The smell…
The heat…
It consumed her, ringing a bell in her head, forcing her to—
Stas threw her phone across the room, her body convulsing violently.
Fuck.
It’d felt so real. Her limbs shook from the exertion of her fight, her shoulder burning as if the hand actually held her now, not just in her nightmare. She shuddered, her knees tucked into her chest.
Not again.
Not now.
But ever since finding Owen in his apartment, she’d been unable to sleep without the night terrors.
So fresh. So new. So cruel.
She hadn’t saved them. She hadn’t saved Owen.
Not that she could have. Not that she’d known. But the torment of it all stole her breath, left her limbs quivering in the bed, her body fighting for air as she, too, burned with her parents and friend.
“I hate this,” she whispered. “I fucking hate this.”
She pulled a pillow over her head. It felt like a truck was attempting to parallel park on her skull. Forward, backward, crushing every bone. She cursed a blue streak when her alarm continued to sound from the ground.
I’m going crazy.
It had to be the guilt. She should have told the police the truth about the two men in Owen’s apartment, about the stranger who held her against the wall. What if they found something? The man said there wouldn’t be any evidence, but what if he lied?
She pressed the pillow harder into her head.
If they found out she’d lied, she could be accused of working with the murderer. But her instincts had held her back, an old part of her believing that the cops really would think her insane if she mentioned the men.
Just like they did when her parents died.
They called it a house fire—an accident. Even when she screamed and cried and told them a man had burned her parents alive, no one listened to her. The deranged stories of a child, using her imagination to tell an outlandish tale. It left an inherent distrust in her heart, one that she hadn’t considered in years but felt rise to the surface when the police arrived at Owen’s apartment.
Don’t say anything. They’ll just think you’re crazy.
She couldn’t live through it again, so she’d given them a version of the truth—that she’d come over to study with Owen, found his door ajar, and discovered his dead body inside. The shock had rendered her useless, making her sick, before she could finally place the call.
And they believed her.
She showed them the text message.
They confirmed it was sent after his death and asked if she’d seen his phone.
She lied and said she hadn’t.
Then he found her at the memorial service, the demon with all the answers.
Yes, a fucking demon. That’s what she’d decided to call her mystery suit man since he wouldn’t give her his fucking name.
She growled into her pillow, her mind fracturing from the lunacy of her life. This did not happen to normal people.
Normal people can’t compel.
Not helping!
“Stas?” Lizzie knocked on the door softly, likely having heard whatever screams Stas had let loose during her nightmare. “You all right in there?”
“Yeah.” Ugh, her throat felt like sandpaper. “I’m fine.”
“Uh, okay. I’m making coffee.”
Such magical words. Her roommate knew her way too well. “Thank you, Liz.”
Stas removed the pillow and blinked up at the ceiling.
It’s Sunday morning.
Graduation day.
She glanced at the clock. Henry and Susan Davenport were expecting her in less than an hour. And they had an afternoon of activities planned, all meant to take her mind off of Owen and to celebrate her accomplishments.
It sounded like hell.
But her adopted parents had flown in from Montana to celebrate.
Lifting a hand to her aching skull, Stas padded into the bathroom.
Well, didn’t she look fantastic. Tangled hair, bloodshot eyes, sunken cheeks with sleep marks etched into her fair skin.
Nothing a good old-fashioned shower can’t fix.
Wishful thinking because the shower didn’t fix anything. Not even Stas’s makeup could hide the dark marks beneath her eyes, but at least she rocked the dark blue dress and matching heels.
She didn’t bother drying her hair, opting for coffee instead. Caffeine worked wonders.
Walking into the kitchen, she found Lizzie dressed in a lavender dress and white heels, holding Stas’s favorite mug. “One teaspoon of brown sugar already added.”
“I love you.” A sentiment meant for her best friend and the liquid gold inside her cup. Stas took a fortifying sip and smiled. See? Everything’s better now.
Her roommate scanned her with discerning brown eyes, her pink-painted lips scrunching to the side. “Still not sleeping well?”
Stas sat down at the breakfast table, sighing. The coffee seemed to be helping her head heal, but not her soul. “Nightmares,” she admitted softly. “I hate them.”
“About your birth parents again? Or Owen?” Lizzie knew a little about Stas’s history with sleepless nights because they lived together. There were only so many times a woman could wake up screaming before the other demanded an explanation. But they grew less and less common over time.
Now they were back in full force.
“Yeah.” Stas shuddered as an image of Owen’s head rolled through her mind. Literally. Still on fire and rolling.
“I’m sorry,” Lizzie whispered.
Stas’s hand tightened around her coffee mug. “I’m sorry, too.” For her birth parents. For Owen. For lying to the authorities. For allowing a demon to leave her tongue-tied in a classroom. For—
“Do you want anything besides coffee? There’s some quiche in the fridge from yesterday.” Most days, Lizzie acted more like a mom than a roommate. Sometimes it drove Stas nuts. This morning, she appreciated it.
“That sounds great.” She started to stand, but her best friend beat her to it.
“You keep working on that caffeine binge. Can’t have a grumpy Stas today.”
She snorted. Can’t argue with that logic.
