Page 242 of Toxic Kiss

He swallows loud enough that I can hear it.

I point at the folder. “That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I have proof of all your extracurricular activities with multiple women. You really should be more cautious where you stick your dick. Remember…glass houses don’t just shatter, Charles, they cut you as the pieces fall to the ground.”

Laura is still standing by the door when I turn around.

“Can I sign something for you?”

“Oh my god…yes.”

Laura races over to Charles’s desk and grabs a black marker before running back and handing it to me.

With a flirty smile, I tap my lip.

“Ah…I know exactly what to put. Pull your blouse down a little more,” I whisper, and her face goes bright red.

The words flow across the top of her left breast.

THANK YOU FOR FUCKING CHARLES

CYRUS VALE

I put the cap back on and hand her the marker.

“You can do a lot better than him. He’s dragging you down,” I say, and march out.

Brett and the rest of my security team snicker as we do.

Fuck that was satisfying. Priceless.

Now it’s time to head home. Putting my hand in my pocket, I play with the velvet box.

This time…Haven will say yes. She won’t walk away from me again.

chapter

sixty-one

“I thought moving on meant leaving you behind. Now I know it just means carrying you differently.” – Cyrus

CYRUS

I haven’t been here since the funeral.

Not once.

I don’t need a grave to remember Patrick. The guilt I carry around in my chest is enough. Truth is…I just can’t stand in front of his name carved in stone and accept that I’m part of the reason he’s here.

The cemetery is quiet in the way that only places full of ghosts can be. Every breath sounds too loud, and every heartbeat feels like an apology for still existing among the living.

Haven stands beside me with her hand tucked in mine. Her fingers are warm despite the fading light of the day. The sky above us is bruised purple and gray, the clouds drag low over the horizon like the heavens know this moment needs shadows.

Patrick’s headstone stands in front of us.

Everything about it is wrong because he should be here. He should be standing beside me, making dumbass comments about how dramatic this all is. He should be laughing at the fact that I’m sweating through the hardest moment of my life, even though I’ve sung to thousands and never once choked.

But this?

This isn’t a stage. There’s no spotlight to hide behind, no crowd screaming loud enough to drown out the quiver in my voice or the wrong note. It’s just me, Haven, and the friend I lost before I ever learned how to be a man.