“Zep—"
“You have another choice to make, Chanel, because you’ve already chosen him. You can teach your fiancé how to make you as ready to fuck as you are right now, or you can spend the rest of your life being an unsatisfied pillow princess. I don’t know if he’s capable of getting as dirty as you like, though.”
“I hate you.”
I laugh. “You went from love to hate pretty fucking fast. Are you saying you want a hate-fuck, then?”
She storms down the stairs, but the way she looks back over her shoulder tells me I’m the victor. She wants me to stop her. To call her back and tell her I’ll give her one last pleasure session before giving in to a lifetime of being the other man.
It’s going to be a long drive back home to the man who gets to keep her. As much as she lets anyone hold her down.
“Goodbye, Chanel,” I say and step inside, locking the door behind me.
To avoid giving in, I head out to the garage and hop on my bike. Chanel stands on my porch when I speed by, and I know this is the right choice.
If I was still inside, I don’t think I could keep her out. Maybe she’ll finally stop making my heart break and shatter.
Chapter Twelve
Zeppelin
Iwalk into Seven Crows, and Nancy rests her hands on her hips as I approach the bar.
“Am I the fucking postal service?”
Frowning, I shake my head. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
“Here,” she says, sliding a manilla envelope toward me. “Apparently, I’m a postal worker. Here’s your mail. I’m no longer working Sundays or holidays now.”
Officer Kevin Vold. “You know we can’t have Christmas without you, Nan. We love you, and thank you for giving this to me.”
“Fine. You’re forgiven. Drink?”
There’s a thickness to the envelope that has me itching to open it and read through everything. Maybe make a murder wall in my house and finally find something to pin this on the fucking Venom.
“Sorry, Nan. Raincheck. Gotta look into this.”
It’s hard to ride back to my house. And not just because I’m not sure if Chanel will be there waiting still. The envelope sits tucked into my waistband as I ride as quickly as I can to my place.
Chanel’s gone—thankfully—and I run inside.
“Thisis it,” I say, my hands shaking as I pull out a stack of papers.
Flipping through the pages, I let out a low growl. On every single page is the same sentence.
FUCK YOU, MOLLOY
And each page has a Venom logo stamped on it.
Calling Pacino, I tap the counter as the anger continues to boil up inside me.
“Yeah?”
“I need a phone number and address.”
“Whose?”
“Officer Kevin Vold.”
