“But I knew I had to,” he cuts in. “I knew if I didn’t leave Boston, you’d never be mine. You’d find someone closer, more convenient, and I’d lose my chance. And then I lost it anyway. Lost everything, even my sanity. I was so devastated by what you did to me that I tried to hurt myself, Kirby. I was in there for thirty days afterward. Thirty fucking days and you never called to check on me. Not once. And you’re the one who said you wanted to stay friends.” His lip curls. “Some fucking friend you are.”
He cradles a once-again squirming Murder closer to his chest. My cat isn’t used to being held for so long, and he’s getting antsy. But maybe he can also tell that Peter isn’t quite right. Instead of getting his claws involved for a warning dig into Peter’s arm, the way he usually would when detained against his will, Murder draws his neck into his shoulders and goes still, eyeing me with a “what’s going on here?” expression that I answer with a rush of breath and a shake of my head.
I don’t know what’s going on here.
But I know that if I want to live through it, I’m going to have to do something.
I lift my hands by my sides again in surrender. “You’re right. I’ve been a bad friend to you, and I’m sorry.” I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And I think you need Murder with you more than I need him with me.”
“I’m taking him because I’m a better father,” Peter snaps, rolling his eyes. “Not because I’m some sad sack who needs my pet as a security blanket.”
“Okay. So you can take him. I won’t fight you. I just want to say goodbye and help you get his things together.”
“I can get his things,” Peter says, but he lets the gun fall back to his side, giving me hope that I can get him to drop his guard long enough for it to make a difference.
“I know, but I don’t want to forget anything, and I won’t remember where I put it all if I don’t go into the bedroom myself and check.” I motion toward the second bedroom as I rise oh-so-slowly from the couch. “Can I please go in and get his toys and food and everything you’ll need for the trip? I have a crate, too, if you’re flying.”
“Ah, ah, ah,” he says, smirking at me over Murder’s head. “Don’t try to get sneaky and figure out where I’m going or how I’m getting there. I’m going to vanish south of the border. That’s all you need to know.” He pauses before nodding toward the bedroom. “But go ahead. Get his things. Just remember that I’ll be right behind you, and I have a gun.”
“I know.” I walk out around the couch, arms still lifted on either side of my head. “It would be kind of hard to forget. It’s been scaring me half to death since you showed up at the gas station.”
He steps back, putting more space between us as I pass by, clearly trusting me about as much as I trust him. “You’re not acting scared. Haven’t seen you ball up on the ground yet.”
I pause, hurt by his words at first, and then…inspired by them. I stand up straighter, feeling strangely proud of myself. “You’re right. I mean, I am really scared, but I’m not losing it. I’m not having an episode. I’m…okay.”
“Probably because you don’t think I’ll hurt you,” he says, his voice gentling. “And I won’t, Kirby. I don’t want to, anyway. But if you pull something or try to stop me from taking Murder, I can’t promise I won’t use this.” He lifts the gun a few inches away from his thigh before letting it drop again, his haunted eyes fixed on my face. “I don’t have anything left to lose. I’ve lost my career and the woman I loved, the woman I thought was going to be my family, and all the people who were important to me because they were important to you. Like Bridget and your friends from Hidden Kill Bay. After I left, I was so fucking lonely, I even started missing Theodora, even though she—”
“Never shuts up,” I finish, feeling for him even as I wish I could lock him in a cage and throw away the key.
“Yeah,” he says with a sad smile, one that contains a hint of the man I used to know.
It’s sad that he felt so lost, but it’s not my fault. I don’t owe him a solution to his problems, just like I didn’t owe him happily ever after on his terms. And I certainly don’t owe him my life or my cat.
If he hadn’t been so damned stubborn and jealous, we’d probably still be together. I cared about him, and I don’t like change—I don’t have time for it with deadlines moving closer together every year and worrying about my sister like she’s a baby bird still vulnerable in my nest. If he hadn’t grown increasingly obsessed with my relationship with Colin, and with controlling who I could see and how late I could stay out to see them, I would have settled for happy enough. I would have made a life with Peter and done my best to forget that the man I loved most of all was beyond my reach.
