by Angel Payne
My vision went total Chinese New Year. Fireworks. Dragons. And shit-tons of red.
One glance at Scooby told me his did, too. Screams and cheers roared around me as we toppled to the floor, grappling and grunting, sliding down the hall back toward the bathrooms. The crowd jammed into the narrow passage as they followed us, their shouts pinballing everywhere, finally revealing that the pup’s name was Jeff. Or maybe Jess. Not that it mattered. Before long, he wore Trey’s face—and it felt damn good to be pummeling the shit out of him.
The walls spun. The floor became the ceiling then vice versa and back again. I sucked in my own blood then spat it back out. My head whirled as my fists kept flying, and my senses sped into an oblivion that was—
Good.
So damn good.
Through the violence, I finally found escape. With every punch, I finally knew retribution. I didn’t care that it was only a few seconds’ worth. I’d take it. The relief from my mind, letting the logic go and the fury set in, was like being given a clean cancer scan. I was free. I no longer had to “be the better man” or pretend the gossip headlines weren’t degrading. I didn’t have to let logic, patience, or forbearance have a seat at my fucking table anymore. I was done with sucking up my pride, swallowing down my humiliation, and pretending I hadn’t hated every goddamn minute of every day since Trey had walked into that lobby and unmasked me before the world.
He’d betrayed me.
And now I’d show him just how deep the pain from that went.
“Killian! For God’s sake! What are you—”
“Stay out of this, Claire.”
“No! Dammit, you’re going to—”
“I said stay the fuck out of this!”
The burn behind my eyes matched the fire in my chest as I swung my glare around at her. Though I still had both hands coiled in the tattered collar of Scooby’s shirt, she tumbled back against the wall as if I’d physically lashed out, too. Pain, shock, and disbelief crashed across her features. Her beautiful, incredible face—now gaping like I was a goddamn stranger.
“What the hell are you doing?” Her lips spilled the words but her eyes betrayed how she’d edited the question. In those scorched gold depths, I beheld her truth.
Who the hell are you?
I swallowed hard. I had no answer for her. I had no answer for myself. Killian Stone…was gone. He’d been murdered. And Killian Klarke was—
Nobody.
The word echoed a hundred times through the shadows of my mind.
And suddenly…it had a damn nice sound.
Nobody. Yeah. I could do that. Nobody was exactly the person I wanted to be. And nowhere my perfect destination. No more probing stares from the world. No more questions to answer or strange looks to endure. No more places to be. No more decisions to make. No secrets to keep.
No more fear.
Or pain.
I let the puppy fall out of my grip. He choked and rolled away, blustering every expression in his limited vocabulary about my general state of asshole-ness. I laughed for a second, because the kid was right. Without a word, I helped him up. As I did, I slipped a C-note into his hand. After slapping down a couple more hundreds for the bartender, I motioned him to hand over a full bottle of the scotch I’d been chugging—though refused the glass. If I was going down Trey-style, I’d at least do it like a real goddamn man. After peeling the wrapper, yanking the cork, then tossing both, I swigged a mouthful of the shit straight from the bottle. It went down like fire. Fucking perfect.
“Killian. Where are you—”
I cut Claire off with a violent sweep of my arm as I trudged back down the hall, slipping a little on the sweat the junior Scoob and I had left behind on the floor.
“Killian!”
“Leave me alone.”
“Excuse me?”
“Leave. Me. Alone.”
I shoved out the building’s back door, grateful for the cool night air on my face.
“You’re wasted.”
I laughed. Hard. Slammed my head back against the wall and let the sky spin in my vision. “Among other things.”
Claire let out a little huff. It was tinted with confusion. “Other…things?”
I chuckled again. “Wasted,” I repeated. “And ousted. And nameless. I guess that means jobless, too.”
Her hands pressed on my chest. I moaned. I think. Her touch felt nice. So fucking nice. Her nails were painted so pretty, a light mint color. I gazed at them, and tried to wrap my mouth around one. Her fingernails were never boring. My adventurous little fairy…
Killian Stone’s fairy. Not yours anymore, phony. Liar. Pretender.
