‘Lies. Who told you that? Carlos?’ he answers. ‘Carlos with his silver tongue had crafted lies, painted not only Jessica but all the girls as monsters – specifically to clients who enjoyed hunting bad people.’
Jessica was innocent.And me, driven by a sense of justice took the bait, stepping into the arena with a purpose that now seems so hollow.
Sal’s words cut through the haze; the revelation settling in my chest, a mix of relief and horror. Relief that I hadn’t killed her, and that I hadn’t claimed the prize that later would have shattered my moral compass. The horror at how close I came to being complicit in Carlos’s scheme for deception and blood. Sal continues to inform me, those Games have ended. ‘You should have set your eyes on the real monsters – the other clients.’
‘And if I had killed her,’ I say,’ I’d offer myself to you now. I don’t murder innocents.’
He scoffs, the sound bitter and biting. ‘Hard to believe,’ he mutters.
I don’t flinch. ‘It’s true. Go check out the barn.’ I dare him to confront the truth – or cling to his disbelief. His eyes narrow, scepticism etched into his face. ‘The barn?’
‘Yes, the barn.’ I knock back the last of my whiskey, letting it scorch its way down my throat. He stares. It’s a battle of wills. He doesn’t blink. I don’t blink. The tension thickens, awkward but oddly thrilling. Finally, I clear my throat. ‘Well? Are we doing this or what? Or are we just going to stare at each other until one of us combusts?’
He tilts his head, considering. ‘Maybe.’
I raise a brow. ‘That’s not a real answer.’
He shrugs. ‘Neither is what you’re doing. You could be leading me into a trap.’
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. ‘Listen, pal. Either fuck me or kill me, but get on with it. The suspense is killing me, and that’s not exactly how I saw myself leaving this world.’
He watches me for a beat longer, then smirks.
Smirks.
I shake my head. ‘You’ve got issues, pal.’
‘It’s Sal, not pal.’
This is going to be a long night.
CHAPTER 6
THE DIPLOMAT
‘I’m too old for you,’ I say, watching her carefully, gauging her reaction.
She doesn’t flinch. Instead, her lips curve – something between amusement and defiance. ‘Sounds like an excuse. Or a challenge.’
I exhale. ‘It’s a fact.’
She leans forward, her big, doe eyes flickering as if electrified. ‘Then call it surrender.’
Silence stretches. I should pull away. Shut this down. But I don’t. I just stay quiet. I’m lost for words, and she’s already reading me so well. Her voice lowers as she continues. ‘You don’t want me to stop, do you?’
Damn it.
I’m standing on the edge of something dangerous – something exhilarating. I know if I let myself go, I allow even the smallest crack in my restraint, there’s no coming back. I won’t want to. It’s the kind of pull that tightens in my chest, that strains against my trousers, and if I let the fire spread, I don’t think at my age, I’ll be able to stop it. I’m not afraid. Not really. If I unchain this part of me, there’s no stuffing it back in the box, because this is more than just indulgence, it’s what she called it: Surrender. Surrendering my control, peeling back all the careful layers I’ve spent decades constructing. I’ve always found my power in restraint. Now, I feel more empowered than ever – tempted by the thought of losing control. And that’s the part that keeps circling the edge. The longer I talk to Stella, the longer I walk a tightrope, teetering between my usual, unwavering discipline, and the parts of me I’ve kept locked away.
I lick my lips. ‘Why do I get the feeling that if I reach out to touch you, you’ll dissolve into thin air like a mist under morning light? Like a dream I was never meant to hold?’
‘You’ll never know unless you try…but while you’re hesitating, what if I fade away before you do?’
I reach forward, extending my hand towards her knee, but she pulls back. The movement is small, fleeting, yet deliberate. Her eyes flicker in the dim light, so my hand retracts, slipping instinctively to my pocket, but she notices. She tilts her head, daring me with that smirk of hers, to cross that line neither of us is ready to acknowledge.
I glare at her. ‘Don’t start games you aren’t ready to play.’ She’s not taking me seriously. Not once since our first encounter has she taken me seriously.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asks, leaning back. I watch her, my eyes tracing every deliberate move she makes. Every layer of armour is a contradiction – an invitation and a warning, both a weapon and her shield. She sits upright, her black corset pulled so tight it flirts with cruelty, carving her waist into something almost unnatural. Lace sleeves whisper against alabaster skin, framing the sharp angles of her wrists. She moves, reaching her skull handbag, fingers curling beneath the latches as she withdraws a cigarette. It’s almost ritualistic.
