“My lawyer said you hung up on him.”
“Yep,” I reply. “Three times.”
“Kiki…” His voice is a razor blade wrapped in cotton. “That’s not very cooperative.”
“Drake, I already told you. I don’t want any part of this.”
“Of what? Telling the truth about that night? Don’t see why that would be a problem.”
My stomach churns, threatening to expel the wine I just downed. I know this is a recorded line, which means he has to be careful with what he says. Can’t reveal too much of his plot to escape the noose.
Maybe I should announce his plan, busting it all to hell. If he keeps it up, I may do just that. See how he enjoys being on the receiving end of wrath for a change.
“I heard things went south with the guy you were seeing,” he continues. “That’s a shame.”
Just like that, my world tilts. How the hell does he know about Eddie?
My grip tightens on the phone, so hard I’m surprised the screen doesn’t crack. “What are you talking about?”
Apparently, playing dumb isn’t my best option.
Drake scoffs into the receiver. “Come on now. You don’t think I still have eyes and ears out there? That I don’t know what’s going on?”
A shard of fear slices through my spine, sending rivulets of terror through every blood vessel.
“I’ve got nothing but time in here, sweet cheeks.”
Time to plan. Time to plot. Time to make my life a living hell if I don’t play along.
And now he knows about Eddie. He might not hesitate to hurt him too, just to get back at me for whatever perceived wrong he thinks I’ve done to him.
“Oh, that,” I blurt, desperate to spin a story that sounds somewhat reasonable. “It meant nothing. It’s been over for a while.”
A bitter laugh reverberates through the line. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“Leave him alone, Drake. He has nothing to do with us.”
“I don’t have any problem with him,” he replies easily. “Look, you’ve gotta get your rocks off somewhere, right, sweet cheeks?”
“Stop calling me that.” He knows I hate that nickname. Always have. Now? It makes my skin crawl.
He chuckles again, no doubt getting off on getting under my skin. “Look, stop hanging up on my lawyer. And give some real serious thought to coming clean about that night. Let’s not make this harder than it has to be.”
There it is. To a passerby, it sounds like a bit of amenable advice, but I know Drake all too well. I read between his lines.
Don’t make this hard on me, or I’ll make it torture for you.
“Drake, I?—”
But he’s gone, the line clicking dead in my hand.
If this wasn’t Nolan Montague’s party, I would’ve called with my regrets, because I am definitely not in a party mood anymore. Not after Drake.
But Nolan is the man signing my checks for the foreseeable future, and he made it abundantly clear that Eddie and I were expected to attend. So here I am.
I pass my keys to the valet and force a polite smile before turning toward the house. I know it’s the same place we’ve been working on for weeks—I can see the unfinished wings stretching off to the left and right of the main portion—but it all feels different. Warm light oozes through the foyer, and the living and dining rooms have been transformed into a space befitting a king.
No joke.
