‘No one’s accusing you of anything,’ Paisley interjects, her voice calm. ‘Just tell us what happened. Chas needs to hear your side of things.’ From beseeching to calculating, Paisley’s gaze has other things to say.Wait. Listen. Don’t throat punch her just yet.
‘We were laughing,’ she begins. ‘And drinking. And then he went outside to smoke a blunt. I might have taken a couple of tokes.’
Fucking great. Sex, drugs, and alcohol; the idiot trifecta.
‘Did he smell of weed?’ Paisley asks, her gaze sliding to mine. But I shake my head.I don’t think so.
‘We started kissing, and things got a little heated. And then you know.. . ’
‘And you let him film you.’ At this she blushes—this!That’s like, I don’t know. Charity work?
‘Afterwards, he got nasty,’ Sophia says, hurrying on quickly. ‘He told me he was dating you, that if you found out, you’d be angry. But not nearly angry as he would be.’
‘He threatened you?’ That doesn’t seem like the Flynn I know. But then again, the Flynn I know wouldn’t have done this.Do you ever really know someone,whispers my consciousness. Especially after such a short time?
‘I suppose. Maybe?’ Sophia says. ‘But I didn’t know what to do. So I took a cab home.’
‘Was this before or after the ambulance?’
‘There was an ambulance? What for?’
‘Never mind,’ I interject, thinking back to how I’d introduced Sophia to Flynn.
‘Sophia, just to be sure, he has dark hair and was wearing a black suit and a thin neck tie?’ She nods as it occurs to me I could be a little more specific. ‘The guy with the sausages?’
‘Yes, that’s him. You introduced me to him—to Tate.’
Chapter 32
CHASTITY
I don’t know how long it takes me to get to Tate’s restaurant, or if I get there by running a dozen traffic lights, by broomstick, or by ruby fucking slippers. But the one thing that consoles me as I pull up on double yellows is that this isn’t the first time I’ve driven on autopilot and lived to tell the tale. We’ve all been there at one point, I’m sure. One minute you’re turning the key in the ignition, and the next you’re pulling up outside your destination without any recollection of the journey. Difference is, I think, as I slam the door to my car, this time my mind was filled with discernible thoughts. Angry thoughts—no, rage filled thoughts. How the fuck—no, how aboutwhythe fuck would he do this?
I push open the door to the restaurant, assailed by the smell of garlic and rosemary, my eyes flicking around the light filled space. The lunch crowd have mostly departed though there are one on two tables with paying customers still seated. I feel sorry that I’m about to spoil their afternoon coffee, tapas, or whatever the hell they’re partaking in.
‘Table for one?’ A young waitress appears in front of me. Dark haired and pretty, she wears the bistro staple of white shirt, black skirt and wrap around apron. A menu is pressed between her folded arms and her chest, her eyebrows raised in expectancy.The girl next door type. I mentally kick myself for slotting her into a trope or a category—professional hazard, I suppose.
‘Actually, I’m here to see Tate,’ I reply. Maybe I should be in the movies. That devil-may-care answer was almost Oscar worthy. Meanwhile, something resembling lava swirls and builds deep inside my chest.
‘Oh.’ Her brow furrows but straightens almost immediately. ‘He’s just popped out to the bank. Would you like to take a seat while you wait?’
No, I would not. Righteous indignation won’t have the same effect if I’m sitting. I’m more likely to standona table andLucha Librehis ass, though without the mask because I want him to be sure that it’s me that’s taking him down. You know, just in case he has a troop of irate women after him. Not that irate really covers how I feel. How did he do it? And more to the point, why? What kind of low-life scum does that sort of thing?The mentally ill kind?
‘Chastity! What a lovely surprise.’ I’m brought out of my musing with a snap at the sound of Tate’s cultured voice and his pleasant though measured smile. ‘Were you meeting someone or waiting for me?’
There’s just something about his tone; a certain smugness, an almost imperceptiblesomethingthat provokes me immediately. As the waitress makes herself scarce, words begin tumbling from my mouth. Though not the kind of I would’ve anticipated.Less swear-y for one thing.My mother would be so proud.
Camilla not so much.
‘Why, Tate? Why would you do such a thing?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Yes—yes you do.’ This I know for sure. What I don’t know is, ‘What could you have possibly thought you’d would gain from it?’
His laughter is bitter. ‘Well,Chastity.’ There’s such venom in his delivery. ‘Your parents didn’t think your name through very well, did they? Perhaps they were duped by that pink mouth and peachy skin? I’m sure you must’ve been a beautiful baby. And your parent’s fooled into thinking their cherubic child would grow to be a woman of virtue and taste.’
Ah, so that’s where this is going. I have no taste because I didn’t choose him. And because I produce erotica, I have no virtue.What a colossal tit.