But Colin wasn’t beyond my reach; we just hadn’t found our moment yet. And now we have. Now I know that he loves me as much as I love him, and I owe that, at least in part, to Peter. His crazy set me free.
And maybe it wasn’t so crazy, after all.
And maybe admitting that might help my case more than my denials have so far.
“Peter, when we were together, I thought you were out of line, saying I was having an emotional affair,” I say softly. “But now I think I can see where you were coming from. I didn’t want to admit my feelings for Colin, so I denied them, even to myself. And that wasn’t fair, but I swear I wasn’t intentionally lying or trying to deceive you.” I shrug and shake my head. “I was just mixed up and struggling and trying to find happiness like everyone else. And for a long time, I was really happy with you.”
He swallows. “I was happy with you, too.”
“And maybe that’s enough, huh?” I ask, taking a careful step closer. “To know we had something special and good, even if it didn’t end the way either of us would have liked. To know that we tried together, and we learned from each other, and that our next relationship is going to be better because of it?”
I know it was the wrong thing to say as soon as it’s out of my mouth, but there’s no sucking it back in.
“Your next relationship with your fuck buddy?” Peter sneers. “Great, Kirby, I’m so happy I could make things easier for that piece of—”
“Peter please, I—”
“Back on the couch!” he shouts.
“No, please, I just—”
“The couch,” he bellows, summoning a howl from Murder before they both abruptly go silent in the wake of a sudden banging on the door.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Kirby
We all freeze, exchanging wide-eyed glances for a beat before Murder wrenches free with a full-body twist, my lips part, and Peter jabs the gun my way with an urgent hiss. “Keep your mouth shut.”
“Hello? Who’s in there?” Regina’s voice filters through the door, flooding me with twin rivers of relief and disappointment.
Relief that it’s not Colin, and he’s still safe.
Disappointment that it’s not Colin, and I’m still alone with Peter, and rescue is nowhere on the horizon, and now this.
Regina certainly won’t be any help. If Peter lets her in, she’d probably hold the gun on me for him. Or find another coffin to throw me in.
“Who’s there?” Regina repeats plaintively. “I know it’s not Colin. Colin doesn’t yell like that. Not even at me. Kirby? Are you okay?”
Peter’s eyes blaze and his grip tightens on the gun as he mouths, “Don’t say a word.”
I widen my eyes meaningfully and spread my fingers in the universal sign for “but she heard us yelling,” a fact Regina confirms when she says, “I heard Kirby’s voice, and I heard a man shouting. If someone doesn’t come answer the door and let me see that Kirby’s okay, I’m going to hotel security.”
Eyes squeezing closed with a silent curse, Peter huffs and puffs, his face going red with rage before he finally forces his arm back to his side with an obvious effort. “Go,” he whispers, jerking his head toward the door. “Get rid of her. Don’t let her inside. Don’t let her know anything’s wrong.”
I nod my agreement and call out, “Just a second Regina, I’ll be right there, everything’s fine,” before slipping around the couch and padding toward the door with Peter close behind me.
When we reach the hallway leading to the second bedroom, Peter tucks himself against the wall by the bathroom, out of sight of the front door. “Don’t try to run. I’ll be after you in two seconds, and I swear I’ll shoot you both. If you want your friend to leave here alive, get rid of her.”
“What am I supposed to tell her?” I whisper back. “She heard us yelling, and she knows Colin’s voice.”
Peter’s lips curve in a hard smile. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out. You’re a good little liar.”
Clenching my jaw against the smart-ass response trying to springboard off my tongue and punch him between his bloodshot eyes, I cross to the door, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror above the entry table on my way past. I look like a shipwreck survivor—dirty and dusty, with tear tracks on my cheeks and a rat’s nest of blond hair perched on my head like the world’s nastiest toupee. There’s no way in hell that Regina is going to believe everything’s okay in here, no matter how hard I lie.
