by Ashley Jade
That was a little over an hour ago, though and I haven't heard from him since.
“It's not my fault he left. It's yours.”
It’s the first words I’ve spoken since we came back.
A shard of guilt pricks me for blaming him, but I'm getting tired of Asher interrogating me.
I refuse to betray Preston and tell his brother things he doesn’t want him to know.
I made a promise…a vow.
Asher rakes a hand over his scalp. “Look, I’m sorry for being a douche.” His face goes slack. “I just don't want to see my brother in a body bag because you don’t want to tell me what he’s been up to."
An ugly feeling churns my insides and the room spins. “I think I’m gonna be sick.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” Breslin says. “I think we’re all forgetting it’s Preston. Him skipping town is nothing new.”
When my eyes narrow, she adds, “I'm not trying to be insensitive, but there's no denying things are much better when he's not around.”
Not for me.
Her eyes drift to Asher. “Preston's...he's a lot to handle. Not to mention dangerous, selfish, reckless—”
“He's my friend.”
I look at Landon because he’s the only other person in the world who will understand. “I wouldn't be standing here if it weren't for Landon and him.”
There were two heroes in the cafeteria that day…and Preston was one of them.
He was mine.
He didn’t have to trade places with me when Kyle held me at gunpoint. And he didn’t have to continue dragging me into an elevator while I fought him and almost ruined his only chance at survival.
But he did.
Landon’s expression turns serious, like he’s replaying that exact moment in his head like I am. “Kit's right.” He rubs Asher's shoulder. “It's obvious the guy is going through some shit. I think we should find him and let him know he has people in his corner.” Asher gives his hand a gentle squeeze.
Breslin's face turns to stone. “I don't—”
“He saved Kit, Bre,” Landon whispers as his gaze bounces between Asher and me. “He's family.”
I give him a grateful smile. If there’s one person who can tame Breslin’s stubbornness and get through to her…it’s Landon.
Breslin nods slowly and ruffles my hair. “Okay, we’ll keep looking.” Her other hand cups Asher’s cheek. “We won’t stop until we find him.”
Landon pulls out a small notebook and takes a seat beside Asher. “He doesn’t have a car and I’m assuming he doesn’t have much money. Therefore, how far could he have really gone?”
Asher turns peaked. “He has a little over nine hundred. Give or take.”
Landon stops writing. “How do you know?”
Crossing my arms, I look at Asher. “Because your boyfriend not only told his brother he was a screw-up, he bet him he’d fuck up my life in the next six months. And then—he threw money in his face.”
I don’t bother holding back the venom in my voice. It was a shit thing to do.
“That was cold," Breslin says at the same time Landon bites out, “What the hell is the matter with you?”
Asher points to the bruise on his cheek. “That was after I apologized to him and he punched me.” He holds up a finger. “Not to mention, threatened to break my arms and ruin my career.”
“He did what?” Landon and Breslin yell.
Asher juts his chin at me. “And accused me of trying to sleep with Kit.”
Goddammit, Preston. You sure don’t make it easy for a girl to defend you.
I wave a hand. “He didn’t mean it. He was upset because Asher barged in unannounced and riled him up.” When they all make a face, I stab the counter with my finger. “Can we focus on what’s important? Like finding Preston.”
Breslin clacks her teeth so hard I’m surprised a few don’t break. She takes a sip of her coffee and turns to me. “I’m assuming he’s been in Vegas gambling all this time, right?”
Dread coils my insides and I clamp my mouth shut, just like I always do whenever they ask me a direct question about Preston.
I can tell their patience with me is starting to wear thin. Even Landon looks mildly annoyed with me now and the man has the patience and temperament of a saint.
“How can we find him if we don’t know where he’s been?” Asher gripes.
“I…he…” A rock lodges in my voice box.
I’m not trying to be obtuse. I want to do the right thing. But I can’t help but feel like Preston will never trust me again if I spill. And I need him to trust me so I can help him.
I glance at the clock and nausea barrels into me.
Seven.
A lot can happen in seven hours. Preston could be anywhere right now.
He could be in trouble.
I pin Asher with a look. “If I tell you what I know, you have to promise me you won’t throw it in his face, no matter how mad you are.”
His jaw works. “I don’t want to throw anything in his face, Kit. Despite what happened between us yesterday, I do care about him.”
Breslin rubs between his shoulder blades. “Asher’s been looking for him since he first left. You and Preston might be friends now, but Asher was your friend first. Stop treating him like an enemy.”
Breslin has a point. Maybe I subconsciously put Asher in the box marked bad because a small part of me can’t help but think Asher must have done something horrible to make Preston not want to talk to him.
