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We stop at the red velvet chaise lounge, her calves pressing against the pillows and angled so she’s barely on her feet.
“S-s-t-Styx,” she pushes out through her lips. My name sounds dirty and gritty, when it comes from a throat at the brink of screaming.
“Don’t scream,” I remind her and shove her onto the couch. The force and her weight slide it backward against the built-in shelves, a few erotic books topple down to the ground and to the chair beside her.
She busies her hands by gathering them into a pile on her lap, and stops at the sight of the leather stick.
“Where is my mother?” I ask once again, this time because I don’t want her interrupting. I bring the crop up to the Little Thief’s cheekbone. I don’t have to lay a finger on her to get the answers I need, though I wouldn’t mind dipping a few into her.
“Not here.” She swallows hard while staring at the erotic hardback book in her hand.
Spread legs and pussy view—that’s the cover. The Universe giving me ideas.
“Your mom… she… She’s in the city—”
“Good,” I cut her off. “I think you have something that belongs to me.”
Pendulum
NEVE
Adrenaline feeds my veins with the urge to escape, but against all reason, I don’t want to. He’s a thief, a liar, an asshole who ran off on his mother and left her behind without a single thought. I hate him for that, for robbing her smile and anchoring her free-spirit to sadness, but Mama Rosa loves him with every aching breath. And I love her, so I owe her some loyalty.
Plus, he’s gorgeous. Terrifying, no doubt, but one of those people capable of liquefying neurons with a half-smile. A full smile would shoot me dead, cause spontaneous combustion, maybe melt me like a wicked witch.
Well, if he’s the broomstick... I wouldn’t mind riding on that wood.
Focus, Neve.
I hook my ankle around the leg of the chaise and center myself to anything but anxiety. I focus on the positive, on the sweet things his mom spoke of and appeal to the man she raised. “You don’t want to do this, Styx.”
He spreads his legs apart and rests his arms in front of him, crop down his axis, between his legs. One eyebrow arches as he glances around the dimly lit room. “Do what?”
Kill me. Fuck me. Confuse the shit out of me.
“Um...” Not going to give him any macabre ideas. “Your mom...”
“Ah...ah...ah,” he says with a click of the tongue. “This is between you and me. My mother didn’t steal from me when I was out of it.”
With wide eyes, I hold his gaze, the guilt written on my features. There’s no way to hide that, at least not for me. “I went to the hospital every day... until you died.” Still fucked up that Dr. Asshole lied.
“Thank you.” He sighs as if the comment is insignificant, his tone so banal and uninterested.
“No problem,” probably the stupidest thing I’ve said so far. “Um... how did you live again?”
No, that’s the stupidest.
“Hospital error.”
“Right, but there’s um...” I glance to the side of the room where an urn is tucked into a glass case on a middle shelf. “W-whose ashes are t-those?”
“Those are Lloyd Caker’s ashes, probably.”
“Who?”
“Long story and not as interesting as the one you have to tell.” He bobs his head in a placating rhythm. “Would you rather I have died?”
Yes. No. I mean, I’m in a shitload of trouble.