Taking another fortifying sip of the liquid heaven left Stas feeling warm and relaxed. She should marry coffee. It’d probably satisfy her more than a man ever could, except maybe a certain blue-eyed demon. Similar to the one smoldering up at her from her roommate’s society magazine.
Stas choked on her last sip, snatching the paper from the other side of the table.
Sapphire gaze. Chiseled jaw. Broad shoulders. Tapered waist. Sexy as sin.
A literal male advertisement for men’s fashion.
No. An article.
About her demon.
“Holy shit.”
Lizzie turned around, her focus falling to the magazine in Stas’s hand. “Oh, I know, right? I mean, I guess he’s handsome and wealthy, but calling him one of New York’s hottest bachelors is a bit of a stretch, isn’t it? Just because his dad, like, created the CRF doesn’t mean he’s going to inherit the company.” She huffed as she set a plate in front of Stas and collapsed into the seat across from her. “False advertising, if you ask me.”
She gaped at her best friend. “What are you talking about?”
“Tom.” She gestured at the tabloid. “And I can’t believe they used that picture of him.” She shook her head. “That man rocks a suit way better than army garb.”
Stas blinked back to the article. Tom Fitzgerald’s wide grin flashed up at her from the opposite page. “Huh.” He and her demon were in the same featured article. She read the title on the front.
New York’s Ten Hottest Bachelors.
Issac Wakefield was listed at number two. The thirty-four-year-old billionaire was the CEO of Wakefield Pharmaceuticals. Apparently, he inherited the company from his father at the young age of twenty-five. No wonder he expected her to recognize him. Almost ev
eryone would, except Stas rarely followed this gibberish. She preferred business articles, of which she’d read several about his company, but she’d never thought to look for a photo of the CEO.
“This is insane,” she marveled. Her demon was a billionaire playboy who masqueraded as a murder scene detective. Because that happened in real life.
“I know!” Lizzie slammed her coffee cup down. “Did you read the part about how he’s ready to settle down?” She forced a laugh. “Yeah, right. That man is married to his job.”
Stas focused on the other article so she could see what her best friend was going on about. “It’s not a bad picture.” He actually looked pretty good in those fatigues, with his muscles on display, his sandy hair windswept, his dimples flashing.
My demon has dimples too.
Not that she cared to think about that.
She refocused on the words, ignoring the temptation to glance at Issac’s photo again.
“They captured his personality pretty well, Liz. The article calls him a hero for his time overseas, saying it’s admirable that he took a job in the CRF paramilitary unit rather than on a business team.” A Sentinel, as the CRF called him. Most of the men recruited for that section had military backgrounds, making Tom a perfect candidate considering he spent several years in the Special Forces. He could have gone into a government agency, but his father owned the CRF. It also paid better since it was privately owned and funded.
Lizzie’s snort did not match her housewife appearance. “Yeah, a true humanitarian.”
“Come on, Tom’s not that bad.” Stas pushed the article back across the table before she gave in to the urge to study Issac again. Not happening.
“I know. That’s exactly the problem.” A deep sadness overcame Lizzie as she gazed at Tom’s picture. Every other male in this city noticed her feminine charms except the one man she actually wanted. Hell, Lizzie could prance around in a skimpy swimsuit and the former sniper still wouldn’t see the supermodel in front of him.
Lizzie closed the magazine, her expression holding a touch of resolve as she met Stas’s gaze.
“I don’t like that look,” Stas started, her quiche uneaten before her.
“Yeah, so, speaking of Tom… he’s coming to dinner tonight.”
Stas groaned at the mention of the dreaded after-graduation dinner. She would rather gouge her eyes out with a spoon than spend an evening with the Watkins family. It was bad enough she saw them once a month for brunch with the Fitzgeralds—a tradition, which started over twenty years ago, that she was roped into during her first year at Columbia.
“Oh, no, you’re not backing out of dinner,” Lizzie said before Stas could even suggest it. “Our parents are going to finally meet. They missed each other at our Columbia graduation, something I know you orchestrated, but they are meeting this time.”
“To be fair, they were busy giving you this condo.” A multimillion-dollar property on the Upper West Side. Somehow, they felt giving it to her would make up for all the years they mistreated her growing up. Stas wondered what gift they had in store for their only child tonight as she graduated with her master’s degree in education.
“Yeah, a convenient excuse.” Her gaze narrowed. “They’re meeting tonight, Stas. You’re not bailing on me.”
Stas put her head down on the table. Owen was supposed to have been her date tonight, to help keep her sane. And also to celebrate his own graduation.
Which was clearly not happening now.
“This week sucks,” she grumbled. An immature statement, but true.
“Want to order pizza afterward and binge on chick flicks all night?” Lizzie asked, a note of childlike hope in her voice. She’d not be eating much during dinner, not with Lillian Watkins present. The willowy woman strictly controlled Lizzie’s diet, claiming it to be her motherly right. Bitch didn’t even begin to describe her or the way she’d tormented her daughter’s self-esteem throughout the last two decades.
Which, of course, meant Stas had no choice but to attend dinner. Someone had to protect Lizzie. Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t negotiate a little something here. Peeking up at her best friend, Stas arched a brow. “Can we order one with pineapples and ham?”
