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Rage bubbles in the back of my throat, so quick and fierce that my hands shake inside my pockets, and my vision goes blurry before snapping back into perfect focus—sharper than it was before, looking for the fight that’s starting to brew. I keep my hands in my pockets, tightened into fists, for fear that if I free them from their confines, they’ll end up smashing the poor security guard in the face. It’s not his fault Mr. Lancaster is an asshole.
Or at least—fuck. I hope it was Mr. Lancaster. If Remi gave the decree, I don’t know what I’d do.
“On whose orders?” I demand, turning so that I’m directly facing the wall they present. “I wanna know who said that I was no longer welcome.”
Mr. Fakeface officer with a plastic badge shifts awkwardly on his feet, giving me a pathetic shrug before averting his gaze again.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Williamson, but I can’t tell you that. All I know is there’s a notice at our desk that says you aren’t permitted on the premises.”
People are starting to stare now as if I were an accident in the middle of the street. I feel like it—broken and bruised, and openly bleeding for all the world to see. It feels like an open wound. Remi is so close, closer than he’s been in days, and now these assholes are trying to keep me from him.
Not them.
His fucking father. If I ever see the man again, I’m going to land my fist in his solar plexus.
“Then call Remi and tell him to get his ass down here, now. Or Mr. Lancaster. Yes!” I say, my voice gaining strength despite my promise to myself that I’d keep my emotions in check. “Call Mr. Lancaster—Mr.thinks he controls the world, doucheburger, fuckface Lancaster—and tell him that Justin Williams wants to talk to him. I have no problem standing in the middle of his fucking lobby screaming my fucking head off until the fuckface comes down here and DEALS WITH ME HIMSELF!”
I’m screaming, and the sound of my voice bouncing off all the glass catches me as off guard as it does the men standing in front of me. All traffic in the lobby has come to a standstill, and I’ve moved until I’m mere inches from the security man’s face. My hands finally left my pockets, and they’re on the guard’s chest as I try to shove him bodily out of my way.
He falls over onto his fat ass, sputtering in pain and shock.
I’m rather shocked myself.
Three more guards come running over, the front receptionist on the phone probably calling for a dozen more.
A guard—with a silver badge instead of the fake gold, and wearing a white shirt instead of grey—pushes me away from his subordinate so hard that I stumble, and it takes me a moment to correct myself.
My chest is heaving, my heart thumping, and I let my gaze jump across the frozen lobby, looking for a way around the mass of security guards and up to Remi’s level. But this isn’t a movie. I’m not a trained assassin, and there’s no way I can get from here to there. My only hope is that someone has told Remi I’m screaming in the lobby, and he comes down to rescue me.
“The police are on their way, Mr. Williams. I suggest you leave now on your own two feet before they drag you out in cuffs,” he demands in a harsh tone, with none of the sympathy his underling had for me before I knocked him on his ass.
“I want to talk to Remi!” I demand, shoving my hands over my head to try to fix my hair back into place. When I make eye contact with one of our observers, they blush and immediately start to walk again, certainly at a quicker pace than she did before. Others seem to be spurred on by her example. Still, the majority keep their feet rooted in place, the crowd multiplying before my eyes as more join, without the original watchers of my agony leaving their spots.
“Well, I want a million dollars,” the asshat snarks, “but I’m not going to get that either.”
The elevator dings and Deb walks out, eyes wide and hands to her mouth before she walks as quickly as her four-inch heels will allow in a pencil skirt that covers her knees.
She shoves her way between the guards. They try to push her back.
“Justin,” she says, and upon seeing she knows who I am, the leader of this pack nods his head and motions to the others to let her through.
“His number is disconnected,” I say without preamble as she grips my hands and turns me so that my back is facing the firing squad.
I think maybe I managed to keep the tremble from my voice, but don’t have high hopes.
“He thought he had to,” she says, then slips a scrap of paper into my palm. “Your messages were destroying him. But that doesn’t matter right now, J. You need to leave before they have you arrested. Remi is…” she shakes her head, then wipes a tear from her face. “You need to leave. It’s over. He’s not coming back.”
My chest hitches and I think I’m crying, but I am so far past caring at this point.
“I need to talk to him!” I beg, squeezing her hands as if that would make her understand. Like she has the power to get me in front of her boss so that I can prostrate myself before him.
“He won’t, Justin. Don’t you get it? It’s too hard for him. You have to let him go.”
I can’t.
But Ireallydon’t want to get arrested either.
Deb pulls me into her arms, and I hug her to my body tightly, accepting her warmth and hoping that maybe she touched Remi today too and some of his essences will rub onto me from her. She cups my cheek, not as a lover, but as a friend offering whatever assistance she can to save us from the hell we’ve built ourselves.
