Page 4 of Painkiller (Sin Records #3)

F uck, it’s cold. I know this is New York in December, but why the hell is it so cold?

It doesn’t help that it’s dark—well, as dark as a never-sleeping city can be.

I should’ve had time to go home, take a shower, grab some food, and change, but rehearsal ran late—really late.

Opening night is tomorrow, and the director decided none of us looked ready.

Now I’m worried I’ll miss the subway to Midtown, and the next one won’t get me there in time for my audition.

I’ll be late. The guy told me not to be late.

My sneakers slap the sidewalk at a relentless rhythm as I shoulder through the crowd. A few people swear at me. More toss me middle fingers. I’m pretty sure I shoved one girl to a near face plant, but the guy coming from the other direction not caught her.

This is New York. If you can’t handle it, you shouldn’t be here. Besides, I probably helped that girl meet her future husband. You’re welcome.

The sign leading down the tunnel appears, and relief slams into my chest like a truck, nearly knocking the breath out of me. I’m going to make it.

Then I hear my name called.

I try to ignore it. But when it meets my ears again, my eyes close, and my feet stop because I know that voice.

I met Casey Parsons a few months ago after our ballet class Mean Girls were being, well, mean.

She looked so sad, and I noticed she didn’t talk much with the other girls.

I could’ve chalked it up to her being a spoiled rich girl, but something in my gut told me she wanted to disappear, and not in the graceful pirouette exit kind of way.

So, I offered to be friends, and she admitted she didn’t have many.

I’ve been a pretty shitty friend, honestly. Life keeps getting in the way, and I haven’t known her long enough to tell her all my troubles. Not that I would if I had. I’m not one for burdening others with my problems. But I need to do better, so she doesn’t think I’m brushing her off.

My teeth grind as I spin on my toes and face the black Bentley stopped next to the sidewalk.

Dodging the crowd, I dart across the sidewalk to the car.

Casey hangs out of the window, her cheeks pink from the cold, and her bright blue eyes shining.

“I tried to get your attention before you left, but you were too fast.”

A wide, forced smile pulls my lips apart, and I pray it’s not too obvious. Nana always said I was awful at hiding my emotions, but I don’t think that’s true. I’m a dancer. Digging deep and finding emotion in the music and movements is part of the job.

My head bobs once, acknowledging she’s right. “I was trying to catch the train.”

“I wanted to invite you to our house two weeks from Sunday, after the matinee. It’s nothing special, but we’re having a small party.”

“A party for who?”

“Technically, it’s a multipurpose party,” she laughs. “It’s for Graham and my little brother’s birthdays. Noah’s is today, and Graham’s is the day before the party. I probably should’ve planned something sooner, but I’m not great with social things.”

“How old is your little brother?”

“He’s a year old. We’re doing a small something for him tonight with just family, but we wanted to do more. So we’re killing two birds with one stone.”

My head falls back as a laugh spills from me. I’m pretty sure it’s the first time I’ve smiled, much less laughed, in weeks. It feels good even if it’s short-lived. “So you’re having a joint party for your boyfriend and little brother together?”

“It will be fun,” she says, it like she believes it. From what I’ve seen of Casey, she does. She’s sweet. Too sweet for this shark-infested city. I don’t get why she doesn’t have more friends.

“And you’re sure you want me there?”

“It’s for friends. We’re friends.”

I peek behind her at the grumpy man on the other side. “I’m not exactly his friend,” I whisper.

“But you’re mine. If you want to say no, I’ll get it, but I would love for you to be there.”

“What about you, Graham?” I call out. “Do you mind if I crash your birthday?”

“I don’t even want a party,” he grumbles, then waves his hand in the air. “Crash away.”

I’m agreeing with a nod of my head before I’ve actually decided. My subconscious—and my outward conscious—feels guilty for not spending time to get to know her after promising her months ago we would be friends. But I can make it work. “Sure. I’ll be there. Text me the address.”

Casey squeals, wrapping her long arms around me.

Graham grabs her coat to keep her from falling out of the vehicle and kissing the pavement.

He jerks his dark head at me in what I assume is thanks for making her happy, but his eyes barely leave Casey.

And for no reason at all, I notice his dark eyes are a different color than his brother’s, which are the color of sea glass.

Graham has that polished, intimidating CEO thing down, but Jagger looks like the kind of man who would ruin you and call it art.

I wonder if he’ll be there?

Not that I’ve been thinking about him or anything.

Okay. That may be a lie. He’s lingered in my mind since I saw him the other night at the restaurant.

