She’s right, but it doesn’t change a damn thing.
After a quick check of the club and the disappointed look on Zoe’s face again telling me everything I need to know about attendance, there’s no reason for me to stay. Q and I normally alternate nights, but with so few bodies on the floor, we’ve let Zoe, the youngest of Q’s three older sisters, work on her own more. She’s proven to be just as capable as either of us, and if Scarlett Priest can really do what she says she can, Zoe will be proving her worth even more soon.
I’m almost afraid to hope. Hope only sets me up for more disappointment, and fuck knows I don’t need any more of that. The big plans and dreams I’ve been trying to make happen have already been stained with blood. My revenge is still out there, waiting for me to take it. And I will, when I’m ready.
* * *
Roux hangs her head out the window of my truck as we leave the city behind, and I’m fucking ready to fall face-first in my bed and pretend today never happened. But even after I park the Bronco inside the bay of the old service station that Bump and I both have small apartments above, courtesy of Q’s family, I can’t shake the image of Scarlett hanging in my head.
I glance up at the darkened windows above me, which means no distraction in the form of Bump to get her off my mind. Since the lights are shining from the big white house on the other side of the scrapyard, I assume he’s hanging around Q’s dad and his crew, watching them insult each other while playing poker.
Which means ... I’m all alone except for Roux.
Normally, that would suit me just fine, but I don’t trust myself right now. The urge to take out my phone and search for more pictures of her face disturbs the shit out of me.
I don’t give a fuck about her,I remind myself.But ... some recon isn’t a bad idea.
Roux and I climb the stairs, and despite the fact that the shop hasn’t serviced a car in years, the scents of brake fluid, grease, and exhaust still hang in the air. After living here for fifteen years, I think it smells exactly like home, or the closest thing I’ve ever known to one.
Roux whines at the door as I unlock it, ready for her treats and bed. I take care of her first before mixing a protein shake for me and dropping onto the sofa in the living room. My phone sits heavy in my pocket until I can’t stand it anymore.
“Fuck it,” I say to the empty room as I give in.
It doesn’t take me more than thirty seconds to be staring at her photo. Shit, dozens of them. Probably hundreds. Or hell, thousands. An entire gallery of the woman who has the power to make or break me.
And I can’t fucking look away.I scroll down, staring at image after image of her laughing, smiling, running, hiking, buying shit at a flea market ... it’s like I’m watching her life, frame by frame.
Her perfect fucking life that Bump jacked up by kidnapping her.
I toss the phone atop the pile of oldHot Rodmagazines on the coffee table and grab the remote to turn on the TV. Mind-numbing entertainment. That’s what I need. Because I know there’s no way in hell I’ll be able to sleep after looking at those photos.
Halfway through a rerun ofFamily Guy, I snatch up the phone again and stare at a picture of her laughing as she dodges a water balloon on the Fourth of July, sparkler in hand.
Then I make a vow.
“After my club is in the black, I will never see your face again.”
Nine
Scarlett
Iwake up with drool on my cheek, which is pressed against a hard surface, rather than my pillow. I’d like to pretend this is the first time I’ve ever woken up with the impression of the corner of my laptop on my face, but that would make me a liar.
Peeling my skin off the MacBook, I swipe the tiny pool of drool away with the edge of my sheet.
Note to self: change the bedding today.It’s a mental note that I probably won’t remember until I’m climbing under the covers tonight and too tired to do anything about it, but at least I’m trying.
With a yawn, I roll out of bed, my laptop clutched to my chest the way some women carry their babies.
Someday.
But not today. Today, I need to mainline coffee until I can pretend I got enough sleep to make up for the deficit I’ve been racking up since college. I glance at the clock and smile when I see that I only have fourteen minutes until Amy will be knocking on my door with the rundown of my schedule for the day.
Fourteen minutes is enough fortwocups of coffee.
After washing my face, then applying my morning routine of skincare products, I make my way into the kitchen and smile at my ridiculous collection of mugs. From the kitchen setup downstairs in Curated, people might think that I only drink the nectar of the gods from dainty antique teacups, but they’d be wrong. I prefer to sprinkle as much absurdity into my morning as possible. Life is too short to take everything seriously. It’s not like we’re getting out alive.
As soon as the coffee is ready, I pour it into mythis might be whiskeymug, wrap my fingers around it, and inhale.