Page 69 of The Killer Card

And like the lovesick fool I am, I believe her.

4 Years Ago

Chapter Twenty-Two

Naomi

Clara was assaulted. My Clara was assaulted at The Pink Flamingo- my fucking club- tonight and I wasn’t there. Of all nights for me to decide not to go.

I want to ask his name. I want to know if I’ve seen him in The Cellar. I want to know who to go after with all the money in my fucking trust fund for hurting my best fucking friend. But I can’t ask that. The chances of Nelly knowing anything are slim, at least for now. And if I ask those kinds of questions she’ll grow suspicious of me too. Nelly may be self-absorbed but she’s perceptive when it comes to the people she loves.

I’ve already texted my brother while sitting on the phone with Nelly.

He tries to call but I reject it.

“I can’t believe she never told us she was working there?!” Nelly is in tears on the other end of the phone, and honestly I’m not doing much better. “Did she ever tell you?!”

“No,” I lie through my teeth. Taking a deep breath I ask, “Is she okay?!” trying not to break into hysterical sobs. There’s a knock on the front door and I look up from my computer with a frown. Who would be at my door this late?

My father is in D.C. this week, and Nathan refused to babysit an adult as he put it, so I’ve been blissfully alone for the last few days. It’s a welcome reprieve from their constant hovering. Except now I desperately wish my brother had been home so he could handle the situation at the club better. I want that fucker’s membership revoked. I want him sued. I want him arrested. Honestly, I’d really like him dead, but the best I’m sure to get is that security threw him out.

I ignore the second knock. Whoever it is can fuck off.

“Rowan said she’s fine,” Nelly says. “Just really shaken up—”

“Should we go over there? Nelly, what do we do?”

Another knock brings my glare back to my bedroom door. With a frown, I pull on my sweater, heading into the hall. There’s another, more insistent knock.

“Rowan said he’d call us if he needs anything, but he thinks it’s best to give her time.” I can hear Elias comforting her somewhere in the background. “He- He said he’s dealt with this before. Mostly his own but that he was taught how to care for trauma victims by—”

“Graham.”

“Yeah,” Nelly says. “How did you know that?”

Because he’s standing in front of me, hands braced on either side of the door frame. I blink several times, taking him in slowly. He’s drenched from the rain, his hair sticking to his face and cheeks. Lack of sleep has carved dark circles beneath his eyes and on his collar…

Oh my God, is that blood?!

It’s on his rolled up sleeves, dried across his broken knuckles. There’s a hollowness in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. Not the glassy look of subspace, something older. Something darker digging deep roots.

Rowan told Nelly that Graham was the one who saved Clara tonight. That he’d beaten the man beyond recognition before she’d pulled him off. The cops will be looking for him after they finish up with the club. He may not have been the assailant, but he did beat a man near to death. Maybe all the way to death if given the chance.

Now he’s here, standing on my stoop, watching me with imploring, forest green eyes.

“Ask me again…” He whispers.

“Naomi?” Nelly calls through the phone. “Naomi, are you still there?”

I don’t raise the phone to my ear, unable to look away from the man who saved my friend’s life tonight. The man I left alone and naked in a bed only days ago after discerning he was capable of the exact violence he’d utilized to help her. He’d never really said it, not in so many words, but I could tell. Whatever had happened to him as a kid is what had carved out that darkness clouding his eyes now.

“I’ll call you back,” I murmur, hanging up the phone. “Graham—”

“Ask me again,” he says again, almost begging.

I don’t have to ask. His silence was answer enough before. The blood on him is answer enough now. But he’s begging, and I’ve always been so weak to his begging. It takes me even longer to find the courage I mustered in his apartment that morning.

I take a deep breath, swallowing my fear. Not fear of him, I realize, but fear of my own complacency. Fear that I should hate him for whatever he’s about to tell me but knowing I won’t. That if I ever do learn to hate him, this will not be a factor.