“You’re a fucking liar and I hate you for making me trust you,” I seethe. The pain that spills through my chest when I say it is overwhelming, and the muscle in my back is a knife twisting. I yank the zipper on my duffel bag and the tab breaks off and I’m so pissed that I half snarl, half scream.
“It’s true!” Alexander insists. “Then last night she told me she’d—how did she put it?—set her sights elsewhere. I assumed she meant she wasn’t targetingyouanymore, but it’s clear now she meant she’d found another source.” He scrambles to his feet. “I’ll show you the message.”
I pluck at the broken zipper, both relieved and infuriated by the delay. Part of me is dying for him to produce something that’ll change my mind. I want to fall into his arms and we can kiss and laugh with relief and everything will be fine…
From the bedside table Alexander groans and says, “Fuck me, I deleted it.”
“That’s convenient,” I snap.
I get the zipper closed and push to my feet, and the pain in my back is so sharp I can scarcely stand straight. Alexander tosses his phone onto the bed and hurries over.
“You must believe me,” he begs.
My tears are hot, poisonous, and I know I look awful. My nose is running and without giving a shit I lift the neck of my shirt and wipe it. I’m beyond caring, fully wrecked.
How did I get suckered by some posh fuckboy? I gave him my secrets; I gave himmyself.
“Wouldyoubelieve you, Alexander?” I ask bitterly.
His head drops back, looking toward the ceiling, and a small animal moan escapes him. He meets my eyes again. “I suppose I wouldn’t, no. Given the evidence, and my history. I know it looks bad.”
I study his face. Finally, in a miserable, almost childlike voice, I say, “You straight up jobbed me for revenge. This whole time—everything we’ve talked about—you’ve just been hunting for scraps you could use to break me.”
“Never. Neverever, Salvi.”
His dark eyes are like river rocks viewed underwater, glossy with tears that are probably fake, and I want to fucking slap him for it. Because even though I suspect he’s full of shit and this was a scam andhe fucking won… part of me wishes I believed it. I could’ve fallen asleep in his arms and had a great race tomorrow. Instead, I’m going to suck, and after that, I’ll go back to screwing hot strangers and playing the Spitfire Sage role, the irrepressible agent of chaos.
I shoulder my duffel bag and he takes a step toward me, cupping my elbow. I windmill my arm away from him and feel the muscle in my back tear. Prickling numbness shoots down my arm.
“Please don’t do this,” he implores, clearly struggling to keep his voice level.
“Youdid it, Sand. Not me.”
He dashes the heel of one hand against his face, wiping away tears, and I remind myself that spoiled, malignant liars are very good at this shit. It’s a performance. It always was, and the sooner I accept it, the sooner I can get back to beingmyself.
I head for the door, and he follows.
“Once your… your anger wanes,” he falters, “can we discuss this? We can’t justend things.”
I wheel back toward him, furious. “Once my anger wanes?Please ram that condescending bullshit directly up your ass, Laskaris. I won’t give you time to fine-tune your setup with a better lie. Congrats on the payback for me getting you fired. Take your fucking W and choke on it.”
I flip the door open hard and it smacks the wall. A framed black-and-white photograph of a pigeon smacks the floor, level as a guillotine, and I hear the glass crack like river ice.
He braces himself in the doorway as I start down the steps. “If I’d been hiding something, conspiring with that woman,” he tells me in a rush, “would I have volunteered my mobile to you—the photos of Badrick? I was in another room when you looked. I’d not’ve risked that with something to hide.”
I pause, one hand gripping the iron railing hard, then keep going.
Fuck, I want to believe him so much…
When I reach the bottom step, his words float after me, and he sounds wrecked. “I’mnotgiving up. This is real.”
My shoes bark with my abrupt stop. I turn, yanking the iron railing in my frustration, and it rings with a metallic echo like fake thunder on a stage. He moves to the top of the steps and grasps it too, and it strikes me that we’re connected now, like a completed circuit.
Exhausted, I tell him, “If you ended up accidentally feeling something during this fucking hustle, this emotional shakedown—if you’re capable of being ‘real,’ which I doubt,since everything about you is tailored to fit the audience and always has been—I don’t care. I have nothing else to give. You got what you wanted and played the game well, honeybee.” I hop off the bottom step, onto the lobby tile. “And as for you ‘not giving up’?” I call over my shoulder. “It isn’t your choice.”
At the paddock, in the darkness of the motor home’s bedroom, Priya’s voice is quiet over the background of night-bird song from the white noise sleep machine.
“I know you said you don’t want to talk about it—”
