Whatever. I wasn’t going to make a move until he got out of my way.
“Remember Eli Cole?” he asked.
Of course I remembered him. He was Dean’s dad. A divorce attorney who dealt with high-profile cases, and a man who always looked at me with warm eyes when I’d gone out with Dean. He was nice. Sweet. Much like I remembered his son.
I nodded. “Why?”
“Because he’s who we’re going to see. I need you sharp. Are you drunk?”
It stung, but I only arched an eyebrow and offered him a tight smile. “Vicious, please. We can work this out between us. Think about the kids,” I mocked.
Vicious didn’t appreciate my joke. He scowled and moved away, allowing me to squeeze past him and walk out the door. I felt his eyes heating my back when he muttered under his breath.
“Fuck the kids. I’ll stay for the ass.”
In the car, privacy glass isolated us from the driver, blocking every sight and sound in the rear. I stared out the window. Boutiques, art galleries, and day spas, all decorated for Christmas, flashed by in a colorful blur of Main Street holiday lights. This was downtown Todos Santos, where I’d collected empty memories like old receipts. I drew in the condensation on the window, dragging my fingertip along the glass, painting a face of a sad woman. The rain knocking on the window looked like her tears.
The silence was thick in the air, and the traffic and the rain became heavier as we moved through downtown. People were dashing to grab takeout food, shop for gifts or make it to a Christmas concert.
“Are you getting a divorce?” I finally asked. I twisted my head and glanced at him. He looked every bit the rich finance lawyer that he was. I, meanwhile, wore a retro dress—royal-blue velvet—paired with silver leggings and cowboy boots.
“In a way,” he mused, his gaze still hard on the window. Aloofness bled from his eyes. He hated this town. I hated it too. But while I had my reasons—I was bullied, mocked, and ostracized—he was practically a king here. It didn’t make any sense.
My heart drummed wilder at his words. He was married?
“Do you want to talk about her?” I asked quietly.
He chuckled, shaking his head, and I closed my eyes, trying not to let his voice stop my heart. It didn’t belong there.
“She’s a dead woman walking. I’m getting divorced from Josephine. My father is going to die any day now. I need to protect my assets and money from his gold-digging wife.”
My jaw slacked, and it was that exact moment when Vicious’s head swiveled and our eyes locked.
“Why?” I whispered. I had a bad feeling this was not the whole story. I had an even worse feeling that he was going to involve me in his war somehow. I couldn’t afford to take sides. My parents worked for Josephine Spencer.
