“Don’t worry. You have mine now. You can message it to me when you figure it out.”
“Right. Well…”
“I get it; you’ve got to go.”
“Stay safe, Tom.”
“You too, Jules.”
Chapter Ten
One of Tom’s guards escorts me to the elevator. I expect him to climb in too, but he nods and mutters a quick,“Miss Girard,”before the doors close and I descend alone.
After the airy vastness of Tom’s private room, the elevator feels like a tin can. It’s not as nice as the private elevator Dax usually takes; being slower and not as large probably adds to the claustrophobic atmosphere. It’s clean though; the citrus scent that permeates the hospital concentrates in the small air-regulated space, and the mirrored doors are free of smudges and fingerprints.
I stare at the reflection thrown back at me. I’m washed-out. This dark hair does nothing for my complexion. My eyes are sunken and dark, but at least my bones aren’t nearly as obvious. No wonder Tom sounded so catty when he’d asked about my hair. This isn’t me.
Tom.
I can’t seem to figure him out. He runs hot and cold, which I’m learning isn’t that unusual for the Nagano brothers, but there’s more to his behaviour than just the spoiled rich boy I always thought ofhim. He is just as lonely as Ben, and loyal to a fault, but with no sense of limitation or morality. I wonder who he would have been if we hadn’t met under stressful circumstances. Which version of himself does he present when he’s not pretending to be someone else or hiding truths?
The whirring hum of the elevator slows. I haven’t been paying attention and ready myself to disembark, but when the doors open with a rush of invading air, it’s not the parking garage I’m expecting. Instead, a sign declaresFloor Thirteen: Burns Unit,and two large men step into view.
Twin pairs of broad shoulders, clad in heavily worn black blazers, embark. The off the rack suit jackets sold in supermarkets and low-cost retail stores throughout the Vale tell me they are the trouble I’ve been avoiding. The way they scrutinise me makes all the hairs stand on the back of my neck. From my crown to my toes, every inch of me falls under the intrusive gaze.
They step inside. I move instinctively nearer the side wall to avoid them, but instead of cowering or trying to hide myself, I gesture to the control panel and ask, “Which floor?”
The one who walks in first has a scar that runs from his right temple to his mouth. It pulls his lips crookedly when he smiles at me. The look is sinister and cruel, but I keep my opinions to myself and breathe steadily.
“Ground,” he replies, looking from me to his partner. “What do you think?” he asks.
His partner shakes his head. “The one we need is blonde, and she wouldn’t be alone.”
I pretend to ignore them and hit the button for the ground floor. The little disk glows green with a bold capital G. I stare at it and try not to think about who these guys might be. It’s a public space, after all. Lots of different people come to the hospital. Scar could be here to surgically remove the pungent cloud of cologne that got on the elevator with him—though if he’d done that, I’d notbe struggling to breathe clean air right now.
The doors close far too slowly, and the car seems to take a whole freaking minute before the whirring hum begins and we move again.
“Good point,” Scar grumbles, frowning. I risk a glance at his reflection in the door. His eyes are on me. “Things are never that easy, huh? I mean, what would it take for her to fall into our laps? I could use the damn bonus.”
Fuck. What are the chances they’re looking for some other blonde girl?
The second man lifts his hand and rubs at his temples, then runs his fingers through his greasy copper-coloured hair. “You and me both. Tracey’s planning our fourth.”
Scar grunts. “She’s barely out of the hospital with your third. You’ve gotta start wrapping your dick up.”
Copper snorts. “Don’t I fucking know it, but the kids keep her busy and off my back.”
“Fuck. I don’t envy you. Screaming babies aren’t for me.”
“Why the hell do you think I’m always at work?”
Scar chuckles as his gaze flits back to me. “What’s your name, pretty girl? Are you a fan of screaming babies or just screaming? Cause I can definitely make you scream.”
The elevator stops again. We all hold our breath in anticipation of who will enter this time. Ninth floor; rheumatology. No one gets on. I can’t tell if I’m relieved or disappointed. A buffer would be great right now, but more henchmen would be all kinds of bad.
The doors close before it even occurs to me that I should have got out. My fingers twitch, ready to hit any number just to escape before they realise who I am, but I’m so damn close to the bottom and running away might make them more suspicious.
How fucking long does it take to drop nine floors, anyway?
