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The door swings open. Damn it, people keep walking in on me in the bathroom tonight! But it’s not Zack, it’s Samantha.
“See, I told you she wasn’t naked in here,” Sam informs Zack sassily. Zack has his hand over his eyes, presumably because he thought I was naked in the tub.
“Luna?” Zack’s voice is quiet but tight. He’s probably upset that I lied to him too. Guess I’m making it a habit. The thought makes tears finally spill over, for some strange reason.
“I got this,” Sam tells Zack, as though I’m not right here listening to them. She’s pushing him out the door, trying to close it in his face, but he’s not going easily.
Despite all evidence to the contrary, I tell him, “I’m okay.”
It doesn’t matter if he’s here or Sam’s here. All I’m going to do is sit and stew in my own mental anguish until I fall asleep. At most, I’ll paint if I feel up to it so I can get these emotions out onto canvas.
Zack kisses my head, says something to Sam that I don’t hear, and then the front door opens and closes. I realize I never heard Sam arrive.
“How long have you been here?” I ask.
“Long enough to know what’s going on. Now, come on . . . let’s go to bed so we can fantasize about ways to kill Carter Harrington without getting caught.” Sam pulls the plug on the tub and takes my hand, pulling me to my feet. I don’t even care that her hand is wet, something that would usually bother the hell out of me.
“Shoes off.” I kick out of my Converse, leaving them in a pile, and then crawl into my bed, jeans and all, to clutch my pillow. She climbs in beside me, sitting up with her back against the headboard. “Good. Alright, I’m leaning toward taking him to a farm somewhere and letting the pigs have at him. I heard that’s a good way to ditch a body.”
She says it casually, as if a murder and body dumping fantasy is light conversation. I guess it’s normal post-breakup, though I wouldn’t know for sure since I’ve never broken up with someone. Especially not after something like this.
Is it even a breakup if it was never real in the first place?
I shake my head.
“Too much? Okay, maybe we go the route of making his life hell instead? Normally, I’d say to freak him out with a STI scare, but that’s not really possible here.” She sounds sad about that fact, but it only reminds me that my only ‘real’ sexual experience is with Carter. I swear my body clenches at the thought of going back to only toys after knowing the way that Carter can make it sing. “What if we . . .”
I don’t know how many ideas Sam comes up with. I think she’s trying to make me smile a bit by the time she suggests spraying fart spray into his car’s grill, laughing as she assures me it’ll make his Mercedes smell like a shit box forever. Eventually, I fall asleep with Sam still making suggestions.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
CARTER
“Mr. Harrington will see you now.”
Dad’s assistant is professional as always, but I can sense doom in her almost sonorous voice regardless.
“Any hints on what’s up?” I lift my brows, aiming for charming to pull any info from her, but it hurts and I wince sharply. I move to touch the bruise above my left cheek but redirect my hand at the last moment and straighten my tie, not wanting to invite more questions than the ones already in her eyes.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” she responds politely, choosing to ignore the black eye like the pro she is.
“Of course.”
I stand outside Dad’s door for a second, steeling myself. I know this is about the Cartwright opportunity. I haven’t told him about the shitshow from last night, but I have no doubt that he knows. Somehow, he always does. Like he can feel the disturbance in the atmosphere when something’s up with his children.
And if he doesn’t, he’s going to know as soon as he sees me. I could have fought back against Zack, but I didn’t. I deserved every lump he could dish out.
Entering the sanctum of my doom, I feign a casualness I don’t feel. “Hey, Dad, what’s up?”
“What the hell happened to you?” Dad hisses, visibly recoiling when he looks at me.
“Oh, it’s fine. You should see the other guy.” The joke lands flat, and Dad looks at me expectantly, silently demanding more of an explanation. “Zack and I had words. We’ll work it out.”
“Zack did that?” Dad sounds more impressed than angry. “Why?”
I don’t get a chance to explain because Dad’s speaker buzzes. “Mr. Harrington, your ten o’clock is here.”
“Want me to come back later?” I ask, hoping for an escape.