Despite my friendship with Asher, I inadvertently chose a side without realizing it.
And even though it’s probably wrong of me, I can’t bring myself to regret it.
Preston needs someone on his side.
But I need to find him.
“He’s been living in Vegas.”
Asher throws his hands up. “That’s the first place I sent the private investigator. How the hell did he not find him?”
I sit on my hands to stop them from shaking. “I don’t know. Maybe because he worked for the m—”
Juan’s ringtone cuts me off mid-sentence and I jump out of my seat.
“You got some 'splainin' to do,” Juan hisses when I answer. “Not only did you send me to the shadiest motel, but this skeevy guy at the front desk—”
“Skeevy guy has a name, twinkle toes,” Max grunts in the background.
Juan sighs. “I’m sorry. This skeevy guy named Max told me you’re married.”
Well, shit.
My mouth goes dry. “Um—”
“To a man!”
“A little bit,” I settle on. I’m seriously regretting not telling him now.
There’s a long pause on the other line. And then, “Oh, my God. It all makes sense.” He exhales sharply. “Sweetie, are you a prostitute? Are these men pumping you with drugs and forcing you to fu—”
“No,” I shout, both offended and impressed with Juan’s ability to conjure up the worst possible scenario. “I’m not a prostitute and they’re not giving me drugs.”
I can feel everyone’s eyes on me and I point to the phone. “It’s Juan.”
I get up and walk into the living room for some privacy, but everyone—Picasso included—follows behind me. “I would love to explain everything to you, and I will, but I can’t right now because time is of the essence. I need you to ask Max if he’s seen or talked to Preston—my husband.”
“Hold on.”
There’s murmuring in the background before Juan sighs. “He said if you wanted to talk to him, you should have called the motel instead of sending me to do your dirty work.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I grumble. “Put him on the phone.”
“Long time no talk, toots,” Max drawls a moment later.
“Don’t you toots me, jerk. This is important.”
“What’s up?”
“Preston’s missing.”
I hear him chomp down on his toothpick. “Shit. Doll, I’m sorry to break it to you, but he�
�s not missing. I told him not to cross Campanelli.”
Despite knowing what he’s saying is incorrect, I have to remind my heart to beat again. “His debt with Campanelli is taken care of.”
“He got the money back from the Russians?”
I start pacing my living room. “No. Long story short, Campanelli and his goons showed up at my nanna’s house and tried to kill him, but she took out her gun and offered him thirteen million to leave me and Preston alone.”
“What?” Breslin screeches.
“The fuck?” Asher barks.
“Jesus,” Landon mumbles.
Woof.
I hold up a finger, silencing them.
Max whistles. “Is your nanna single?”
“She…ew.” Shaking that god-awful image out of my head, I continue. “Like I was saying, it’s not Campanelli. Preston left in the middle of the night on his own and I can’t find him.”
“Did you try calling him?”
“I don’t have his number.”
“You don’t have your husband’s number?”
So help me God I am going to deck the next person who says that.
Cradling the phone, I rub my temples. “I don’t. I was hoping you could give it to me. And before you say you don’t have it, I know he called you the other day from the taxi. I was there.”
“I don’t know, doll face. I don’t like getting involved in other people’s relationships.”
Somehow, I find that very hard to believe.
“You’re the only person who can help me, Max.” My heart pangs and I close my eyes. “I’ll do anything. I’ll even hop on a plane and flash you my boobs if that’s what it takes. I just need to get in contact with him. I need to know he’s okay.”
“You’re my friend’s wife. I can’t let you come down to my establishment and show me your tits.” I open my mouth to tell him he’s missing the point, but he adds, “Text me nudes instead.”
“Max—”
“Got a pen?”
I grab one off the coffee table. “Yes. Ready when you are.”
He rattles off the number and I quickly jot it down before I hang up and dial it.
My chest caves in when it goes directly to voicemail.
Given it’s the only lead I have and I don’t want to take the chance that Preston won’t call me back…or worse, get rid of his phone, I decide not to leave one.
“I think it’s turned off. It went directly to voicemail,” I whisper and my heart thrashes in protest.
Asher’s features screw up. “He’s working for the mob?”
“He was playing poker for a mob boss in Vegas, but it’s over now.” I plop down on the couch across from them. “Preston didn’t tell me much about it.”
He never told me much about anything.
Except one thing. I was tempted to ask Asher earlier, but I didn’t want to disclose Preston’s secret.
However, my concern must be winning out over my honor because it no longer seems like such a hindrance.
“I do know something that could help us, though.” Leaning forward, I rub my now damp hands on my sweatpants and look at Asher. “He’s been talking to your mom.”
