by Danah Logan
My mouth waters as I drink him in. He's wearing his trademark jeans, paired with a black formfitting Henley, and his varsity jacket. A cocky smirk pulls his mouth up at the corner as he approaches me. My stomach flips with excitement until I remember what is growing inside my belly. The happy tingling sensation quickly morphs into barf-inducing dizziness, and Wes doesn't miss the shift.
He steps up to the counter and leans over, waiting for me to kiss him. Pressing my mouth to his, my throat thickens. How am I going to do this?
"Everything okay, Princess?"
"Sure," I answer way too quickly, and his furrowed brows say it all. Fuck. Shit. Fuck!
He angles his head, and an unspoken promise crosses between us. He wants me to talk to him, and I concede that I will confide in him later. My heart is jackhammering, but I don't let it show how I'm freaking out inwardly. There would be no way he'd let me finish.
After he joins his friends, I expel a long breath and meet Mags's eyes. I press my lips together to conceal the trembling.
I can do this.
An hour later, Mags sidles up next to me. "It's Friday."
Huh? Then it sinks in. Crap. Friday. Our performance.
"You think you're up for it? I can always pretend I sprained my ankle, and we can't do it," she offers, and I bark out a laugh. This is why I love this girl.
I peer at her. "It'll be good for me. I should let some of the emotions out. There's no better way than dancing, right?"
Mags's eyes light up. She loves our gig as much as I do. "Right!"
She puts her index and middle fingers of both hands into her mouth and whistles. My shoulders scrunch up to my ears. "Geez, bitch. You could've waited for me to move away." But she simply beams at me.
Dean, who is helping out by serving tonight, cuts the music, and instantly hoots fill the room. Everyone knows what's coming. I'm giddy, excitement buzzing through my veins, and I climb the bar as Rihanna's voice fills the room.
I glance toward the back and find Wes's heated gaze already on me. His smirk can't hide the desire blazing in his eyes.
Reaching down, I grab my usual props and begin my show. I let the music take over. This is exactly what I need to forget the impending confession.
Confessions—plural, my inner voice chides. But instead of reveling in the upcoming misery, I squash it down and shake my ass. Twirling on the narrow bar, I lean down and hand a guy one of the shots. He throws it back and holds the glass back up. Laughing, I shake my head and move on. I'm at number three when the music suddenly stops. What the—?
I glance around, and most of the customers mirror my confused gaze until my eyes land on Mags—who is grinning. Not good. I whip around to find Wes, but he's not at his table.
"Princess!" I almost fall off the bar when Wes calls me from behind the counter. What is he doing? He's holding something up to me, and it takes me a moment to comprehend what it is.
I scowl at the object he's extending. "What's this?"
Wes, in his lovable way, shrugs. "A mic."
I want to whack him with the mic right now.
Mags saunters over to me and leans in, saying, "Show us what you got." Before I can answer, she twirls her finger in the air, and "One Way Or Another" by Blondie comes through the speakers.
You got to be kidding me. I glower at both of them, who have equally mischievous expressions.
"You want me to perform this song right now?"
"You told me how much you love the scene from the movie. You can sing and dance, so…" Wes trails off, and I want to kick myself off the bar for letting him join us during movie night.
"I hate you guys," I hiss at them both.
"No, you don't," Mags deadpans and reaches for Wes to help her down.
He holds the mic up to me once more, and I take it, sighing exasperatedly. Shit, I guess I'm really doing this.
The entire bar erupts in cheers, and I can't help but laugh. Kiwi beams with pride, and my pulse quickens but, for once, not from nervousness.
I look for Dean and signal for him to start the song over. All eyes are on me, and as soon as the first notes fill the room, my hips begin to sway on their own accord. I belt out the lyrics like I've done it a thousand times, and to my surprise, I love it. I lose myself in the song, close my eyes, and forget everything: my past, present, and future.
