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CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

PERRY

Ideally, I would have spent the night wrapped in St. Clare’s arms and marveling that I sucked an actual dick tonight. Instead, Lars wakes me up way too soon, jeans held out toward me with his eyes pointed at the ceiling, and announces that it’s my turn to take watch.

A yawn tears apart my face, and my shoulder feels like it’s been torn off and reattached badly. “Do we have any painkillers?” I grumble, throwing my legs off the tiny bed and trying to get them into the jeans. I’m half-asleep and in a lot of pain, and nothing feels like it’s supposed to.

“Yeah, on the kitchen counter. Your friends left us some stuff to keep it clean too.”

My muscles rebel, and I push up onto my feet. “Thanks.”

He hesitates. “Need help?”

As much as I want to curl into a ball and tell him I’m ouchy, I send a smile his way instead. “Aww, Lars. Are you starting to care about me?”

“Never.”

“You are.”

St. Clare groans and rolls onto his side, blankets tangled around his legs, showing off his bare ass.

Lars rolls his eyes at me and presses his index finger to his lips. I make my fingers into a heart in return, then tug the blankets up over St. Clare’s butt before I start getting ideas. I leave the bedroom, closing the door behind me, and find the one room of the cabin dimly lit and cozy. There’s no way I’m not falling asleep out here. So instead of flopping down on the sofa that’s calling me, I grab the painkillers, throw them back, then chug half the jug of water in the fridge before tearing into a loaf of bread. There’s nothing to have on it, which blows, but I choke it down plain, and once my belly is full and my shoulder is no longer actively trying to kill me, I can think a bit clearer.

Yesterday was a fucking mess, and I’m not sure I learned anything useful other than Luther wants me dead. I can see how that would be my fault, but he really should have given me full disclosure when I signed on for the job. Burying things in unspoken fine print isn’t a good idea for anyone.

Judge Judy is always very clear on that. If it’s not agreed on, it’s not an agreement, so how was I supposed to know that a little bit of money would be enough to get me killed?

Personally, it feels a bit extreme to me. Like, killing someone isn’t exactly a victimless crime. Taking someone’s life is … it’s … that’s it for them. Shouldn’t I have a say in the type of thing that will change my life forever?

So I guess that’s the first thing I need to fix. Which means handing St. Clare over to him. St. Clare. Whose dick I just sucked.

Right.

Can’t do that.

Other than the fact I don’t want to, there has to be something in gay code where exchanging blow jobs means you’re not allowed to give the other guy up for murder.

So. Plan B.

My brain sobs at the thought.

I’m really, really not a planning guy.

This is slightly more than my standard daily situation though, so I probably should try.

St. Clare. He’s wanted by … someone. Someone that Luther is maybe scared of? Someone who doesn’t actually know St. Clare is st ill alive. So … that part sounds good? Except it means someone else is trying to kill him now.

But that also means that Luther is our shared enemy.

Do we kill Luther?

Would that make everything go away?

Considering the person really behind this is bound to find out that St. Clare is alive soon enough, I don’t think so. We need Luther to tell us who it is. Then we kill him.

Which is definitely something I can do.

Even if Luther’s my friend.

He said so himself.

If I’d known a career as a hitman was this hazardous, I never would have bothered in the first place.

I huff and drag my good hand back through my hair. Okay. Think , Perry. Focus. You can do this.

St. Clare is convinced these nightclub people are after him, so maybe I need to pay them a visit? Find some things out. Work out if it’s them at all.

How will I do that? No clue. I assume an opportunity will present itself though.

You miss one hundred percent of opportunities if you don’t try. Of course, that opens up the opportunity for someone to shoot me in the head, but we have to start somewhere, and that’s one outcome of many.

They might shoot me in the chest instead.

I rub my sternum, not thrilled by that idea either, but what other choice do we have? None of us wants to be stuck here for long.

The penthouse would have been much better, and if they didn’t find us there, we’d still be living in luxury. I did everything I could to throw off the people Luther had following me, and I really thought I did it. I’d been content to ride around in circles all day to get rid of them, and the only reason I went back when I did is because I’d been so, so sure we were in the clear.

So sure.

A sliver of fear tracks down my spine. Did they follow me … or did they find me another way?

Tommy only knew where I was because I told him. I didn’t have my backpack. It was just me and … my phone.

I head over to the small table where I left it a few hours ago, and all I have waiting is a check-in message from Margot. Then another telling me I need to message her now so she knows I’m alive.

I quickly do exactly that, not wanting her to worry, then turn my phone over in my hands. It’s very old and very secondhand. The thought of someone tracking it doesn’t seem possible, considering the signal I get on the thing is spotty at best.

Just when I thought I’d be able to upgrade to something that gets internet, all this shit went and started. Still, to be on the safe side, I text Margot that I’m turning off my phone for a bit in case it’s being traced and that I’ll check in when I can.

That should do it.

I think.

If someone was tracking it though, we’d probably be surrounded by now.

And since Luther needed me to give him St. Clare, he obviously doesn’t know where he is. Which means neither of them is being tracked either.

And again, if they were, we’d probably be dead by now.

I’m being paranoid. They clearly followed me, and I was too stupid to realize it.

Maybe St. Clare would be safer without me around.

I’m no criminal. I’m not cut out for any of this.

I cover my face and mini scream into my hand, just a bit, just enough to make me feel better about this shit. My fingers seek out my bracelet, tracing the familiar patterns and hearing an echo of Mom’s laugh as she picked the brightest, silliest beads she could find.

This is all going to pass.

I let all the doubting go.

Plan or no plan.

This is all going to work out okay.