I’m going to have to make a break for it. To trust that Murder is hiding under the bed and will be safe until I get back with help.
And I’m going to have to keep Regina alive while I’m at it because two wrongs don’t make a right, and she might be pregnant, and I’m not a monster person. But I don’t have to be sweet about it, that’s for damned sure.
Anxiety vultures flapping frantic wings in my chest, I reach for the handle and open the door. Regina’s eyes widen, and her jaw drops, confirming I look like something the cat declined to drag in because it was just too fucking gross.
“Oh my God,” she murmurs, hand flying to cover her perfectly glossed lips. “Oh my God, Kirby, I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”
“Save it,” I snap, adrenaline humming as I mentally calculate the distance between the door and the emergency staircase by the elevator, our best chance at getting out of the line of fire before Peter bursts into the hallway behind us.
“No, seriously,” she says, threading her fingers together. “I never meant for you to get dumped in the desert or hurt. I just wanted you asleep and out of the way so I could talk to Colin. And then you wandered into the exhibit and—”
“Seriously, Regina, save it,” I say, starting to worry that she won’t listen when I tell her to run. And if she doesn’t listen, she could die.
“And the coffin was right there, and I couldn’t resist,” she barrels on, oblivious. “But I was going to tell Colin where you were, I promise.”
“Regina, what if I told you I would forgive you if you would do one thing for me?” I ask, crossing my fingers that she’s smart enough to get the message hidden in what I’m about to say.
Her eyes narrow skeptically. “I’d say…good. Because I really am sorry.”
“I’d like my stuffed panda back,” I say, pushing on before she can speak. “The really big one that I was carrying when you drugged me. I won it at one of the carnival games at the Circus casino.”
She’s still frowning as her lips part on a, “But I—”
“I know you liked it, but it’s the first time I’ve ever won anything,” I cut in, eyes widening and nostrils flaring as I silently will her to read between the lines. “So if you could go get that for me and bring it back later tonight that would be great.”
Her gaze cuts over my shoulder and back to my face, suspicion blooming in her eyes. “What time?” she asks before mouthing, “Are you okay?”
I answer by mouthing “No, help me,” before adding in my normal voice, “Any time after six and before ten.” I point at her then jab my finger down the hall. “I’m going to take a shower and a nap and rest up from being stranded in the desert without water for hours first.”
“Okay.” She nods her head meaningfully as she backs away. “I’ll go get that and bring it back to you, and then we’ll be best friends again,” she says, clearly trying to play the tricky lie game but sucking at it. “Like we’ve been for years.”
I flare my nostrils again, warning her to get out of here and get help, but it’s too late. I feel Peter moving behind me a beat before I hear his footsteps on the tile. “Run!” I shout to Regina, slamming the door closed before I spin and dive for Peter’s knees.
He isn’t expecting to be tackled and goes down hard, knocking his skull on the tile with a nasty sounding thud that’s quickly drowned out by the boom of the gun going off in the close space.
I scream, running frantic hands over my chest and stomach as I roll across the carpet toward the couch. But I’m not shot. No holes, no blood, just my heart lunging out of the starting gate as I jump to my feet and sprint for the balcony.
I’m wrenching open the door when the second gunshot rips through the air, shattering the glass in the picture window above the Jacuzzi, not two feet from where I stand. I scream again but ignore my gut-level instinct to drop and ball up like a startled hedgehog.
There’s nowhere to hide and nowhere to run. I’ve got to jump, and I’ve got to do it fast before Peter calms down and his aim improves.
I take the last three steps to the edge of the balcony, brace my hands on the railing and go for it—up and over.
And then I’m falling through the hot desert air, nerve endings sizzling with terror as I pray I haven’t overshot the jump, that I’m going to land on the balcony below and not keep falling until I end up splattered across the pavement.
