Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76539 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
“Because it’s easier to be pissed than it is to be scared,” he says softly returning my gaze with a grin. “You’re staying with me tonight, Sara. You can’t go back to your place.”
This man is a psycho. He’s infuriating and insane, but he’s right. The anger does manage to clear my head a little bit and gets the gears in my skull running, even if that means all I’m doing is plotting his demise.
“Just for tonight,” I say. “And only because they cut off my doorknob.”
“They did what?”
I tell him everything, starting with the moment I reached my door. “I think they were looking for something, but I don’t think they found it.”
He runs his hands over the steering wheel. “They were looking for your notes.”
“My notes?”
“On the trial. They want to know how close we’re getting to figuring out the truth, which means we’re on the right track. But more than that, they were trying to scare you.”
“It worked,” I say and laugh bitterly. “They scared the shit out of me.”
“Good.” He looks at me with a hard expression. “But don’t let them win.”
I let those words sink in. I can hear my father saying something similar: don’t let someone steal your win, Sara. It was always like that with him, that obsession with winning, with getting ahead, with shoving those around you down beneath your boots and climbing up over their bodies. He did it, one surgery at a time, one promotion at a time, and now my father is a famous neurosurgeon with a popular podcast and dozens of eager patients and millions in the bank.
And he’s the most miserable person I’ve ever met.
I don’t think Angelo realizes what that means to me, what I’ve done in the name of winning, and what I’m willing to do. But he’s right—whoever broke into my apartment and ripped my life to pieces wants to make me turn and run away.
But I’m not about to lose this game of death chicken.
They’ll blink first and I’ll catch them—
Or I’ll slip up.
Either way, I’m not letting this go.
Chapter 9
Angelo
Sara unpacks her stuff in the bedroom. I call down to room service for a bottle of whiskey and some dinner. She takes a long shower and I’m so fucking tempted to kick down that door and burst into the bathroom with her and kiss her soaking wet skin and feel her shiver under my hands again.
But something’s between us now. Something big and tall. Fences, doors, walls.
The night of the wedding was pure. It was simple, it was animal. I wanted her and she wanted me. We flirted, we laughed, we danced. We ended up fucking, and that sex still lingers with me, floats through my mind, the taste of her still on my tongue.
But the more I get to know her, the deeper her mystery goes.
I want to peel her apart. I want to see what makes her work.
I wasn’t fair to her earlier today at Sheila’s place. I acted like she could never understand the struggle someone like Sheila goes through, but maybe that isn’t true, maybe she understands in her own way. Not quite the same thing, but pain in its own way. I keep catching glimpses of that pain, little hints of whatever she went through with her parents. The crying, the sorrow. It was like she’s mortified of what happened at her apartment, but sobbing about it is somehow even worse.
That’s not a normal fucking reaction.
Most people would feel okay crying over something like their apartment getting violated.
And yet Sara’s pissed at herself. She’s pissed at me. She’s angry at the world, and I’m not totally sure why.
But I want to find out.
I’m sipping a whiskey when she comes out of the bedroom. Her hair’s wet and she’s in sweats. “You’re a prince,” she says and sighs as she grabs a plate of chicken fingers and fries. “The perfect comfort food.”
“I’ve got drinks too if you want one.”
“No, thanks.” She curls up on the couch with her plate and picks at it. “Can I ask you something?”
“Might as well since we’ll be roommates for the foreseeable future.”
She winces and holds up a hand. “For one night, you mean.”
“Right. Sure. One night.” I grin at the look on her face. “Go ahead and ask me whatever you want.”
“How’d you meet Carmine?”
“That’s a boring story.” I take a drink, ice clinking against the glass. “And telling it might implicate me in a few crimes.”
“Pretend I’m not a lawyer for a little while.” She laughs, and the anxiety is practically sparkling across her skin. “I just need a distraction.”
I look at her, at her still-damp skin, and I have some ideas on how I can distract her. “I got in to trouble when I was a kid,” I say and stare at my drink, at the liquid sloshing around from side to side. “That’s all I had really. I dropped out of school in ninth grade and got a job to help my grandmom with rent, but working minimum wage didn’t go very far. So I started getting involved in other shit.”