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“Meraki, look at me.”
She doesn’t, and I can see the way the color continues to drain from her flawless tanned skin. Whoever said there was no such thing as perfection, I’d sit down and make them watch a reel of candid shots of Meraki while simultaneously cutting off parts of their body that would both drag out the process of death, while still making it painful. For instance, the Achilles heel. That’s how far I would go just to prove them wrong. Her beauty has never been a problem; it’s her mind. She’s smart as fucking hell but makes stupid choices.
I curl my finger beneath her chin and slowly turn her face until she’s back on me. Her bottom lip trembles and her shoulders sag in defeat.
“He will do it this time, Nik. He’ll kill me.”
I slowly shake my head, keeping my eyes on hers. I don’t answer until I notice a twitch between her thick brows. “No, he’s not. In fact, I promise you that the next time you see him, it will be you doing the killing.”
Her throat swells when she swallows, her head shaking nervously. “I don’t want—”
I smile at her, not a full one because she has still pissed me off, but a quarter one, enough to have her calm down. “I know, baby. I got it.”
She moves out of my grip just in time for us to sit in silence as my driver continues to take us toward my house in New York. Either she’s ignoring the question or she really doesn’t care. Both annoy me further. I’ve been battling with Meraki’s current predicament for the better half of my life. Stuck between wanting to save her and knowing that she is the kind of woman who doesn’t respect people who try to do the saving.
“Are you going to tell me what is going on, Nik? What about the sudden flip a couple of days ago when you basically demanded me out of your life?” She doesn’t bother to look at me when she speaks, her eyes glued on the passing trees out her window. Can’t say I blame her.
“I’ll tell you everything, Mer.”
She sighs, resting her forehead on the glass. “I’ll try to believe you.”
“What the fuck?”
My driver closes Meraki’s door behind her as she stands motionless. Her head is cranked upward, her mouth parted. She finally brings those emerald eyes down to mine, blinking furiously. “Seriously, Niko, whose house is this?”
I roll my tongue over the curve of my teeth. “Mine.”
“How?” It’s a simple question, one I know she doesn’t want to press, but it’s a not-so-simple answer.
“I’ll explain later.”
She turns her body toward mine, her arms crossing in front of herself. I flinch and look away, back up to the house. “What, Niko? Can’t look at me now?”
“No,” I answer honestly, grabbing my cigarettes out of my pocket. “I can’t.”
“You’re such a fucking asshole. You were never like this with me, only with every—”
“—shut up!” I roll my eyes, lighting the end of my smoke. “People fucking change, Mer. And the reason why I can’t look at you right now is because of what that motherfucker did to you, so…” I wave my hand out to the front door of my home. “Wanna fuckin’ come inside or what?”
I thought about running. In fact, I can’t stop thinking about how fast I could get from here to the main road.
I turn slightly, looking over my shoulder, but I can’t see anything past the two small posts that stand on either side of the entry to the driveway. “Hmmm.” I turn back to face the house, the loose gravel crunching beneath the soles of my feet.
No part of this story is adding up, yet I’d count for hours just to get the equation. You look at the deep-charcoal concrete, the panels of glass that overlook the thick shrub greenery outside, and the sheer opulence this house exudes, and you would second-guess why Niko Davis, a twenty-eight-year-old MC president, would be standing outside, saying it’s his. This is a house for a CEO, or a surgeon, or I don’t know, some white-collar executive that knows all of the secrets to online trading.
He nods his head toward the entry again, to the large steel door that suddenly looks far too big for me to walk through. “You coming?”
Fatigue claws itself into my bones and the soles of my feet throb as my eyelids feel weighted. I’m fucking tired. More than I realized. I can fight this fight tomorrow.
“Sure.”
I walk ahead of him until we reach the door and he turns, pushing it open for me. In my tired slumber, I try to take in any details I can see. Stairs to the left leading up to a second level, articulate canvas paintings hanging on the walls, soft ambience of lighting illuminating as we walk deeper into the house, and a—“You have a cat?”