“Okay. I think we need to talk, Kil.”
I grabbed her wrist and pushed her away. “No talking.” Right. Like that was a conversation I looked forward to.
She exhaled again, sounding determined about the subject. I couldn’t confirm the conclusion since her face had doubled in my vision. “Dammit. You can’t walk, can you?”
“Hrrrm. Not so sure.” On the air, it sounded more like nah so shurr but I was beyond caring.
“I’m going to get my car. Can you stay put for ten minutes?”
I nodded, probably too eagerly, at that. But if she caught onto my plan, she didn’t show it. Ten minutes? Only if she got lucky enough to make it through the throng and back out to the valet stand, which would already be busy by now.
I had at least fifteen.
And that gave me more than enough time to slip down the alley, then the one after that, followed by a dozen more, before she came back. The night swallowed me up, and I embraced its numbing shadows in return. With the amber magic in my bottle to help, I wandered deeper into oblivion, only one goal consuming my mind now.
Stay here for as long as you can.
Chapter Eleven
Claire
I was curled in my old recliner in the living room, gawking like an idiot at the screen saver on my phone.
The picture was one of my favorites. In it, he was laughing, his head thrown back and his eyes closed. His hair, thick and inky and oh-so-touchable¸ was a little too long. I’d teased him about it right before I took the shot, saying that if it got much longer, Kim would start calling him Jenny instead of Jamie. My joke was the instigation for his laughter. I loved it when he let his guard down like that, especially when I had the treat of being the source, so I’d eagerly captured the moment. One of so many…all so treasured.
Why hadn’t I taken pictures of all of them?
I gripped the phone harder. Hated the tear that spilled onto the screen, dashing it away in fear it would ruin one of the only things I had left of him.
Is this really it, Killian?
The words tumbled off my lips after they consumed my heart, bleak rasps that matched the screen saver on my spirit. Tomorrow, they’d likely be screams again. If the sadness wasn’t tearing at me, then the outrage was—until I begged Cupid to just rip the arrow out of my ass and let me bleed out into unconsciousness. But the little brat wasn’t listening, likely because he was laughing too hard in my face.
The conclusion swung me all the way back to anger. A lot of it.
“You’ve left me,” I rasped at the picture. “Haven’t you?”
Kil only silently laughed in return.
“How dare you.” I let my grief climb into a sob. “How dare you, Killian.”
I surged to my feet, struggling to root my thoughts in reality again. But the “reality” he’d left behind was fucked-up and tangled, a bizarre mess made worse by the Stone family, version 2.0: capricious, confused, selfish.
Trey had instantly fired everyone at SGC’s executive level, even Kim Xu. Though the company was contractually obligated to retain Asher and Associates for another year and a half, we were told to stay away due to conflict of interest—that “interest” undoubtedly focused on Andrea and me. Lance, temporarily relocated to Chicago to help shore up the cracks left behind by Trey’s siege, looked miserable in every picture I saw
of him. Willa was doing what she did best: playing the Stone queen mum by attending every last social function she’d been scheduled for—outfitted to regal perfection, of course.
Shockingly, Margaux was the only one who managed to completely avoid the spotlight. She’d gone underground with impressive hermit skills, disappearing almost as thoroughly as Killian had.
Almost…but not quite.
He was gone. Despite all the tears I’d shed, calls I’d tried, dishes I’d shattered, and small electronics I’d ruined, he was gone. And I was here, clinging to my phone, mooning at his picture, turning into a lame sixteen year-old.
And still beyond desperate to find him.
What if he hadn’t left on purpose? What if he was hurt—or even captured? What if Trey actually had something done to him?