As the song comes to a close, I let reality flood back in. Everyone stares at me, slack-jawed, before a cacophony of noise nearly throws me backward. Claps, cheers, hollers. The bar is out of control, and I cover my mouth. I don't know what to do. I didn't expect that. Wes is in front of me, holding his arms high, signaling for me to jump.
"Are you crazy?" I laugh, shaking my head.
"Jump!" The grin on his face is contagious, and I let myself fall. Clinging to him with my arms and legs wrapped around him, I'm looking into Wes's eyes. I love this man with every fiber of my being.
His mouth is on mine before I can react, and I open up automatically. The few hours I avoided him today left me starved, and I can't get close enough. I all but grind myself on him, and he pulls back, chuckling. "Should we take a detour to the employee lounge?"
The lounge. Where it happened.
Wes narrows his eyes at me. "What's wrong, Princess?"
I draw my bottom lip between my teeth, biting down. The sting distracts me from the pain piercing my heart. I place a gentle kiss on his mouth and untangle myself.
"I'll check with Grizz to see if I can leave a little early and grab my stuff from Mags's car. I'll be right back." Before he can ask any questions, I weave through the crowd. I get stopped here and there, customers telling me how much they loved my rendition of the song. All I want is to be alone with Wes. I need to get it all out before I lose the last bit of courage I have left.
Grizz nods from behind his monitors, and I grab Mags's keys out of her purse to collect my backpack. I knew I would leave with Wes tonight, and hope made me pack an overnight bag—hope that he won't kick me out when I come clean.
I push through the back door and veer toward Mags's car, clicking the key fob. In my mind, I go over possible ways to break the news to Wes when a voice stops me in my tracks.
"Hey, baby girl."
The blood in my veins turns to ice. No. Oh God, please no. My body begins to shake uncontrollably, and I drop the keys, the sound echoing in my ears like a wrecking ball demolishing a building.
My breath comes in shallow bursts as I slowly turn toward the one person that could make tonight even worse. He steps out of the shadow behind another car, and my eyes meet his ice-blue ones.
"What are you doing here?" I force my voice to remain steady when all I want is to break down in sobs.
"Didn't your sister tell you I was on my way?" His casual attitude overwrites my fear of anyone seeing us together.
"That was weeks ago," I bark at him.
"I had other things to do." His voice is low, and I can read between the lines.
"What other things?" The quiver is back, and I hate for him to hear it.
"I had a job to do. There is a lot you set in motion with your hasty action."
Hasty action?
He folds his arms over his chest, and I take him in. I haven't seen him in so long. He's gotten larger, more menacing than I remember. For years, his lifestyle had put a strain on his body, but something has changed. He's never been a good man, but I'm looking at a monster now.
"Hasty action?" My voice is shrill, and despite being aware of potentially drawing attention to myself, I can't stop. My fists ball, and I want to draw my blade. "How long should I have watched E rape that girl before it would've been appropriate for me to kill him?"
Jesus, I'm openly confessing to murder.
"You have no idea who Isaiah Ellis was, do you?" He scowls, stalking toward me, and I take a step back.
"He was my boss?" My reply sounds like a question, and my eyes dart around the parking lot. A cold shiver runs down my spine. What am I missing?
H
e steps closer and places a hand on my shoulder. The contact makes me flinch. He tightens his grip, his thumb pressing in the flesh under my collarbone. The pressure is almost too much, but I don't show him the pain he causes me.
"Ellis was your boss; that is correct. But he was also—"
"WHAT THE FUCK?" Wes's voice makes me jerk out of his grip. I spin on my heels, meeting the eyes of the man I…the man I just lost.
Wes is standing in the doorway of the bar, his ashen face visible even in the dark of night. His eyes swivel between me and the person behind me. I open my mouth to explain when he whispers, "Don't ever come near me again."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
This can't be happening. What. The. Hell. Is. Going. On? I need to get out of here, or I'm going to kill someone. How could I've been so blind? All her secretive behavior. The guy she called for help. Of course, if someone knows how to make a body disappear, it's him. JESUS FUCK!
