“Lots of people die from head trauma.”
“Your father didn’t.”
Whipping her head around, she presses her lips together. Swallows. Wrings her paint-stained fingers together like she’s tweaking, or perhaps nervous. Despondency colors her face, flushing her tan skin, and I lean forward, grabbing her hips and pulling her between my spread legs.
Sitting back, I prop my hands behind my head and wait.
I haven’t a bloody clue what I’m waiting for, but her discomfort scrapes at the dead edges of my soul. Begs for patience.
“Do you wish he had?” She drops her arms to her sides. “Died, I mean.”
Keeping silent, I just raise an eyebrow. She knows that isn’t relevant—and, judging by the way she won’t meet my eyes, knows the answer, anyway.
Her little nostrils flare, evidence of her anger returning, and I feel the gesture in my cock.
Finally, with a deep, resolute sigh, she speaks. “I dated Preston Covington for three years. Daddy loved him, and I loved Daddy, so when he suggested setting us up, I was all for it. Preston was cute, and he existed in the same circles as us, so I thought it would be an easy fit. Thought he’d be able to understand the pressures and that he’d give me some breathing room from the compound I’d spent years rarely ever leaving.”
My throat grows scratchy, and my hands come down, my fingers hooking in the hem of her shirt. Twisting, because I can already tell I don’t bloody like where this is going.
She keeps her eyes on my chin. “Technically speaking, it was easy, and he did give me a little more freedom. Daddy would let me leave without a major security presence, and Preston would take me on these big lavish dates and introduce me to all these important people. The media loved us together, and it looked great for Daddy’s company.”
I scoff, though she seems too lost in her memories for it to register.
“What Daddy didn’t know, though, is that Preston had a gambling problem, and owed some very bad people a lot of money. And I think that’s why he sought me out in the first place…”
My brows furrow and my fingers slip under her top, smoothing against her soft stomach. “What do you mean?”
Pursing her lips, she just stares for a moment, before pinching her eyes shut. “The public sort of got to watch me grow up, although through a very distorted and distant lens. I think some people grew attached to the narrative of me, and some people liked that I came from money and seemed demure and easygoing.”
“Ah, clearly they don’t know you the way I know you.” My hands slide farther up, skimming beneath her ribs, reveling in the shiver that ensues.
She shakes her head, slowly. Sadly. “I wasn’t… I’m not like that, the girl you met at that party. I’ve never killed anyone before in my life.”
“Well, we all start somewhere, love.”
“I’ve never wanted to kill anyone,” she insists, though I do recall the glint of excitement in her eyes when I stumbled upon her and the corpse. How she’d been filled with something bright and fiery, even then. “They made me that way.”
Freezing, my hands stop their roaming. Rearing my head back, I squint up at her, waiting for elaboration.
“Who did?” I prompt when none comes.
“Preston. His friends. I agreed to… help pay off some of Preston’s debts, and things kind of got… out of control.”
Nausea churns hot and toxic in my gut, threatening to incinerate the lining of my internal organs as they mix together. White-hot vitriol spills into my bloodstream, staining my vision red.
My jaw clenches so hard I can feel a crown loosen on one of my molars. “What did they do to you?”
“What didn’t they do?” She chews on her lip, then slowly brings her hands up to mine, pushing them higher up into her shirt so I’m grazing the undersides of her tits. Fuck, they feel amazing, but I also recognize the shift for what it is; a distraction.
“Lenny,” I warn, as she divides my fingers, bringing them up the curved flesh to brush over her nipples. “We aren’t done talking.”
“No more,” she whispers, leaning into my touch, and fucking Christ, I’m a piece of shit, because I let her.
Bloody fucking hell, I let my little puppet take comfort where she can. It’s like she’s reached up and handed me her own marionette, asking me to continue the show.
Behind the zipper of my trousers, my cock throbs painfully. Desperately, weeping for this woman. This far-too-young, devious and damaged piece of collateral.
A pawn in every man’s life that she’s ever been a part of, and even though I’ve been up front about my intentions, that doesn’t make them less impure.
Doesn’t make her less used.
And yet, as she guides my fingers, kneading her breasts with my hands as a barrier, I find that I don’t care about intent.
Just like I don’t really care about her apology.
Does a man who’s done far more for far less even deserve one?
Locking my ankles around hers, I use my knees to pull her in, and she squeals, bracing her palms on my shoulders. Pushing her blouse up slowly, inch by devastating inch, I reveal more and more of her to my hungry eyes. By the time the fabric sits over her breasts, baring their heavy swell and dusky-pink peaks, I’m salivating.
“Okay,” I say, blowing cool air over one nipple, watching it pebble before sluicing the flat of my tongue against it. She gasps, arching into me, and I let out an involuntary groan. “No more for now.”
Her skin is soft, ridiculously smooth, and I dig my fingers into her hip as I anchor her in place. My lips part, gently teasing once, twice, redoubling my efforts when she shivers.
When I take her tit as far into my mouth as I can get it, letting her crawl into my lap to get closer, closer, so she can rub her cunt on my cock, I reason that I don’t need to hear the rest, anyway.
I can fill in the blanks, and I’ve already made up my mind.
Preston Covington will not survive me.
29
Ignoring my brother’s glare is an art form I’ve perfected at this point in my life.
Unfortunately, it’s the only one.
Slapping my emergency credit card onto the boutique counter, I meet Cash’s thousand-yard stare head-on. “If you have something to say, spit it out. You’re being weird.”
Cash watches, rapt, as the cashier swipes the payment. Then he shakes his head, stepping out of the line again. “Did Dad finally give you your allowance back?”
“No.”
His eyebrows hitch. “So, who’s paying for this?”
“Uh, hello?” I take the black card as it’s returned, waving it around in his face. “Cold, shiny, hard plastic.”
A flat expression graces his features. “I know you’re referencing a movie, but I refuse to acknowledge which.”
“Mean Girls,” I say. “Palmer would’ve gotten that.”
“Yes, well, maybe next time I’ll invite him. I’m sure he’d be much more inclined to spend his lunch hour waiting while you tried on dresses that, I think, you’re never even going to wear.”
We pause at the glass doors of the building, and I frown. “Why won’t I wear them?”