Page 42 of Hunt You Down

By the end of the second drink, my head started to spin. God, how strong was this booze?

André introduced me to countless people, but I couldn’t remember any of their names. Not that they were there for me in the first place. I smiled and nodded when I needed to, and let André run the show. He won over every single person, trading details with almost all of them. The more I saw him charm the pants off everyone else, the more I accepted being a bit of arm candy.

When André grabbed scotch for someone, he handed me a third drink—which hit ten times harder than the first two. I hadn’t gotten halfway through before I started to wobble on my feet. Before I could take too much attention from André—or make either of us look sloppy—I excused myself to the restroom.

Thankfully, it was empty. I didn’t trust my legs to hold me up long enough to use the urinals, so I let myself into a stall and managed to at least get my pants down before my knees buckled. Dropping my head into my hands, I begged the room to stop spinning.

I knew bourbon was strong, but it wasn’t often that I felt like I’d killed the bottle after a few drinks. I was nauseous, unable to pick my head up for fear of vomiting everywhere. I felt like I was about to fall asleep.

With deep breaths, I let myself feel that way long enough to notice my phone going off. Only then did I stand up and force myself to get it together. This was a big night for André. I couldn’t screw it up for him.

As I was doing up my belt, the door opened and someone entered the stall next to me.

I unlocked my door and staggered over to the sink, splashing cold water on my face. While I had my eyes closed, whoever was in the other stall left. Heavy footsteps came to a stop from behind me. My skin pebbled into goosebumps, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.

“I’m sorry; I’ll only be a second.”

“You really want to keep me waiting?”

My stomach dropped and my eyes shot open. Twisting in my gut, and I barely had time to turn and throw up into the trash. Thankfully I’d missed the sink… or the floor. No, he’d taught me my lesson about making others clean up my messes.

Regan strolled across the room, turning the water off. I tried to talk, but every time I opened my mouth, it wasn’t words that came up.

“Still a lightweight, I see.”

My body told me to run. Everything in me was saying to bolt and grab ahold of the first person I found and beg for help—but he was blocking the door. He was too good to give me any way out, but made sure he could still see who came in.

“R-Regan,” I choked, spitting up bile.

When I finally managed to look up again, he sneered at me, satisfied that he’d broken me yet again.

His formerly long, curly red hair was cut off and dyed dark along with his eyebrows. He’d put on more muscle, but it was still Regan. I couldn’t mistake that voice, nor the way he looked at me. He stood like he commanded that room and in that moment, he did.

I dry heaved, scared to step too far from the trash can.

“It’s been—”—gag— “you all along hasn’t it.”

“What are you talking about?” Regan crossed his arms over his chest.

Gag. “You know damn well what I’m talking about.”

Regan barked out an evil laugh that I’d often hear after he’d make a catch. “I’m the best bounty hunter on the east coast. Besides, if you want to go into hiding, you should change your phone number. While you’re at it, a new bank account wouldn’t be a bad idea either.”

“Why now?”

“You got too comfortable. I was actually starting to think you forgot about me.”

Regan took three slow, intimidating steps towards me, steel-toed boots thumping against the tile floor. “There are other people here so I’ll keep this short and sweet. Sugar Daddy’s going to have to leave you alone some time, and when he does, I’ll be waiting.” I heard a whoosh, and when I looked down, he had a pocketknife in his hand with the blade pointing towards me. He pressed the blade into my side, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to prove his point. It hurt, the edges digging into my skin. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what’s going to happen if you tell anyone I’m here. Don’t forget who I am.”

The door pushed open and Regan snapped the knife shut. I forced myself to stand upright, leaning against the wall. Mitchell entered the room, taking in his surroundings. Naturally, he asked me if I was okay.

Regan answered for me—as he always had. “Oh, everything’s fine. Guess the little guy just can’t hold his booze.”

He clapped his hand down on my shoulder, making his threat clear in the way his thumb dug into my shoulder blade. Keep your mouth shut. He let go and skirted around Mitchell to exit the bathroom. The man turned back to me, and I braced myself for another smartass comment. Instead, his eyes turned soft.

My vision blurred. The room spun again.

“You’re white as a sheet. Should I get André?”