“Are you fucking kidding me?” Preston growls, his voice too low for anyone else to hear, except maybe the guy with a crew cut beside him.
Smirking, Jonas brings his hand back up above the table, though he doesn’t bother moving away from me. My stomach drops when I realize his fingers still glisten.
With his opposite hand, Jonas grabs his champagne, lifting it in the direction of my parents, who don’t seem to have been paying attention to us until now.
“To new discoveries,” Jonas says, pinning Preston with a solemn look, before raising his free hand and sucking on the tips of his fingers. Sucking me off of him. “And delicious brunches.”
20
Kiss for the cameras! Just a little peck!
The chants echo in my mind as I run my thumb over my bottom lip, watching Lenny disappear inside with her mum and brothers. We’d obliged for the photo op, and the strangled noise that came from her as she tasted herself on me was far more intoxicating than I’d ever anticipated.
A few weeks in and I can clearly see my plan for abstinence crumbling.
Then again, how could I have accounted for the fact that Lenny would be like an intravenous drug? One hit of her could leave me addicted as easily as it might kill me.
As soon as the glass door shuts, leaving me outside with the bloke my little puppet used to date, I spin on my heel, searching the grounds for Tom.
“She’s never gonna love you the way she loved me.”
Cursing inwardly, I turn my head in the direction of the prep school prick who doesn’t seem to know when to keep his gob shut. He’s lounging on a chaise by a dormant firepit, leaning back on his elbows with a smug grin on his irritating face.
Two men sit on another chaise behind him, one watching our exchange while the other types on his phone.
Shoving my hands into my trouser pockets, I take a single step toward Preston Covington. If I’d thought to pay any attention to Lenny over the years, perhaps I would’ve recognized the heir to an oil pipeline. As it is, I’ve been quite busy, and the lad never seemed to be of very much consequence.
Clearly, the fact that they’re now broken up just proves that theory.
“I should certainly hope not,” I tell him, pasting on a wide smile of my own. It’s all teeth, stretched so it makes my lips ache. “Given that she’s no longer with you, mate.”
Preston rolls his eyes, sitting forward and steepling his hands between his parted knees. “That’s just ’cause she scares easy.”
“Oh?” My smile falters a bit. Lenny, scared? That certainly isn’t the girl I know.
How much do you actually know about her? A tiny voice screams in my mind, reiterating the fact that I’ve been a shitty boyfriend, fake or not. Studying the subject is no substitute for experiencing it.
“If she hadn’t run off to Vermont the first chance she got, things would’ve been different. I was hooking her up with art dealers and gallery shows all around the country. Trying to get her to do something with her life.”
My mouth opens to question the value of her paintings. Not because they’re bad—what the bloody hell do I know about art?—but because she’s said she isn’t interested in selling them. Canvases just seem to pile up at the beach house, her muse more active than her desire to turn them into something useful.
Granted, Lenny also seems keen on keeping things from me, so perhaps business is yet another one of her secrets.
“Yeah,” one of Preston’s mates says, running a hand over his platinum-blond hair. “Some of the deals he had in the works for Lenny would’ve made her a big fucking name in the art world. My boy has connections.”
“And you think I don’t?”
“I think your brother’s not as well liked as he wants everyone to believe, and that your connections are probably the sewer rats behind your bar.” Preston tilts his head to the side, then reaches up and pulls the Ray-Bans off his head, fitting the black frames over his nose.
Dull amusement prods at the back of my neck. “I’d tread lightly when speaking about the people in my life, Mr. Covington. I don’t believe you know me well enough to voice your opinions.”
“I’ll talk about whatever I want where Lenny is concerned.” He pushes to his feet, heading back to the house. As he passes by me, he says, “If she’d stop letting her nasty pussy do all of the thinking, maybe she’d realize you’re just using her.”
There’s a split second where I refrain. A singular moment suspended in time where I don’t immediately react.
In the grand scheme of things, the pause is infinitesimal, because in the next second I’ve got the pillock pinned to the wall. One of my hands wraps tight around his throat, and I use the leverage of the house to lift so his feet just barely scrape the ground.
Preston claws at my wrist, drawing blood in his attempt to free himself. Regret floods his gaze the moment he realizes he’s broken my skin, and I reach into my pocket and slowly pull out the switchblade tucked inside.
Lenny asked me not to bring any weapons, but I declined to enter the lion’s den unprepared.
Flicking it open, I can’t suppress my grin when he flinches. His eyes search over my shoulder, and I hear the two sets of footsteps shuffling toward us, trying to save their friend.
The tip of the blade fits itself at Preston’s pulse, pushing in just enough to hurt.
“I’m not sure who you think I am,” I tell him, noting from my peripheral that his saviors have stopped in their tracks. “But I won’t ask you again to keep my fiancée’s name out of your mouth. Her life, her decisions, her snatch—none of that concerns you any longer.”
Removing the blade from his neck, I swipe the tip through some of the blood he left behind on my wrist, then press the flat of it against his jaw, leaving my mark behind.
Branding him would be preferable, but I suppose this will do.
His face grows red and splotchy, and with the slightest jerk of my wrist, the knife slices through his skin, creating a very minor flesh wound across his cheekbone.
“You’re fucking crazy,” he spits, a tear gliding down to mix with his blood.
“And you’d do well to remember it.”
Releasing him with a violent shove, I step back and put my blade away as Preston crumbles to the ground. His friends rush to his side, trying to assist him, but he shakes off their grip and pushes to his feet on his own, before stalking off around the side of the mansion.
The two men stare at me for a beat, and I grip the lapels of my suit jacket. “Gentlemen,” I say, nodding once, and then moving on.
Tom’s garage sits on the southeast side of his property, the five-car building dwarfed in comparison to the main house. Each overhead door is latched shut and secured with a heavy-duty padlock, a far cry from the way it looked just a few weeks ago.
I suppose finding a dead body in storage is as much a reason as any to upgrade security.
At the back corner of the building, the single side door is wide open, as if he’d expected I’d come find him.
Stepping inside slowly, I do a quick scan to make sure the bastard isn’t trying to ambush me. The immediate area is mostly boxes and plastic bins, and only two of the five stalls are filled, one with a steel gray Aston Martin and the other with a cherry red Maybach.