Page 93

I’ll teach you how to make yourself come later...
Remembering the promise Went made me, my hand goes still.
“Kaity.”
It’s Abbey, my name accompanied by a quick knock on the bathroom door.
Ripping my hand from between my thighs on a startled yelp, I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yeah?”
“When you’re finished, I need to…” She hesitates like she’s debating if she wants to finish her sentence or not. “I need to show you something, okay?"
“Okay.” Forcing my eyes open, I reach for the shampoo. “I’ll be right out.”
Ten minutes later, I’m out of the shower and wrapped in my bathrobe. Pushing my way into our shared bedroom, I find Abbey sitting on the edge of her bed, waiting for me. Next to her is a pile of celebrity tabloids nearly a foot tall. When she sees me, she flicks a quick look at the hallway behind me like she’s making sure no one followed me. “What’s going on?”
“Shut the door.” She makes an impatient motion with her hand and even though it’s just her and me up here, I do as she says.
Door shut, I turn around to look at her again. “Okay—now, what’s going on?”
As soon as we’re shut into the room together, Abbey springs up. “Okay…” She nods while she bounces on the balls of her feet. Obviously excited, she begins to pace the narrow strip of space between our beds, hands gesturing wildly. “So, I knew he looked familiar. I mean hot, yes—but I knew that I’d seen him before and then you brought me my magazines and—” She stops midsentence and drops her hands. “Do you look at my magazines at all?”
“No.” I shake my head while something starts to gnaw and chew, deep in my gut. “I don’t look at your magazines.” It’s true. Even when I’m picking up her weekly stash from the store, I leave them in the brown paper bag they’rewrapped in because celebrity gossip has never interested me. I live in a small town in Northeastern Montana and I’ll more than likely die here. I’m almost old enough to legally drink and I’ve never even seen a movie in a real movie theater. Nothing that happens in Hollywood or anywhere else has ever held much interest for me. “Why?”
“You really should,” Abbey tells me earnestly. “Keeping up on current affairs is important.”
Ignoring the fact that she thinks what Emma Stone wore to the Oscars counts as current affairs, I shake my head. “Abbey—get to the point.”
“Right.” Stopping mid-pace, she rifles through the pile of magazines on her bed before she finds the one she’s looking for. Thrusting it at me, she gives it an impatient jiggle. “Here. Look.”
That thing chewing away at my guts starts taking bigger bites. Reaching for the offered magazine reluctantly, I pull it close and look at its cover.
WHERE IN THE WORLD IS WENTWORTH FIORELLA
The headline is splashed across a grainy, long lens photograph of a man walking down a city sidewalk in a pair of worn jeans, boots, and a dark T-shirt, carrying a gym bag. If his size didn’t give him away immediately, the Sox cap he has pulled low over his face and the pair of dark aviators he has on to cover his eyes would have told me who he is immediately. The Koi fish tattoo on his forearm all but confirms it.
The man in the picture is Went.
He looks annoyed. Even though I can’t see his eyes, I know they’re aimed at whoever’s taking the photograph of him and it’s obvious he doesn’t appreciate the intrusion.
It’s exactly the kind of look he gave me on the day we met.
Under the headline is a caption.
CEO OF HAWTHORNE INTERNATIONAL GOES INTO HIDING AFTER A BOOZE-FUELED NIGHT OF CLUBBING TURNS DEADLY.
FIFTY-THREE
Wentworth
As soon as Damien was gone, I went upstairs
and retrieved the cell phone I stuck in my nightstand drawer and haven’t so much as looked at since texting Silver a few nights ago. I’m ashamed to say that I haven’t checked it. Haven’t wanted to because I didn’t want anything real to push through the bubble I’ve been living in with Kait these past few days. I didn’t want to be Wentworth Fiorella, CEO of Hawthorne International. I just wanted to be Went—Damien Bravebird’s younger brother.
Don’t ever fucking call me again. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not my brother.
Even though it hurts, I know it’s better that way. I never should’ve come here. Never should have involved Damien in my bullshit… but even though I know it’s true, I can’t say that I regret it. No matter what happens next, I’ll never regret the time I spent here.
Turning on my phone, I set my jaw, mentally preparing for the barrage of voicemails and text messages that roll across the screen, each one punctuated with a sharp ding! Seventeen voicemails—the majority from Lexi with a few from Astrid, sprinkled in for good measure. Not even bothering to listen to them, I pull up my text notifications. Aside from a few from Delilah, chronicling Silver’s birthday night at the club, the other two are from Conner.