“Sure, one of the pizzas can be Hawaiian. I’ll pick the other two.” Lizzie possessed a love for Italian food that never managed to go to her hips. Amazing, really. She could eat five pints of ice cream a day for a month and still resemble a supermodel.
“Pizza for a week?” Stas mused. “All right, deal.”
4
Dinner Crashers
“Are you all right, sweetheart?” Susan Davenport asked for the fifth time today.
Stas loved her adoptive parents to death, truly, but this line of questioning had to stop. She was close enough to breaking down without the constant check-in on her feelings.
“I’m okay, Mom,” she lied. Graduating without Owen this morning had created a bruise on her heart, which left her aching all afternoon.
He’s really gone.
She knew that. But the reality of it… She swallowed, refusing to do this here. If she cried, her mother would demand she return to Montana—a threat that had been looming since she told her adoptive parents about Owen’s death.
“It’s all right to mourn, hon,” her father murmured, his hand on her shoulder. “I know it’s a big day and all, but you can feel sad, too.”
And I do. Trust me, I do.
But tears solved nothing.
She wanted to know who killed him and why. Something the billionaire demon might be able to tell her.
No. Not a good idea.
Except she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him all day. Now that she knew his name, he was suddenly accessible.
One phone call.
One agreement.
He might be able to tell her.
“Stas?” her father asked, his brow furrowing.
“I’m okay,” she repeated. “Really.”
Their expressions said they didn’t believe her.
Good thing she had a distraction plan in place. “The Watkinses and the Fitzgeralds are already here.” She gestured to the table in the corner of the dining room where they always sat.
“Are we late?” her mother asked, glancing at her watch.
“No, they’re always early.” Much to Stas’s chagrin. They constantly made her feel late. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
Everyone stood to greet them. Doctor Fitzgerald first, his suit immaculate as always and his fatherly grin in place. Tom second, his charming features clearly marking him as his father’s son. Then the Watkinses and Lizzie.
Everyone shook hands, Susan blushing fiercely when Doctor Fitzgerald complimented her by saying she didn’t appear old enough to have a daughter Stas’s age.
It was true.
The Davenports had been in their early twenties when they adopted Stas. But not many knew the truth, so no one clarified the relationship. It wasn’t so much a secret as it was a sensitive subject. Stas always referred to them as Mom and Dad out loud.
“Congratulations on your graduation, ladies,” Doctor Fitzgerald said as everyone settled into their respective seats.
“Thank you,” Lizzie said softly from beside Stas. Lillian sat on the other side, her expression as constipated as ever. The woman seriously needed to stop investing in face-lifts; it was only making her appearance worse. And her husband, well, he could stand to lay off the sweets. Not that he seemed bothered as he snagged a roll from the center basket.
“How’d your interview go the other week, Stas?” Doctor Fitzgerald asked, his dark eyes crinkling at the sides. The man didn’t look a day over forty, despite having a twenty-seven-year-old son.
“It went well,” she said, relieved to discuss something normal and non-Owen related. “Human Resources said the job is mine once I finish the security process.” Which included passing a polygraph this week. Hopefully, they didn’t ask about anything crime-related because she was
pretty sure lying to the cops during a murder investigation qualified.
“That’s right. You’re the one who got our Stas a job at the CRF,” her father chimed in.
“Oh, your daughter did that all on her own.” Dr. Fitzgerald smoothed a hand over his suit jacket. “I just helped open a few doors, is all.” Because he was the CEO and creator of the CRF, she was willing to bet he did a hell of a lot more than that, but she accepted the compliment with a smile.
“The marketing director adores her,” Mister Watkins put in with a self-satisfied nod toward Dr. Fitzgerald. “Very pleased with the recommendation.”
“But she has to take a polygraph?” her father asked as a tingle itched at the base of her spine. Subtle, but pressing, and prickling the hairs along her arms.
She glanced at the entrance as Issac Wakefield sauntered into the restaurant dressed in yet another suit. Black jacket, pants, and shoes, and a maroon shirt open at the collar.
With a gorgeous female ornament on his arm.
Her matching dark red dress boasted a V-neck created for a woman with her body type, her breasts proudly on display and barely contained. The back was equally as sinful, dipping to her ass, which swayed as she walked.
Well. So much for Stas’s theories about what Issac wanted from her. He clearly already had what he needed in the sexual department.
She barely noticed the shorter male who walked in behind him with his arm wrapped around a similarly dressed model.
“Stas?” her father’s voice brought her back to the table.
“Yes?”
“I was asking for your thoughts on the polygraph.” He arched a brow.
“I’ve already given you my thoughts on it,” she replied, unsure of why he was bringing this up again. “It’s part of the job requirements.” The CRF was a privately owned humanitarian organization with ties to various government agencies. It seemed standard practice to require a polygraph, as many of the positions dealt with classified information.
“Yes, but isn’t it a bit intrusive for a civil employee?” her father pressed.
Says the high school principal who advocated for athletic drug testing, she thought, recalling the citywide argument regarding invasion of privacy.
Vote Then Read: Volume I Page 124