I pound my fist into the nearest wall until the pain in my hand overtakes my senses. Anything is better than the betrayal. She was the first person to break down my carefully constructed barrier in years. I let out the roar that's been building since I found her standing in front of the last man I ever expected to see in the flesh—with his hands on my girlfriend. Correction: ex-girlfriend. I pound the wall one last time. My knuckles are bleeding, and I'm pretty sure I broke one or more bones in my hand.
"Wes, what's—"
I whirl around and have my forearm against Kiwi's throat before he can finish the sentence. A gurgling cough comes out of his mouth, but that's all he manages.
"Did you know?" My spit flies, but I couldn't care less at this point.
"Wha—" he rasps, and I remove some of the pressure.
"Did you know she was playing me all this time?" My force on his trachea increases again. The question is more of a growl than a coherent sentence, but he understood.
His eyes close, and I have my answer. A hollow emptiness begins to spread through my body that numbs even the agony in my hand. My arm drops from his neck, and I take a step back. Blood is roaring in my ears, and at the same time, it's like I'm falling into a black hole where I deny everything I just saw outside.
"Who is he to her?" I search Kiwi's face, not wanting to miss anything.
"He is my father," King answers for him from behind us.
Everything slows, and I turn to the girl who managed to thaw the ice around my heart, make me love her, and then destroyed me.
I blink once, twice. Her father? How is that even—? My mind catapults me back to LA, two and a half years ago. I'm standing next to Rhys and Denielle, watching him on the security feed carry an unconscious Lilly over his shoulder out of her house and throw her into the back seat of his stolen car. We had no idea if she was alive or if we would ever see her again.
"Monroe is my middle name—my mother's maiden name. My full name is Kingsley Monroe Turner." She hugs her midsection and stares at the ground as she speaks. Her light-blue eyes slowly lift to mine, and I instantly see the resemblance. I may have never met him in person, but I've seen enough pictures and videos of the guy.
"You know him as Gray," she finishes, holding my gaze.
Kingsley Monroe Turner. Gray. Francis Turner. She is Francis fucking Turner's daughter. The dead man who got past Lilly's security, kidnapped her, and almost got her killed.
Kiwi moves around me and to her side. "He's here?" He addresses her, but King won't look away from me.
"Please let me explain," she begs, with tears streaming down her face.
I slowly shake my head, taking one step backward, then another. This is too much. I can't— I need— She doesn't follow. While the fingers of my uninjured hand tremble from the adrenaline rush, the other hand begins to throb. When I'm near the entrance to the main room, I pivot and push through the throng of people. I ignore Kai and Zeke as they call out to me.
A knock at the door forces me to lift my head off my pillow. "Go awa—ohhh fuuuck." I squeeze my eyes shut. My head feels like it's split in two. What the— I let it drop back onto the pillow.
Reality seeps in, and I remember her. I remember seeing her with Gray—no, Turner, whatever. Her fucking father. I fell in love with a criminal's daughter—a criminal who was part of ruining so many lives.
The knock comes again, more forcefully. I peel one lid back and peer at the half-empty bottle of amber-colored liquid sitting on my nightstand.
That explains my headache.
"Bro!" Kai's voice drifts into my room. The doorknob rattles, but he can't get in. Making sure no one would be able to enter, I propped a dining room chair against the door. "Sheats, open the fuck up!"
Hearing the slight panic in my roommate's calls should make me feel…something. Guilt for locking him out? No, I don't owe anyone shit anymore. She fucking played me. She knew who I was from day one. It probably was all a game. Did Gray put her up to it? But for what? Revenge? Well, that backfired.
BANG. BANG, BANG.
It sounds like he's about to break through the barrier, and I jerk to a sitting position, a movement I immediately regret as the room begins to fade in and out, and my stomach revolts. I glance toward my bathroom, but it's too late. Cold sweat is already running down my temple as I swallow hard. It's no use. All I can do is lean over the side of the mattress before I say hello to whatever I consumed after coming home. The retching subsides, and hanging over the edge of the bed, I make out my trash can and two more empty bottles on the floor.
