“Hold up. Were youat Legend?Because by saying you didn’t meet Marcus Quinterro, it sounds like you’re saying you met someone else there.” Her eyes go wide and her mouth drops open. “Holy fuck. You met Gabriel Legend. Didn’t you?”
I press my lips together, not sure how to play this, especially when I’ve already said too much as it is. As much as I hate lying to her, I don’t have a choice. Even if I’m not in fear for my life right now over this whole thing, I gave my word, and that matters to me.
So instead, I hedge. “Someone pointed him out to me. He was ... impressive.”
With her curiosity expanding every minute, Kelsey’s shocked face morphs into an excited smile. “Oh myGod.Do you have a crush on a very off-limits man? Is that why you want to try to save his club?”
“Kelsey ...” I say her name, hoping she’ll stop digging. It only half works.
“Look, I know what you think I’m going to say, because it’s what Ishould say... but even though all of this is a terrible idea, I ain’t mad at it. Especially if that means you’re going to finally kick Chadwick-the-dick to the curb.”
I meet Kelsey’s dark gaze in the mirror. “Can we not dig too deeply into why I want to save his club yet? Because I’m not sure if I can even do what I said I could do.”
Her face splits with a wide grin, and I’m expecting her to break into her old cheerleader moves at any moment. “Girl, we are going to make this shit happen, if for no other reason than I feel something coming from you that I can’t describe, but I like it. When are we going to the club for our first appearance?”
I stare at my friend in the mirror and reach out a hand to squeeze her arm. “God, I love you, Kels.”
“I know you do, and not just because I can do that thing you like with the flick on your eyeliner.”
I let out a giggle of excitement, which is a hell of an improvement from the dread I was feeling earlier. “We’re going Saturday night, and we’re going toslay.”
Thirteen
Legend
Ishouldn’t be here. There’s no fucking earthly reason why I’m here. I already know from the guy Q has watching the place that Scarlett hasn’t left, and the cops haven’t been here either to raise any alarm after Bump’s stunt.
And yet I’m walking down the street across from Curated with Roux beside me.
I drop my head, making my hood of my sweatshirt fall forward to obscure my face. Although in this neighborhood, I’d have been better off putting on a suit if I didn’t want to be noticed. Either way, I’m assuming anyone who sees me will think I’m walking some rich person’s dog. I hear they have nannies for them now, like they’re kids or something. Not that I’ve got a problem with anyone spoiling their dogs. Bump is pretty much with Roux whenever I’m not, and it works for all of us.
With my dog blocking me, I stare at the four-story brownstone across the street with a small white sign with black typewriter-like letters readingcurated. That’s it. No description of what that means or hours or anything.
A couple of kids stand in front of it, taking pictures of the building like it’s a historic landmark or something. I glance up and seehouse of scarlettengraved into the stone above the doorway. Okay, so it is a pretty fucking historic landmark.
I googled Scarlett Priest this morning because I couldn’t help it. Article after article talked about her inspired business that’s helping to level the playing field on social media.
My phone hangs heavy in the pocket of my sweatshirt. I could send her a direct message on social media. Right here. Right now. Tell her I need to see her to discuss Saturday night. Or ... I could walk right up to the fucking door and tell them I have an appointment.
Only if I’m fucking crazy.
Crouching like I’m tying my shoe, I grip the leash tighter.
I told Q I’d try to snag her phone to put an app on it to monitor all her calls, messages, and texts, just to be sure she hasn’t ratted us out to the cops, but if she doesn’t leave the fucking building, that’s a little more of a challenge. Especially because I’ve learned the place isn’t even open to the public until Friday. I want to trust my gut, which says if she was going to tell, she would have done it immediately.
I could let it slide. Tell Q not to worry about it. That I think we’re covered.
And then he’d ask me if I’m fucking crazy enough to bet mine and Bump’s freedom on the whims of a high-society snob?
My answer to that would have to beno.
Fuck.
But I do need to get in touch with her, if for no other reason than to make sure she’s going to hold up her end of the bargain. That’s a stretch. I don’tneed to, but I fuckingwant to,which is even more dangerous.
It’s not like she’d see my message, though, considering her millions of followers.Fuck it. I’ll courier over a goddamned message that she’ll actually read.
Which would be evidence if she went to the cops.