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“Wait… I can’t stay here,” Rainey’s voice is desperate. Her eyes flicker from him to me, but I turn away from her. “I need to go with you.”
“Your butt’s not going anywhere.” Scar collects his phone, his handgun, and the book before going to the door.
“Weren’t you listening to anything I said?” Her voice breaks.
“Yeah, I was listening. It’s a good story. It makes a lot of sense, and it sure lets you off the hook.”
“No.” She struggles against the cuffs, but I follow Scar into the hall, shutting the door.
He pauses, speaking low. “Keep her here, or she’ll jeopardize everything. Don’t let her out of your sight, and don’t listen to her. She’ll lie. It’s all they know to do.”
Through the door, I hear her yell. “It’s not true. I’m not one of them. I’m trying to help.”
My stomach cramps, and I’m so angry, I need to get away from that sound. “I’ll keep her here.”
“I’ve talked to Hutch. He’s going to bring in Louie.”
“The cop?”
“Yeah. I’ll arrange a meeting at Gibson’s so you’ll be able to monitor everything. Listen, and if anything happens, get Louie on the line. He can get there faster than anyone.”
“I’m on it.” I nod, following him to the kitchen.
“Hana is staying with Blake. We’re planning to be back by the weekend, and we’ll deal with our captive then.” He takes a canvas bag off the bar, and stepping back, he grips my shoulder. “This time we’re getting rid of these assholes for good.”
He disappears into the night, and I step out onto the back porch. I didn’t pack a bag, which means I need to go to my place and gather some things to stay here. Walking back into the house, I assess the situation.
Scar’s cottage has only one bedroom, but with the anger churning in my stomach, I have no problem letting her sleep in that chair or on the floor. All of this has just happened, which means he’s leaving her needs in my hands. I can’t dwell on what I think she needs. She’s a prisoner, and I have to think like a warden.
My boots scuff the wood floors as I return to the small office. My brain is slowly piecing together all the ways she used me, from the very first day she appeared in my office pretending to be a victim, pretending to need my help.
She wasn’t a student, and she sure as hell wasn’t a victim. She was there so she could get here via me. Only, I’m surehereis not where she intended to be—according to Scar, she had a one-way ticket to New York.
All the texts I sent, her unfinished business… I was never going to see her again.
Closing my eyes, my jaw grinds remembering how I waited for her in my office, eager, believing, ultimately worrying.Fuck. Standing in that hall, those feelings morph into something bitter and raw in my chest. Placing my hand on the door, I hesitate, breathing deeply to fight off my base desire to hurt her for hurting me.
I don't enter the room. I don’t want to look at her. I only open the door a crack.
“I’m going to my place to get some things. I’ll be back.”
She doesn’t answer, and I pull the door closed again.
Turning the key in the lock, I place it on the ledge above the door. Walking out to my Jeep, I look across the vacant yard at the tall trees swaying in the wind.
Scar’s place isn’t too far from mine, and I’d give anything to be wearing running shoes. I want to run long and hard. I want to do something that will burn these feelings out of my chest. I want to get away from the flicker trying not to die, the pain that reminds me I loved her.
Gripping the sides of my forehead, I close my eyes against it. I’m not going there. I’m a professional. I’m trained to deal with all kinds of shit, and that’s all this is. More bullshit.
Parking outside my house, I push back on the memory of bringing her here in the dark, the way her eyes lit and she ran around admiring the ancient weaving machines. I walk past them without a second glance, jogging up the steps to the main level. I resist remembering how she turned, amazed at the work I’d done here, sliding her fingers over my furniture as she walked around the place.
Going to the armoire, I take down my bag, stuffing underwear, jeans, and extra shirts for me. I take out a pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee for her. It’s getting cold. I take the corduroy blazer I wore home off the back of a chair, tucking my hand in the pocket.
“Fuck,” I growl, when I pull out a micro thong.
Fury twists my insides, and my fist shakes as I tighten it over the scrap of elastic and silk. Surges of need knot my stomach, as if my body doesn’t understand why this is a bad thing. I throw the offensive undergarment in the small trash can beside my nightstand.
More lies, more manipulation.
