Pressing my lips together, I nod once. “Yes. That’s exactly what happened.”
Cash groans. “You’re the worst liar, Len. What the hell are you not telling me?”
Blowing out a breath, I run my fingers along the edge of the desk, taking a moment to sit back and study him. Like his twin, Cash’s personality seems to be wholly wrapped up in his physical appearance: neat, dark-blond hair that he doesn’t let grow past a certain length; crisp button-downs and dress pants with the intentional pleating; a clean-shaven jaw and emotionless brown eyes.
Even his name denotes what the man prioritizes, and the fact that he’s trying to lecture me about honesty feels ironic.
“Buried body clause.”
His mouth forms a terse line. “No, Lenny. Damnit, not again.”
I reach for another mint. “Buried. Body. Clause.”
Sighing, Cash slumps in his chair, defeated by his own principle. During undergrad, he learned about these lawyers back in the seventies whose client confided in them about the murder and burial of two women.
The lawyers found the women but kept their discovery a secret, and later hinged that decision on confidentiality duties to their client.
Cash lives by that clause, which is the only reason I’m here and not paying someone else money for legal consultation.
Not to mention the fact that if Daddy saw me pay a law firm or take out a large sum of cash, he’d be on high alert. And right now, I need him in the shadows.
As I explain how the current plot of my life came to be, starting with the party the other night and ending at Jonas’s bar, Cash’s face grows increasingly more haggard with each passing second. I’d feel a little bad for confiding my darkest secrets if I wasn’t so fucking sick of shouldering them alone.
Placing his glasses on the desktop, he lets out a low whistle when I’m done.
“For fuck’s sake, Len. I didn’t think you were invoking an actual buried bodies clause. What have you gotten yourself into?”
My stomach lurches, because in truth I don’t know.
When I came back from Vermont, I wanted change. Kicking Preston and his evil out of my life was the start of that, though I wasn’t expecting such a quick and volatile progression.
Sitting forward, Cash slides a yellow legal pad from under his laptop stand, watching as I take another mint from the dish in front of me. I chew slowly and he uncaps a pen, waiting.
“So, what’s the plan? You need a contract, yes?”
Swallowing, my brows hitch. “You’re gonna help me?”
“If I don’t, you’re gonna get yourself killed.” He pauses, tapping the pen against the desk. “That’s not your goal here, right?”
Acid burns in my throat as I think back to what my response would’ve been a few months ago.
The pit of despair I managed to crawl out of, and the hours spent biding my time, waiting for an opportunity to separate myself from the girl I was and the girl I had to become in order to survive.
Sometimes, the best revenge is just moving on. Thriving, while the men who ruined my life sit back and have no say in anything.
If you’d told me a year ago that Jonas Wolfe would somehow play into that, I would’ve called you a liar. But here we are.
Sort of.
I shake my head, and Cash starts jotting something down. He keeps his case notes handwritten and locked in a safe, and though I don’t understand why an environmental lawyer takes such extremes to ensure his privacy, right now I’m grateful.
Daddy’s proven to be lethal when it comes to getting what he wants, and I have no doubt that if he caught wind of a scheme brewing under his nose, he’d hack into any technology necessary to nip it in the bud.
“Okay, well, do you think we can get Jonas here to sign his portion of the contract?”
Toying with the paper wrapper in my lap, I clear my throat. “Well, that’s the thing. He hasn’t exactly agreed yet.”
Cash pinches the bridge of his nose, then turns to his computer and begins typing. Ten minutes later, he sends me on my way with a notarized document and a simple request: get Jonas Wolfe to sign.
Which would be a bit easier if he hadn’t banned me from his stupid bar.
I catch the ferry back to Aplana and a cab to the house, staring out the window as summer on the island whips past.
Small oak and cedar trees line the concrete sidewalks of The Square, our version of a downtown on the north end of the island. Storefronts with vibrant flowers and rustic signage are peppered between government buildings and restaurants, and the contrast between this half and the half where The Flaming Chariot operates is like night and day.
Jonas’s bar sits on the border, stuck in a turf war between the north and south ends. Somehow, the spot works, though, because people from all over flock to it, though that could have more to do with the fact that it’s the only landlocked source of nightlife we have.
We pass the building on our way, but only because I ask the driver for the scenic route. The windows are boarded up, and the place looks completely desolate—though I know there’s likely someone inside.
If the rumors are true, Jonas himself is probably in there right now, skinning someone alive for whatever secret organization he works for. The Mafia or some cultlike terroristic group, nobody seems to know, but people on the streets are always whispering about it.
Suddenly, my proposal to him feels like a colossal mistake.
Not that it matters, I guess, since he hasn’t even agreed.
And really, why should he? The only incentive I’ve given him to pretend to date a stranger is publicity, which is probably the last thing a man like Jonas Wolfe wants.
When I arrive home, I lock myself away in my bedroom. Mama and Daddy are gone on a business trip, so aside from the regular staff and the security detail I keep ditching, I have the house to myself.
Dragging my easel outside to the balcony, I set up a small canvas there and finish up a sketch project. My mind isn’t fully immersed, though, and keeps drifting to thoughts of Jonas and his bright-purple gaze.
His hands in front of me, gripping the bottle of whiskey and pouring drops onto my exposed skin.
How I shouldn’t have fed into it, given everything, but the alcohol seemed to spur me on.
Or maybe I really was drugged.
The tip of my pencil breaks off onto the page as my mind wanders further, and the reality of my situation turns into terror. Memories from months ago come flooding back, and I can no longer focus on anything except the volume of my heart beating in my throat.
A sick feeling pounds around inside my skull, like a screw being drilled into the bone. Sobs form in my lungs but don’t escape, as if they’re stuck in a sort of limbo between my despair and coping mechanisms.
Toes curling, I sit back against the French doors and try to distract myself from the urge swelling inside of me. It builds and builds, a tidal wave ready to crash against the shore and destroy everything in its path, and when it crests in my brain, I snap.
I shuffle to the kitchen in a daze, driven by visions of food as they flash before me. I’m not even fucking hungry, but I find myself tucked in the corner of the walk-in pantry, shoving Little Debbie Zebra Cakes into my mouth until I’m almost choking on the artificial flavoring.
My throat struggles to take it all in, and my stomach aches in protest, but goddamnit if the agony doesn’t dull in the wake of indulgence.