Page 76

“Senator Latchley.”

“Oh. Good. Great.” Brennan and Mike are both looking at me a little like they think something’s wrong with me. And there probably is, but what else can I say?

Another look from Mike. “Well, he is my highest paying customer.”

“Right. Good. That’s…really good.” Stop saying good.

What I’d like to say is I hate that guy and he doesn’t deserve to be fucking Mike. I’m mad enough to spit that the threats we sent him didn’t work. The man is the most entitled SOB I’ve ever heard of, and I’ve met a lot in this business.

I’ve worked events he’s attended, and he’s always got this superior smirk on his face. He’s a do-nothing heir to some broadcasting company, probably hasn’t worked an honest day in his life. Talks like he’s God’s gift to everyone.

The worst part? He’s got a wife and kid squirreled away in a beach house up the coast. Here, it’s a condo with a view, where he makes Mike serve him breakfast in bed.

“Hey. What’s with you?” Mike nudges me with his elbow. Brennan might have wandered off while I was busy getting mad.

My fingers open and close, wanting to reach out to Mike and grab hold of him. “Just lost in thought. You know how it is.”

Mike’s right eyebrow tells me he doesn’t quite believe me, but he doesn’t give me a hard time about it.

Which would be the end of it if I could act natural. The more I think about the way I want things to be with Mike though, the more I hate the thought of him with anybody else.

Right now I can’t stand here. If I stay, I might tell him exactly what I think of him pretending to be that assface’s boyfriend, and that won’t go well.

“I need to, uh…” Not bothering with a real excuse, I make my way over to Simon and ask him to please keep an eye on Ella. Then, I make tracks for the house.

I need to get away from Mike right now before I do something stupid like try to tell him he’s not allowed to fuck spoiled old men anymore.

Every day of my daughter’s life, I’ve woken up shaky and afraid, worried that I didn’t have what it took to get us both through the day. Every day. For the last six and a half years, my only focus has been making it to see another sunset. To the moment I could finally stop holding my breath, at least until the nightmares came.

The only other constant has been Mike.

If I try to lay some claim, he might bolt. The thought chases away my appetite.

“Let it go, Dean,” I tell myself. Not sure I can right now, but I’m trying.

I’m wandering down a short hallway, trying to calm this new swirl of emotion inside me. Trying to focus on more concrete things, like the possibility that they built this place when people were shorter. My head isn’t too far from the ceiling in here.

When I hear footsteps, I spin around, clutching my phone. I’m too surprised to be embarrassed, already working up images in my head of what I might see. A ghostly lady in a nightgown. An old man holding his head in his hands.

It’s only Mike. The loud whoosh of my breath leaving my body, the probably very obvious relief on my face, would be embarrassing if he hadn’t already seen me in worse situations.

Anyway, his stiff body language and angry expression are distracting. What’s he mad about this time?

He gives me a long look before asking, “What was that out there?”

For a second, I think I hear someone else, but there’s nobody I can see right now. Ella’s giggles float to me from the door to the backyard, so I know she’s fine but not too close by.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Even I don’t believe me right now.

“Don’t think for a second I missed that look on your face when Brennan brought up me taking a boyfriend experience next week. Just because I decided not to strangle you over the clients you tanked before doesn’t mean you get to sabotage the rest of them.”

Before I can even think up a way to answer, he’s on me. His fingers slip under the hem of my shirt and his lips push hard against mine.

Instead of worrying he might actually be angry, I’m busy trying to get closer. One hand is on his, urging him upward to touch my chest, one hand to his cheek because I can’t seem to stop myself from wanting to smooth my palm over that firm jaw.

We’re a tangle of limbs. For a moment I forget we’re in a hall. In someone else’s house. Then he tugs up on my shirt, and I freeze in the middle of helping him pull it off.

“In here.” He pushes me through the nearest doorway, into a room that I’m only sort of aware has a four-poster bed and one of those really tall dressers, but where we end up is at the far end of the room, me stumbling half-sideways into an overstuffed chair. The glow of a small lamp perched on a tiny table bathes Mike’s face in pure menace, but I’ve seen that face so many nights it’s like home.