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MARTIN: You’re so pretty on your knees, Baby
No, Martin,I think through oceans of red clouding my eyes.You’ll be the one regretting this.
It’s a miracle I haven’t crushed the flimsy phone in my hand. I’m clenching it so tight as I read every text. The other messages he sent are no better and not worth my time.
I do venture a quick scroll into her message history because I’ve noticed a lack of texts from Greg Everett. Does he ever check in on his own daughter?
It seems not. Not even one call for the last several weeks, according to the phone log when I check.
I’m not sure what I expected, or worse—what I wanted. Do IwantGreg Everett to be a doting father who tears apart Las Vegas in search of his daughter?
Obviously not.
So why does his absence itch the back of my mind like a bad rash?
I can’t afford to feel sympathy. This is purely circumstantial, and I need to know that all the cards in my hand won’t lose.
I toss the phone into my desk drawer with half a mind to lock the damned thing up. Not that I want Clara calling in the calvary, but I have a fleeting thought of buying her a new phone—a far better one—and giving her a new number so her dickhead baby daddy and his cohorts in blue can’t find her.
Fuck.There I go again. Forgetting she’s my prisoner with a debt to repay.
Prisoner. My fucking prisoner. NOT my woman.
24
DEMYEN
I’m relaxing on one of the lounge chairs by the pool, sipping a cocktail I don’t know the name of. My chef thought the umbrella and sugar rim would cheer me up.
“Relaxing” isn’t the most accurate word, though. I’m more glaring into the depths of the pool, wondering if it’s deep enough for the old-fashioned “cement shoes” bit. The one mental image that manages to make me remotely smile is of Martin McFuck drowning down there, his eyes wide and terrified as I fuck his woman on the chair in front of him.
I take a sip of the cocktail to calm the nausea that surfaces at the association of Clara being “his woman.”
But she’s not mine, either.
I’m about to throw the stupid blended drink into the water when Bambi sashays over, tablet tucked under one arm and the legs of her linen romper billowing with every step.
Clara would look good in that.
“What.” I bite the word and close my eyes behind my sunglasses.
“Need another one or three of those?” Bambi arches a brow at my drink as she drapes herself across the coordinating lounge chair. “You’re testy.”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“You’ve literally pulled the luckiest hand in all of Vegas, so… no. You should be overjoyed, not glaring at the pool like it just called your mother a whore.”
I shift my glare to her, but it doesn’t have the effect I want it to. She just snorts a laugh and nods in feigned defeat.
“Alright, alright.” Bambi sets her tablet on the table between us and gestures for one of the waiting staff to bring her a duplicate of my drink. “What crawled up your ass and died?”
“I went through Clara’s phone.”
“Ah. Anything juicy?”
I’m not sure how to answer that, so I just shrug. “Pictures of her and the kid. Basic shit. Her best friend is looking for her, but I don’t think she’ll be a problem.” A boldfaced lie, but that nagging feeling inside my chest doesn’t want to risk Roxy’s safety. Fuckingirritating. “Her ex, Martin whateverthefuck?—”
“Patterson.”
