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I’m not sure how long I stand with my hands braced on the shower wall. The knock on the door forces me to switch off the water. Snapping a towel around my waist, I wrench the door open.
The female bartender, dressed in a tight sleeveless black dress stares back at me with wide blue eyes. Both her arms are covered in elaborate ink, and her blue-black hair is cut in drastically sharp angles. She’s pretty, in a pixie sort of way.
“Yes?” I hiss.
Her sharp inhale doesn’t stop her gaze flicking over my body. “Uh, Axel sent me up with a bottle. I knocked on the door a few times, but you didn’t answer…”
I walk past her into the bedroom. The Macallan M is sitting on the silver tray next to an ice bucket and a glass. I pick it up, pull out the cork with my teeth and take a long swig. I turn around. She’s still standing in the bathroom doorway, her eyes telegraphing a look I’m all too familiar with.
Striding to the bedroom door, I kick it hard enough to slam it into the wall. “Thanks for the delivery, sweetheart. Be sure to tell Axel to give you a nice tip from me. But sadly, there’s nothing else on offer tonight.”
She rearranges her features from disappointment to nonchalance, and walks out with her chin in the air. I take another swig, slam the bottle down and head for the closet. I’m tugging a black tee over the borrowed jeans when I hear the ping of a text.
I leave the bedroom and hunt for my discarded clothes. I find the phone on the floor next to the coffee table in the living room and swipe it awake.
The text message produces a reaction that makes me question whether the heart I thought was dead is actually still alive, somewhere in the seething mass of emptiness inside me.
I take a step back and sink into the sofa. Then I read the message again.
You’re in my head, too.
***
I shouldn’t do it.
The session with Delilah tonight has thrown a bracing perspective on my intended goals. Or rather my goal posts. They need shifting. Fast. Or I risk every plan I’ve put into place over the last ten years unraveling.
Maxwell unofficially announced his intention to run for a second term this morning, partly necessitating my return from South Carolina on Tuesday. I stood next to him and Delilah, dutiful son and stepson, and applauded after his speech at the governor’s mansion in Albany.
The time and place I have etched on my mind is months away. All I need to do is bide my time.
So I shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t draw Lucky further into this soulless circus. My cracks are wide open, unassailable crevasses. She has no idea what she’s risking if she allows me to see her again.
But… I’m Quinn Blackwood. Selflessness is an alien concept.
I want her. I…need her. She’s mine. Thinking about her makes my body itch for a completely different reason. Besides, contractually, for another seven fucks, she belongs to me.
I own her.
So I dial the number.
The ringing echoes six times, then clicks.
I hear her breathing, but she doesn’t say anything. Not for several seconds. “Uh…hello?” The acute trepidation in her voice reminds me that I’m not the only one with secrets in this game. Whatever demons she’s battling consume her just as mine do.
Common ground feels…good.
“Elly.” Saying her name soothes another layer of the hell circle.
She exhales softly in surprise. “Quinn? I wasn’t expecting you to call.”
“You prefer me to remain in your head?”
“I…no. I mean, all your texts were sent in the middle of the night. I thought I wouldn’t hear from you till later. Not that I expected to hear from you, of course. I mean…” She stumbles to a halt.
I’m lying back on the sofa without realizing I’ve moved. My hand is resting on my, thankfully, no longer roiling stomach. The blackness is still churning, but I no longer want to crawl out of my skin. “Midnight is twenty minutes away. We can continue this conversation then. Will I still be in your head?”
“Umm, maybe,” she answers. I catch a ghost of a smile in her voice. Or it could be in my razed imagination.