Did I drink all that? is the only thought I manage before my body begins to shake uncontrollably, and I heave again.
Maybe I should open the door.
I must've managed to push myself back up somehow because, the next thing I know, something cold drenches my body. When my vision adjusts, I see Kai's furious mug staring down at me.
"What the fuck, asshole?" he barks, and I frown. How did he get in?
Kai's arm shoots out like a snake, and he pulls me up by the hair. "The fuck—?" I roar, trying to punch him in the junk, but my movement is sloppy, and all I manage is to clip his thigh. And even that is no more than a gentle pat my ninety-six-year-old great-grandma would laugh at.
He doesn't release the hold he has on me but shifts so I can see what's behind him—no, what used to be there.
"Where's my door?" My outrage isn't much more than a hoarse slur.
"Gone, motherfucker!" he bellows, as Zeke and Mack appear in the frame.
How the hell did they manage to take my door off?
My teammates look down at me with a mixture of concern and disgust. Following their gazes, I quickly understand why, and a new round of nausea hits me.
Kai finally releases me as I slam my hand over my mouth. This time, I make it to the bathroom before I start heaving. From what I could see in the remnants of my bedroom, I must've puked numerous times over however long I was in here—and missed the trash can half the time.
"It's Monday night, fuckwad," Kai answers my unspoken question from the threshold.
Did I ask that out loud? Wait. Monday? I lost…shit, almost three days.
I turn my head slightly. His earlier rage morphs into worry as he scans me up and down. "Bro, what happened?"
Zeke and Mack show up next to him, holding their sweater sleeves over their mouth and nose. "Dude, what the hell is going on?"
I eye Zeke suspiciously. "Where's your boyfriend?"
His brows shoot up. "At work. What's it to you?"
"Talk to him."
I push myself up, using the rim of the toilet bowl, and stumble back into my bedroom.
Jesus Christ.
It's my turn to cover my nose. This will take a while to clean up—or maybe we should burn it all and move.
We didn't burn anything, but the process required a professional cleanup crew—courtesy of Kai with his rich-folk connections—and purchasing a new mattress and bedding.
Mack spent Monday night with me at the emergency room. My hand looked like one of those surgi
cal gloves when you blow them up. Not taking care of it for three days, the bruises and scabbed knuckles emphasized my friends' argument that it needed to be checked out immediately. I wanted to wait until the morning, but Kai threatened to stuff me in the trunk in my vomit-covered state if I wouldn't concede.
By the time I washed off the remnants of my self-induced pity party, urgent care was closed, and my friends (the verdict on whether Zeke remains one is still out) refused to let me wait any longer to see a medical professional.
Kai oversaw the hazmat process at home, and when it came down to who would drive me to the hospital, I didn't give them a choice. I planted my ass in Mack's car without acknowledging Zeke's offer to drive. I couldn't be around him just yet, not with Kiwi being his fuck buddy.
Four hours later, the results were in, and I was ready to throw up again. I didn't break break my hand, but I managed to cause a hairline fracture in the trapezium and capitate of my right hand. I was out for the next six to eight weeks. Coach would kill me. Hell, I wanted to hurt myself. Practice was all I had left.
D called me almost daily, but I let it go to voice mail every single time. On day three, I shot her a text saying I was busy with practice—lie—to which she responded: Just practice? ;)
The two words managed to snap my carefully constructed self-control like a brittle twig. My good hand clenched around my phone, but no matter how hard I tried, the red haze would intensify. I was coiled so tightly my jaw began to cramp. I chucked the device across the room, where it slammed into the wall and fell behind my dresser. The screen was now cracked, and the sound buttons didn't work either. Add that to the list of things to replace—right after what was ripped out of my chest last week.
Every night, I saw King standing in the hallway, her arms wrapped around herself, confessing who Gray was to her. I wanted to believe that her anguish was real, that she didn't know, and she was hurting as bad as I was—or worse. At the same time, there was no freaking way it was a fucked-up string of coincidental events that led me to the girl who could've been the one. The fucking one. The joke was on me once again.