I shook my head, realizing it all took my lameness to another level, as if I’d been reading too many spy novels. But when I’d run the concept past Talia, Michael and Chad, they hadn’t thought it too crazy. I just didn’t know what to do after that. I was certain Lance would take me seriously, but he was clearly in the camp of the rest of the family, accepting Killian’s disappearance as something nearly normal. Everyone kept writing it all off, turning the phrase “Typical Kil” damn near into a T-shirt slogan.
Their attitude—and yeah, I included Lance in this one—had led to the touchdown pass of my toaster across the kitchen one morning. The Killian I knew was responsible to a fault. He’d been the glue of that family and company since before I’d met him. This wasn’t “typical” of him in the least. But none of them could be swayed. Hell, they barely accepted my calls anymore. Willa was too busy salvaging the family’s social standing. Lance was too busy trying to rein back Trey. And Trey was too busy snapping those tethers.
The days began to blend too seamlessly. They all ended the same way. I went home and opened a bottle of wine. At two glasses in I dialed his cell, listened to his voice, then hung up after sobbing at him, swearing at him, or both. Usually both.
After seven days of that, I gave up the futile ritual, except the wine part. I got greedy about needing his voice. I’d replay the last few messages he’d left on my cell. Three were from the days just before we’d left for Europe. There was a time gap, represented by the weeks we’d seen each other every day, then three more calls, filled only with his desperate breathing—time stamped from the days just after he’d disappeared. I’d physically force myself to listen to those, thinking that some noise in the background might give me a clue where he was, but that trick worked much better on TV shows than real life.
Needing more, I’d move on to my next hit: the two messages I’d saved from him on the home answering machine and the five still left on my work line. I’d committed every single message to memory now. Every inflection of his voice, all the spots where he inhaled or exhaled, the adorable moments he chuckled at his own ridiculous humor, and those heart-halting times where he dropped an octave in seductive suggestion. The string of his voice, rambling and resonant, was the perfect memento of the days when everything had been normal—and my nightly lullaby. Wine in one hand and phone in the other, I’d finally tumble into sleep before waking up with puffy eyes, papery skin, basket case hair—and the realization that the nightmare was still real, depressing and endless.
I was going nowhere. Fast.
Enough was enough.
Though rage drove the decision, hiring a private investigator was instant balm for my spirit. At last I was doing something. Being with Killian had allowed me to save tons of money. Besides the man’s medieval insistence on paying for everything when we were together, he’d negotiated a ridiculous retainer for me as the Asher and Associates advisor to SGC. In short, nearly every paycheck was going into my savings account. Finally, I could put the money to good use. I never dreamed it would be to finance the quest of finding the man I loved.
I pulled my Audi into the parking structure of Horton Plaza, figuring a quick trip to the mall after meeting with the investigator would cure a little of the “Where In the World Is Killian Stone” blues. I arrived at his office at six o’clock on the dot. His name was Ian Charles, and he had an impressive office filled with art deco furniture, capped by a distinct air of commanding professionalism. I immediately felt as if he’d get results. I wanted my other half back, and if all the framed parchment on the man’s wall meant he could make that happen, then dammit, he was my guy.
We agreed to a fee, followed at once by a string of questions from the man. He pulled out a smart pad, his big hands tapping and gray eyes attentive as he listened carefully to my answers. I was stunned to realize it had been three weeks, nearly four, since I’d last locked gazes with Kil, in the pale light of that alley behind the bar. No wonder my friends were looking at me with pity and concern, and mumbling crap about interventions when they thought I wasn’t listening. No wonder my clothing was starting to hang on me like a bad Olsen twin design. And it definitely wasn’t any wonder that I felt like a cast member of Dawn of the Dead.
My introspection was interrupted by Charles again. “Can I see your cell phone?”
“Sorry?” Did I not just explain I hadn’t heard from Kil in almost a month?
“Well, if you don’t mind, it’s actually the sim chip I’m after. If you haven’t already started there, I’d like to see if we can use it to trace the last place Mr. Stone called you from.”
“But that was over three weeks ago.”