The sting on the bottom of my wrapped feet as I hit the surface of the lap pool and the water envelopes me in a full-body hug is one of the best things I’ve felt in my entire life. Even the slight ouch when my knees collide with the bottom of the pool—it’s shallower than it looked from up above—is a blessing.
I’m alive. I’m alive and away from Peter and everything is going to be okay!
My celebration lasts all of the five seconds it takes to emerge from the water with a gasp to see Peter plummeting through the air and crashing into the pool beside me.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Colin
I explode from the elevator to the sound of a gunshot and the sight of Regina running down the hall toward me, her eyes electric with fear. “Colin! He’s got a gun! He shot her! I think he shot her!” she screams, making my stomach plummet and my heart rip down the center.
I run harder, sprinting around Regina as she calls out, “Don’t go in there! I’m going for help! We need help!”
But I can’t wait. Kirby’s in trouble and I need to get to her—now.
The second gunshot comes as I’m fumbling my key card from my pocket. I hear Kirby scream, and it’s all I can do not to start kicking the fucking door down. “I’m coming, Kirby!” I shout, finally smashing the key against the sensor. The second it turns green I slam inside, just in time to see Kirby jump off the balcony.
Jump.
Off the fucking balcony.
While a man with a gun runs after her through a shattered window.
My soul flattens inside me like a crushed beer can, but there’s no time to think about what’s happening to Kirby on the other side of that fall—did she land on the balcony beneath us? Jump too far and take everything that’s good in the world with her?
The man with the gun is on the move, almost as if he—
“Fuck!” I launch into motion, already knowing I’m going to be too late. I’m fast on my feet, but not fast enough to reach Kirby’s attacker before he follows her over.
The man with the dark brown hair makes the jump, and I catch a glimpse of his profile silhouetted against the desert sky. It’s only visible a second, maybe two, before he plummets out of sight, but it’s long enough for me to peg him.
It’s Peter, Kirby’s ex. The man who followed us to Vegas and filmed us and is now trying to kill the woman he used to cuddle on his lap at barbeques with a smug-ass grin on his face like he
knew how much I hated seeing his hands all over her and was doing it just to fuck with me.
I didn’t realize back then I was jealous. I just thought Kirby deserved better than a dude-bro with a bad haircut who looked like he’d taken a dump in his pants when he wore khakis, and he always wore khakis. But now I know I wanted to rip off his arms because he was with the woman I love.
My girl. My Kirby.
My favorite human, who I would never hurt, no matter how badly things ended between us because real love doesn’t work that way. Real love lets go; it doesn’t snuff out.
That creep never loved her, and if he hurts a single hair on her head, I’m going to take him apart, piece by piece, and feed him to Murder for breakfast.
I’m going over—it’s not even a conscious decision, just something that has to be done to get to Kirby, so I do it. I reach the edge, swing my legs over and follow them down into the lap pool.
The fall is brief but insane, time seeming to slow as my nervous system registers with a jolt the fact that I’ve just jumped off a fifteenth floor balcony and my brain takes stock of the situation below—Peter breaking the surface of the water and Kirby climbing out of the pool—and then I hit.
I bend my knees, absorbing the impact and push to the surface as fast as I can, lunging for Peter. But I’m still wearing my dress shoes from last night and they slip on the slick pool bottom. My fingers barely graze his shoulder, and he turns, registering my face with a look of rage so intense it takes my breath away.
And then his hand wraps around my neck, forcing me back under, and I really wish I’d held on to that last gasp of air.
I punch him in the junk—there’s no honor in a lap pool fight with a psychopath—but the water slows me down, blunting the force of the blow. Peter doesn’t let go, simply shifts away and brings both hands to wrap around my throat. I see the gun float to the bottom and reach for it, but it’s too far away, and Peter’s hands are quickly making the world go fuzzy around the edges.
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