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Slowly.
Nothing slow about this wild ride so far. No wonder my head is spinning and I can’t decide what to do next.
I’m tired of running. But how can I stop?
Storm.
No, not Storm. Troy Jordan.
All right. There lies the heart of the problem. I’m in Troy Jordan’s penthouse, looking down at the harbor, the sunlight glinting on the water. White sailboats float in the blue. Tall buildings rise around us. Damn, this place must cost a fortune.
But he’s still Storm, I remind myself. Nothing has changed.
Oh really, Ray? Keep telling yourself that. Self-delusion is a great thing. Up until now you chose to ignore the clues and were comfortable believing he broke into that mansion, just like you, that he’s just like you in every way. But he’s not. In any way. He belongs in a completely different world, one you have no hope of ever entering, or even understanding.
You thought his life was similar to yours. That he’d get it when you told him every last secret you hide inside.
And now…
“A dollar for your thoughts.” He appears by my side and leans on the rail, dark hair falling in his eyes. He has unbuttoned his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. His tanned, corded forearms rest on the polished metal.
My thoughts are a tangle. I’d rather not share them. “Only a dollar? Thought you were a millionaire.”
He chuckles. God, I love that sound. I could drink it from his mouth, spread it on the floor and roll in it like a cat. “Still not convinced? You think I’m renting this place by the hour, just to show off?”
I wish it were that. So much simpler. “Maybe.”
He sighs. “Well, I haven’t got more than twenty dollars in cash on me right now. I didn’t dare use my cards because they could be tracked.”
“In case someone was looking for you.” To kill you.
Which I still am not sure I believe.
“Yeah.” He lets out a long breath. “So how about those twenty bucks for your thoughts?”
“My thoughts aren’t worth that much. Not even a dollar, in fact. I was shitting you. Storm…” I swallow hard. “I’m not worth that much.”
“That’s where we disagree, baby. Told you.”
Yeah, he did, didn’t he? And nope, I can’t trust he’d do that for me—pay millions to set me free, even less if it means putting himself in danger. I trust it even less than I believe his story about some mysterious guys after him.
“You matter to me.”
I want to believe that so bad. So I do what I do best: I ignore it as best I can. Just like I ignore every hope and wish I have for the future.
He straightens, rubbing at his side that’s tangled up in the vines and roses inked on his skin. “It’s going to rain.”
I glance up at the fluffy clouds, then back at him. “Does it hurt?”
His hand stills. “Sometimes.”
“I meant the tattoo.”
“Sometimes, yeah. Because of the thorns, ya know.” He winks, and I snort softly.
“Why the roses? What do they mean?”
“Why the fuck do they have to mean something? It’s just ink.” He turns away, but not before I see his hands twitch. “I’m starving. I’ll order some food.”
