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Chapter Twelve
After having cuddles with Mischief, I get to packing. I’m tired, but I have no time to rest and relax or even wash away the feeling of the long, horrible day. Not wanting to be caught unprepared, I plan to arrive at the address before they can send their staff, because I don’t want them to see where I live, even though by Rogan’s admission, they already know. My blouse still clings to my chest, even though it’s dry and feels itchy, but I can’t change out of it. It wouldn’t look good to turn up in a holey, shabby shirt or one of my brother’s high school hoodies.
I manage to scrounge some boxes and tape from the neighbors and begin packing up my life. I’m supposed to go see Mitch-bitch today, but I decide I can’t. I’m still so angry I’m in this situation. It’s not fair to blame him, but I do. If he didn’t have an addiction and I didn’t have to pay for his care, I wouldn’t have to steal, which means I wouldn’t have been caught. Nor would I be taking this job with those three scary, sexy, controlling billionaires.
But here I am.
I use my new phone to call and check on him. Apparently, he’s sitting in the garden. They ask if I want to speak to him, but I decline, knowing I won’t be able to bite my tongue and stop all the blame rolling around my head from leaving my lips.
Plus he probably won’t remember me anyway.
Flicking on some music from the old radio, I sit on the trailer floor and stare at my meager belongings. My clothes fit into one box…and they don’t even fill it. My underwear, shoes, makeup, toiletries, and the random pieces of jewelry I have fit into another, which I add my pictures and knickknacks to, filling one more box. I hunt around the trailer for anything I might have missed. Using a ratty old T-shirt, I carefully wrap the birthday picture, making sure it doesn’t get broken or ruined, since it’s the only real memory I have of my family and old life. It means more to me than anything. But there isn’t much else. Mitch either sold it or tossed it. I won’t take my old bed sheets because they are torn and threadbare, and I bet where I’m going, they would stand out. I will have to buy anything else I need with my first paycheck. After another hunt, checking in drawers and under the table, I stand back with a huff.
Nothing.
My whole life fits into two boxes, two fucking boxes. How sad is that? Sitting down next to them, I stare at the borrowed cardboard, feeling sorry for myself, until Mischief licks my cheek, cheering me up. So what if I don’t have a lot of stuff? I don’t need it. I have my puppy, and that’s all I need—his love.
After checking the clock, I realize I need to get a move on, so I sift through the bills because I plan on keeping the trailer for when I leave the job or in case anything goes wrong. I can pay the bills with my paycheck, so I call them and promise to make a payment before the end of the month.
After that, I haul my boxes outside before clipping an old leash to Mischief and locking up. Heading over to wait at the gates of the trailer park, I decide to splurge on a taxi since I can’t carry all this stuff across town, and no way am I riding in their car with my sad little boxes.
“We are going somewhere nice, baby,” I murmur to Mischief nervously. At least I think we are. I pocket the phone, and it burns a hole in my purse, making me feel guilty. I still have the wire on just in case I run into them. I’ll take it off later to charge it as Bronson instructed.
Nerves fill me for what’s to come, because I’m basically living with dangerous murderers if what the police say is true. But at least I’ll have food and a dry, warm place to sleep, which is better than my trailer. Certainly better than jail. And Mischief will be with me, which makes this all worthwhile.
As long as they don’t kill me… They don’t look like murderers, but then again, what do murderers look like?
Me?
I murdered someone, and I’m betting no one would suspect me, so even though they are super attractive, and yes, an asshole in Maddox’s case, I can’t grow complacent. My body might want them, the traitor, and they might flirt and order me around, but at the end of the day, it isn’t real. I’m there to do a job, and when it’s over and they are behind bars, I’ll be free.
Free to start again.
That’s what fills me with determination as the taxi pulls up. I help Mischief in and place the boxes in the trunk before climbing inside and rattling off the address Rogan texted me not a moment after I got home. The cabbie looks at me with a frown, clearly wondering why I’m going to a place like that, his gaze scanning me and my dog with a snort.
Narrowing my eyes, I lean forward. “Problem? I’m in a rush.”
“Not at all,” he defends, turning around and cranking up the music.
Ignoring him, I lean back and settle in for the drive to the nice part of the city, my arm around Mischief as he sticks his head out of the window, panting happily. We get caught in traffic, but half an hour later, we pull up outside the building, which only seems to be around the corner from their skyscraper business building, Dixen Enterprises.
Which makes sense. They live close to the office, but even in my wildest imagination, when I thought about where I might be living or where they might live, I didn’t expect this.
It looks like a fucking palace.
And I’m a worn-out piece of white trash. How the hell am I going to do this?