“And he’s also trying to stay off the grid.” Charles finished my thought with quiet efficiency. “Yes, I’ve heard everything you’ve said, Miss Montgomery. This won’t lead us to him. But with any luck, it’ll supply a jumping-off point.”
“Okay.” For the first time in weeks, hope lifted my voice. It felt wonderful. “That’s good. I’ll take that.”
I opened my bag and fumbled frantically through it for my phone. Naturally, it had sunk to the bottom, and I had more trouble finding it through the tears blocking my vision. All too easily, memories sprang of Killian teasing me about the size of my handbags—exactly for this reason. My feverish diggings through the “luggage” always made him chuckle, crinkling the corners of his eyes, sometimes even making some of his hair fall against his forehead in all the best and sexiest ways…
“Dammit,” I mumbled. “Sorry.”
Why did everything remind me of him? I was about to lose my shit in a big way, in front of a complete stranger, even more so when my fingers finally closed around the device. Just freaking perfect. I swiped at the tears that had escaped down my cheeks as I all but threw the phone at Charles. In return, he shoved a box of tissues at me, though the rest of his mien had gone completely “guy,” making him look everywhere other than at the whimpering female in front of him. Could the man be blamed? I was a jittery mess. Maybe the double shot in my morning latte order, even after three hours of sleep, hadn’t been a great idea after all.
After a few minutes of foreplay between my cell phone and Mr. Charles’ computer, the man leaned back in his plush office chair with a satisfied grunt.
“Did you get something?” I tried not to surge out of my seat.
“Well, something more than we had before,” he confirmed. He punched another couple of buttons then swung the monitor so I could view it too. The screen was filled with a map of California from San Luis Obispo to the Mexican border. “Here is where I presume you live. Looks like Mission Hills?” I nodded and he moved on to the next red dot. “The next call from Stone’s phone to yours came from about sixty miles up the coast. Looks like he was just around San Clemente. Let me zoom in. Yep. Looks like a rest stop just past the border check point.”
I nodded, all the way into the game on my focus level. I even would’ve been fascinated by the technology if my stomach didn’t turn while watching the red dots move farther from me. Now that I knew what they represented, I quickly followed the path, which continued north—until stopping in the middle of Los Angeles.
“So he’s in Los Angeles?
” I queried.
“He was three weeks ago.”
Elation turned my heart into a happy-face balloon. Hell, a whole bouquet of them. A jumping-off point. Well, now I wanted to go skydiving. “I have a work cell, too,” I blurted. “There are some calls from him on that, too. Maybe I missed a message that came in after these, or—”
“I think this is a good place to start.” He smiled diplomatically while pointing at the last red dot, near LA’s downtown hub. “I have a man in this general area on another assignment. I’ll send him to this location and have him sniff around today, see if he turns anything up. We can go from there. My hunch is that we will find Mr. Stone’s cell…discarded or destroyed.” He took a second as I leaned back, the balloon bouquet deflating. “I know this is difficult,” he offered, folding his hands in his lap, “but I wouldn’t be worth the money you’re paying if I were blowing unproven sunshine at you. Miss Montgomery, I’m going to be honest. There’s a damn good chance your guy doesn’t want to be found.”
I lowered my head, refusing to let him see the fresh crop of tears now splattering into my lap. “Nothing I haven’t told myself before,” I muttered. Though it was usually at midnight, drenched by gulps of a good Cabernet.
“I’m sorry. He’s an idiot, if you ask me. No guy should’ve left a lady like you.”
After making a follow up appointment, I left the office and headed for the parking structure. The last two hours had drained me so much even shopping sounded like a trip to the dentist.
“Sister mine.”
My head snapped up from where I still leaned against my car, scrolling through my incoming emails. My she-devil stepsister stood there, a multitude of bags hanging off each arm. Margaux had clearly contributed enough to San Diego’s commerce today for both of us.
The thought wasn’t comforting. In the least.
Why did it seem that some days just rolled like a giant shit snowball?
“Margaux.” I was too exhausted to even trade insults with her at this point.