Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 71832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71832 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I say, not looking at him. “Ten years ago, I turned my back on my family because I hated that they worked for the Crowley organization. And Carson, you are the Crowley organization. Your father may be the head of it, but you’re next in line, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he says simply.
“You’re the reason all of this happened. And I’m sorry, but I’d rather take my chances than spend another minute with you.”
I shove the door open. Before I can get out, Carson’s hand shoots forward and holds my wrist, keeping me from unbuckling my seatbelt. He holds me there, staring into my face, and my heart thuds like crazy in my chest, and my uterus does this extremely disturbing tap dance, and every inch of the skin between my legs is tingling like it’s on fire—but no matter how attractive I find him, Carson’s everything I hate.
“Let go, please.” My voice comes out a pathetic, strangled croak.
“Reconsider. I’ll be here tonight when you get off work.”
“I don’t want you, Carson.”
“But I want you, Ashlyn. I’ll see you later.” He finally releases me. I unbuckle, stagger out, and stand on the curb as the Lexus pulls away, leaving me alone and exposed on the sidewalk.
But I want you. Those words blast through my brain like a cruise ship’s foghorn. But I want you. Not protect me. Not keep me safe. He wants me.
What the hell does that mean, and why does it mess me up so badly?
I shake my head, steeling myself.
Carson’s a ghost from my past. No, he’s a ghoul come back to haunt me. I won’t give him the satisfaction of playing protector when he’s the one that caused this mess to begin with.
That cop said I’m probably safe, and I choose to believe him.
Even if I’m pretty sure he’s wrong.
I head back into Smoke, shuffling like an extra from Night of the Living Dead and feeling like a pile of grave dust.
Chapter 8
Ash
I make it all of an hour before I have another breakdown in the bathroom. This time, it’s Jamila watching over me. “Oh god, you’re cry-hiccupping,” she says, giving me paper towels to dab my face.
“I know, it’s—it’s really pathetic, I’m—I’m sorry, Jams.” I lean against her, sobbing like an idiot.
“It’s fine, really, it’s totally fine. Uh, I don’t know what’s wrong, and you don’t have to tell me—”
“My entire family got murdered.”
“Oh. Well. Shit.” She pauses. “Yeah, I’d cry-hiccup too.”
I sob harder. Iain’s on the edge of life and death, and the people that did this to my family are probably hunting for me. It’s only a matter of time before they end up here at the bar my grandfather used to own.
Meanwhile, I’m still clinging on to the fantasy that I’m safe, per the lovely Boston PD.
“I’m okay,” I say, dabbing at my face, doing a breathing exercise to calm myself down. Four-count in, four-count hold, six-count out, repeat. Four in, four hold, six out, repeat. Eventually, the hiccups stop. “I wasn’t really close to them.”
“I mean, I don’t think you need to be close to your family to have a reaction to all of them getting killed. Sorry if that sounds glib, it’s just—”
“It’s crazy, right?”
“Too crazy.” Jamila hugs me tight. “I think I’d be hitting the alcohol pretty hard in your situation.”
“I considered it, Jams. I really did. But drinking is only going to make it worse and I’m trying to hold it together.”
“Why don’t you go home?” She pulls back, frowning slightly. “Seriously, we can handle the bar. You know that.”
“Honestly? I don’t want to be alone right now.” Despite that lovely reassurance from the eminently competent Officer Hawthorne, the thought of doing nothing but locking my door is beyond horrifying.
But what are my options? Carson keeps offering his services, but I keep reminding myself that he’s the reason I’m in this mess to begin with. If I go with him, it’s jumping from frying pan into the fire.
In this case, a really sexy fire. But still, I’ll get burned no matter what I do.
“How about this. Let’s get you cleaned up—” She glances down at my swollen red eyes. “Uh, cleaned up the best we can, anyway.”
“I look hideous,” I wail.
She laughs, shaking me. “You’re fine. You’re gorgeous! We’ll just make you more presentable so you don’t scare away the remaining customers. Lord knows we need them.”
“We’d be nothing without our ten customers!”
“Exactly. Come on, let’s clean you up.” She’s treating me like a toddler, but frankly, I feel like I’m regressing big time, so I go with it. Jamila helps wash my face, dries it off with more paper towels, brings in some cosmetics to touch up my eyes, and bam, I look like a total freak. But at least I look less like I’ve been crying.