His expression turns from one of victory to a slight twitch of fear. He’s finally realizing I’m not some soft celebrity who will roll over and go home to LA with my tail between my legs. Good. I want him to be afraid.
Chapter twenty-three
E
WatchingMacwalkoutthe door of my dad’s house hurts like a knife to my chest. He gets the address and leaves without even looking me in the eyes. I thought he was brave. That he would stand up to my father in a way I never could. I was wrong.
My father barely looks at me, and Booker ignores me as I fight tears. I don’t know how long I stand there, running a finger along the collar I thought was a promise of protection and care.
How will I get the metal ring off without his key? Am I forever stuck with the reminder of the man?
The man I was falling for. Though, if I’m honest with myself, I have already fallen. Mac wasn’t an innocent man, nor was he open about his feelings—if he has any—but he treated me better than I expected. It’s probably a giant red flag that I’m falling in love with a man with murders people, kidnapped me, and can’t love me back.
“What are you standing there for?” My dad barks and makes me jump. “You lost me money. Go to your room until I decide what to do with your worthless ass.”
“Yes, S–” I stop myself from calling my dad, Sir, like he expects. I used it in a different way with Mac, and now it’s triggering. “Okay.”
Shuffling toward the stairs, I hear Dad and Booker talking. Booker asks if they’re really going to let someone like Owen MacKenzie go free.
“He has no clue of my reach and influence,” Dad replies, and I hear a chair creak under his weight. “Let him get his assistant, and when they’re safe back in California, we’ll send someone to dispatch both of them. We don’t know how much the woman discovered before we nabbed her.”
Fuck. My first instinct is to find Mac and tell him about the threat. He abandoned me to the man who he knows doesn’t care about me, and I’m still worried about him. I only wanted to help him save Di, since she was looking into my dad, but I didn’t expect he’d trade me for her. I hoped…I foolishly hoped he’d keep me like he promised.
“Plus, he has that show about crime,” Booker points out as I start up the stairs. It’s a curving thing, open to downstairs so the sound carries. “You don’t want him talking.”
“No, you’re right,” Dad agrees. “Call the men so they know he’s coming. They can kill them both tonight.”
No! Mac and Di don’t deserve to be killed like this. My heart aches at the thought of my Sir not being in the world anymore. Of someone good and innocent like Di losing her life over someone like me. The poor woman has been kidnapped twice, and dedicates her life to helping Mac kill bad people.
Could I sneak out and
“I’ll take care of it, sir,” Booker agrees and I hear footsteps leading outside.
A twinge of anger overtakes the heartbreak. My dad isn’t berating the man who let us breach the house and confront him alone. I got shipped off to a new school or different house every time I had a tiny mistake, but Booker still gets my dad’s respect? I guess he’s the son my dad always wanted, while I’m the fuck up.
Reaching my room on the third floor, I find nothing has been touched. I’m not delusional enough to believe my dad is sentimental. He doesn’t change the room because he can’t be bothered, not because he is saving it for my return. Plus, I’ve only been cut off for about six weeks now.
Now I’m home again. But it doesn’t feel like home.
Mac’s casita was temporary too, but I found during our travels that being in his presence felt like home. By his side, I could relax and let go. With Mac, I didn’t have to worry about hustling or paying bills. He made me feel like I was safe. Wanted.
Collapsing into bed, I don’t bother undressing, pulling a decorative pillow to my face and screaming into it. For the first time in my life that I can remember, I feel hopeless.
As a boy, I had my mom for only a short time. Though I barely remember her, she instilled hope for the future in me. The friendly staff in Cuba gave me a glimpse at my mother’s culture and how family works, and I had hoped that I could have that closeness someday.
Mac showed me a possibility I didn’t dream of. A life of hot sex and companionship. We talked about movies and music we liked on the plane, unsolved crimes we both wanted to research, and places wewanted to see. Beyond the kinky fun, I could see myself spending my life by his side.
His celebrity doesn’t matter to me. I grew up rich, but without the attention. I could be happy in the shadows or on his arm. If he wanted me to be there. Which he clearly doesn’t. So maybe I’m more delusional than I thought.
My hope is gone, replaced by grief at the loss of Mac and the glimpse at how we could have been.
When my throat is raw from crying and the pillow is soaked, I toss it aside and kick my shoes off. I don’t bother with the duvet, and I never turned on the light. Sleep takes over, but my brain doesn’t stop supplying me with images of Mac. It is all painful, memories of his playful side and how he took care of me, and also imagined scenarios of rejection.
Waking at the sound of a horn outside, I startle and sit up to rub at my eyes. I feel hungover, and don’t let myself wonder if Mac and Di are already dead. He left me here and there was no way I was getting out last night.
It takes me a few minutes to get up and use the attached bathroom. I change into clothes from my closet, sad to leave the ones Mac picked for me on the bed.
Opening my door, I hear people moving around and calling out. My dad often has a handful of guards that accompany him during the day, and they sound like they’re all here and awake now. Walking down one level, I see a man shredding papers in Dad’s office. I can’t process why that’s important and move on.