The commitment to this idea is fading in his presence. And I lock onto Booker’s eyes, searching for the resolve I need.
Maybe it would be better if I just let Alexander kill me.
Or if I went to prison.
Anything is better than this.
Rory doesn’t deserve this.
But Booker knows exactly what I’m thinking. He squeezes my hand in encouragement. A reminder that I’m doing this to protect Rory too.
That’s the thing I focus on while I muster up the energy for one final performance. One so good that even Rory Brodrick won’t know I’m faking it.
He will be safe.
The FBI won’t touch him. Alexander won’t touch him. And the syndicate won’t think he betrayed them because of me.
I swivel around on the stool and focus just above his eyes. I’ve locked myself down. I’ve thrown away the key.
I can do this.
“What are you doing here?” I bite.
“A word?”
It sounds like a question, but it isn’t, because he’s dragging me from the stool by my arm. And Booker’s following, like we planned.
“Get your hands off her,” Booker tells him.
And I’ve got to give him credit, he’s a pretty good actor too.
Still, Rory’s Rory… so he just glowers at him and tells him to piss off.
“It’s okay,” I tell Booker, just like we planned. “I only need a minute. Get me another drink, will you?”
He hesitates, then nods, and walks back to the bar. Leaving me alone with Rory, which is a dangerous place to be.
One wrong glance, one little tremor, and he’ll know.
I can’t let myself feel. I can’t let myself fail.
I have to protect him.
I have to do the thing that hurts the most, so he doesn’t pay the consequences of my sins.
“What the fuck are ye doing?” he demands. “You were in my bloody bed an hour ago, Scarlett. My dick is still covered in your come. Or have you forgotten so quickly?”
“I’m done,” I tell him.
There’s a long pause of silence, and he grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. Really look at him.
“This isn’t a goddamn joke,” he says. “Or a game. I meant what I said about fighting for you. But this is crossing the line. Do ye want me to murder the poor bloke? Because that’s what’ll happen here.”
“That poor bloke is my new plaything,” I say. “And you and I are over.”
His nostrils flare and the pulse in his throat is beating a dangerous staccato. He closes his eyes and paces before me, biceps tensing at his sides.
And then he turns and slams his fist into the wall.
