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It’s her fucking fault. This is all because ofher.
Something this big should never have snuck up on me like this, but she’s infected my bloodstream and demanded all of my thoughts, all of my energy. She makes me fucking insane. She can’t do that. I can’tallowher to do that. I spin around.
“That table is reserved for us. Me and my brothers. Only. Ever. Who the fuck do you think you are? Coming in here with a tight ass and pretty face, thinking the rules don’t apply to you.” I know it’s not truly her fault. It’s mine, for getting distracted. But it feels good to let this rage out, direct it at someone other than myself. I know it’s not right, but I never claimed to do the right thing.
“You’ll look at me when I’m speaking to you.” I force her to look at me. The burning desire to break her, make her kneel before me, lights up my insides. “You’re just a fuckingtease.”
Her jaw drops slack, then purses shut. A fire of an unknown fuel ignites in her eyes. I want to know what it is. What gorgeous spark just caught alight? I watch as she swallows—probably whatever smartass response she was about to say—how pretty the muscles of her neck move. I wonder, if I had my hand wrapped around it, would she tell me?
“I have no fucking idea what rules you’re talking about.” The steely conviction of her tone and the fighting spirit in her glare make my cock twitch.Yes. Get mad, baby. Push me. See what happens.
“The rule is that no one sits at that table that doesn’t carry the name Fox. And especially not some Putin-loving fucker.”
She rolls her eyes. I wonder if she’d still roll her eyes if that smartass mouth was choking on my cock. “Well, no one told me that, asshole. And get your fucking hands off me.”
She spits in my face, and while I wipe it off, my brain empties of every single thought except one:
I think I fucking love this woman.
1.Bow – Slowed—Reyn Hartley | SummerOtoole.com/Playlists
Chapter nine
Hot Like Caramel
Harlow
Iconsidernotgoingto work the next day. Call in sick. Family emergency. Some other paper-thin excuse. Then I remember what I told myself yesterday: Stand up, push back, don’t let them see you squirm.
Except he has seen me squirm. Worse than that, he’s seen mewrithe.
Just the thought of last night makes my cheeks burn and my throat tighten. I’m in so far over my head. It feels like I’ve dug my own grave and they’re already starting to shovel the dirt back in on top of me.
When I got home last night, I didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know who to talk to. What would I even say?Hi, I’m Harlow and I let a psychopathic murderer finger me. And I liked it. Oh, and my best friend? Yeah, she’s one of his victims.
I’ve felt a lot of things since Beth's death, but this is the first time I truly felthalved.I’ve been angry and sad and lost and overwhelmed and scared and every other shade of emotion in between. But it wasn’t until last night when I stumbled into the apartment that I felt the absence of my other half as surely as I felt the air in my lungs or the blood in my veins. She was a part of me, and now she’s not.
She was the only person I could talk to, trust wholeheartedly, and knew that she’d always be there. Until she wasn’t.
Needing to feel close to her, I’d cracked open the door of her room and slinked inside. I felt like I had to tiptoe and stay quiet, like I was intruding in a sacred space.
Everything was tossed and shuffled around from when the police conducted their search, looking for anything that might have pointed toward her killer. Her family portrait she kept on her nightstand was facedown on the ground. Her drawers were emptied, searched, and then her formerly neatly folded clothes were shoved back in haphazardly.
My heart split open when I saw her favorite stuffed bunny from childhood ripped up the back, stuffing strewn out the torn seam. I choked back a sob before fetching my sewing kit and fixing it up.
I intended to tidy the rest of her room back to how it was before the police came in like bulls in a china shop, but by the time I finished with the bunny, I was too tired.
I’m so goddamn exhausted.
I show up for my shift with my dyed hair slicked back into a tight bun. I can’t stand the color right now. It makes me feel dirty and cheap. I made sure every strand of hair was securely in place. I would not give that bastard the opportunity to play me by tucking a fallen strand behind my ear with a soft touch.
Before I head back into the lion’s den, there’s one thing I want to do. My conviction builds with each ring of my phone.
“Saxon.”
“Hi, it’s Harlow.” As soon as my name slips out, I want to shoot myself in the foot. I look around me. I’m outside the coffee shop across the street, and I’m lucky I don’t see anyone who knows me as Amanda.
“Miss Hargrave.” His tone lightens, I can hear a smile in his voice.