In all the months I’ve known Casey, I’ve met Graham, obviously, her dad, and even a few of her friends, but never Jagger.

Though I didn’t need to meet him to know who he was.

He’s made an appearance or two on celebrity sites and magazines, not only because of his last name or billionaire brother, but because of his work with Sin Records as well.

And that’s not even the primary way I recognize him.

He’s also connected to my sister. My twin, with whom I’ve been estranged for years.

She hates me, refusing to communicate unless necessary.

So I stalk her socials just to know she’s alive.

A picture from earlier this year showed she was alive and well…

and Jagger was next to her. I have no idea how they met, but it was obvious they were… friendly.

What I didn’t expect was how little justice those photos did. Jagger Davis in person? He’s the kind of attractive that makes your knees weak and your panties wet. And the intensity that drips from him? It doesn’t look through you. It unravels you with filthy threats and dirty promises.

“Let us take you where you’re going,” she says, pulling away from me and wiggling back inside the car.

“I’m not a fucking chauffeur, Casey,” Graham huffs, and I glare at him because that was freaking rude.

Casey spins, facing him, her hands come up between them. “It’s my fault she missed the train. Please?”

I’ve never seen a man crumble so fast in my life. Graham Davis’s hard exterior evaporates before Casey even utters the words. How must it feel to have someone that devoted to you?

I decide to save him the trouble because I don’t want a ride from them.

The last thing I need is for Casey to learn what I do when we’re not rehearsing.

I don’t want the endless questions about why.

“No. I don’t need a ride. I’ll catch the next train.

” The next train will make me late for the club, but it’s better than the alternative.

“Get in the car, Poppy.” Graham’s voice booms from the driver’s side.

My head tilts, mouth pursing, I bite back the urge to let him know he’s not my boss. “No. That’s quite all right,” I say between clenched teeth.

“You have to ask nicely,” Casey tells him.

“Nicely? To get in my car to give her a ride? You’re joking?”

“Be. Nice.”

“It’s fine. I’m not going home, anyway. I’ll just take the next train.” I’m not sure why I tell them that. There’s no reason to give any details. My business is my business, and it opens me up to more questions I won’t answer. In three, two…

“Where are you going?”

My lids slam shut. Nice job, idiot. Panic slithers into my chest as I search for a believable response. I rub my nose. “Jersey.”

Jersey! I’m freezing my ass off, wearing next to nothing beneath my coat, standing on an Upper Westside sidewalk, spewing lies when all I have to do is walk away.

Panic induced intrusive thoughts for the win.

“What’s there?”

“My… my boyfriend.” Oh my God, what’s wrong with me? I don’t owe them anything, but my mouth and brain aren’t communicating.

“Then we’ll take you to Penn Station.”

“Of course you will,” I mutter.

“Great. It’s settled. Climb in.”

With tight lips and a slight twitch in my left eye, I open the shiny black back door and climb inside.

Despite my argument, I won’t deny the warmth is amazing.

And at least the train station is in Midtown, not too far from the club.

I guess, once they’re out of sight, I’ll grab a cab or a rideshare.

I grab the seat belt as he pulls away from the curb, noticing a black SUV behind us following the same path. “You’re being followed.”

“Ignore it. It’s just my bodyguard.”

Bodyguard. Because, of course. Most billionaires have bodyguards, right?

The next few minutes are spent with me weaving my web of lies as I detail my plans with my nonexistent Princeton boyfriend.

Casey points out that Graham went to Princeton— because, of course, he did— making the web weaving more tangled.

But if you’re going to lie, make it believable, or what’s the point?

When we reach the station, I swing the door open before the car stops. My fingers wiggle over my shoulder as I yell thanks. Casey’s goodbye is barely heard over the sound of the crowd.

Instead of running into the station, I dart through the throng of people and then slide in the opposite direction of Casey and Graham. With my fingers to my mouth, my shrill whistle blasts through the Manhattan noise while my thumb jerks out as I hail a cab.

I feel no remorse when I jump between a stupidly cute couple to grab the taxi first.

“West thirty-ninth. Midtown. An extra twenty if you get me there in five minutes.”

“Lady, do you see this traffic? Be more like fifteen.”

“Fifty.” I tuck my tongue in my cheek so I don’t bite it off for offering what I can’t afford.

He gets me there in six—a minute late. “Hey, where’s my fifty?” he yells as I climb out of the car.

“You’re late. No deal.” I slam the door shut and ignore his curses .