My thumbs are moving before my brain can catch up, typing out words I know I shouldn’t send, words that are going to blow up my life.
@bssweetgirl
You were right.
About everything.
I hit send before I can pussy out.
The message delivers with a soft whoosh.
I stare at the screen, waiting for the dots to appear. Waiting for him to see it. To respond. To punish me or save me or do whatever the fuck it is Bastian Rooke does when you show him your throat.
Nothing.
The phone bleeps.
BATTERY LOW
But I can’t find the will to stand up and go plug it into the charger. If it dies, I won’t have to see if Bastian replies or not. Won’t have to answer if Kai tries to call.
I won’t have to deal with any of it, not right now, not when I feel this fucking pathetic.
I set the phone down on the floor beside me, pull my knees to my chest, and press my forehead against them. The butterfly pendant digs into my palm, its broken chain dangling between my fingers.
The worst part isn’t that I sent the message.
Or how quiet my head gets the second I stop fighting Bastian.
It’s the hope…the sickening, gutting hope that he’ll reply at all.
My phone bleeps again.
SHUTTING DOWN
I stare at it and will it to die faster.
Chapter 7
Bastian
The bourbon is far from adequate. Unsurprisingly, since I’m in Agony Hollow’s only wine bar.
I swirl the amber liquid, watching it catch the low light of a nearby chandelier. The ice has melted just enough to tease the bourbon’s oak notes. Still, the finish is disappointingly short. In my current state, there should be club soda in this glass, not alcohol…but waiting on Yolanda Winslow as if I’m some recalcitrant student requires something to occupy my hands.
She’s late. Deliberately so.
A petty power play from a woman who’s rapidly running out of them.
I check my watch. Another five minutes have passed since I last checked.
I could leave—should leave, frankly—but she made her position clear on the phone this morning when I again tried to weasel out of the meeting she’s been trying to set up since Tuesday.
…if you still want a job come Monday, you’llmakethe time…
I feigned grief, then funeral-related duties, but for once she refused to back down. That alone was intriguing enough for me to accept.
I take another sip of my drink, relishing its burn despite the sub-par taste. The bar is appropriately dim—all dark wood and leather booths. It’s the kind of establishment where Agony Hollow’s so-called ‘elite’ can conduct their moderately scandalous business with a modicum of privacy. Two tables away, a town councilman is having dinner with a woman who is most definitely not his wife. His hand keeps finding her thigh under the table. Hers keeps finding her wine glass.