Chapter 17
Tentacles wrap around my lungs and I claw at the hand around my throat. “No.”
He tightens his grip and my fingers burrow between the flesh of his hand and my larynx, desperate to get some air, but it’s not enough. It only taunts me and makes it worse.
A sharp pain jabs my lower back as he presses me against the metal railing and fear zips through me so fast he no longer needs to strangle me. I stop breathing on my own.
One wrong move and I’ll fall.
“Can I ask you for a favor?” The mocking tone of his voice is grating, and it distracts me enough that I don’t realize his gun is against my temple until it’s too late.
Vomit works up my esophagus and a stream of hot urine runs down my legs…because I know what happens next.
I know how this ends.
“Say it.”
He loosens his hold just enough for me to get the words out. “Let me trade places with her.”
A sadistic smile spreads across his face. “No.”
My insides churn, and on impulse; I reach for my poker chip. “Please don’t kill me, Kyle.”
Hollow eyes stare back at me. Eyes that no longer have any ounce of humanity left in them.
The last thing I see before he pushes me over the ledge of the bridge…is my poker chip in his fist.
Pressure tightens against my ribs and I hit the water so hard my ears pop.
I kick my legs, trying to get to the surface but I can’t…
I’ve lost my ability to swim. Because I no longer have legs or a fin. I’m a mangled and disfigured corpse.
Whatever you do. Don’t open your eyes.
I attempt to swim again, but I’m almost out of air and my energy is waning. In another fifteen seconds, I’ll be dead.
“Kitty.”
No.
“Kitty-cat.”
Hearing him say his old nickname for me makes my skin crawl.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” my uncle teases.
Wrath flows through my veins and I snap like a rubber band.
I open my mouth to tell him to leave me alone, but the metallic tang of blood filling my lungs causes me to dry heave and convulse as a viscous haze of red surrounds me.
I twitch when something brushes against me but refuse to look. I don’t need to see it to know what it is.
It’s the stuff nightmares and autopsies are made of.
Defeat courses through my bloodstream and instead of trying to fight a battle I know I’ll never win, I let the fight drain out of me.
Because I deserve this. I deserve to die like they did.
I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.
“Wake up, angry girl.”
“Preston?” I touch his face, grateful to have my limbs again. “Is it really you?”
The water’s so murky, I can barely make out his features.
He shoves his poker chip in my palm. “Illusions aren't always a bad thing, Kit. Sometimes it's your mind's way of saving you when reality keeps trying to break you. A way of giving you something to believe in when you don't have anything left.”
I fold my arms around his neck. “I’m so scared.”
My uncle’s callous cackle chills me to the bone. “You should be.”
“Preston!”
My heart batters my ribcage so hard it reverberates throughout the quiet room and I bolt up in bed.
A drop of liquid falls from my hairline to my jaw and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see it’s not blood, only sweat.
Clutching my poker chip for dear life, I remind myself it was just a bad dream.
Swinging my legs over the bed, I scurry over to the window and open it. The cool air whips my face like a punishment, but it helps bring me back to reality.
Embarrassed, I do a quick once- over and check the sheets to make sure they’re dry before I sprint off to the bathroom.
After I splash some cold water on my face, I open my medicine cabinet.
An assortment of various benzodiazepines stare back at me. All prescribed from countless psychiatrists to help me deal with these frequent night terrors that have been plaguing me since the Woodside shooting.
Why my nightmares always end up with Kyle pushing me into a river full of corpses and drowning in blood is anyone’s guess…but the professionals sure had a ball trying to analyze it.
I cringe as I finger the medication bottles. Usually, Preston does a better job of saving me before I vomit and piss my pants…but there are nights like tonight when the bad guys triumph.
There are nights like tonight where I need one of these to numb me because neither dreams nor reality is something I can handle.
My heart nose-dives to the pit of my stomach when I check my watch.
It’s been forty-nine hours. Nineteen minutes. And five—make that six—s
econds since he left.
And every second that goes by…the farther I sink.
God, I miss him.
My heart spasms in disagreement. What I feel is much more profound than simply missing him.
This ache penetrates right down to my bones.
It burns me from the inside out.
It’s grief. In its purest, ugliest, rawest form.
Being without him feels like trying to swim without limbs.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull out my phone and dial the only number I have for him.
The one that always goes straight to voicemail.
Only this time…I’m leaving one.
I had every intention of informing him how messed-up it was that he pretty much divorced my ass in a Post-it note—but when I open my mouth, only one thing comes out.
“I need you.”
In the most basic, complex sense.
After I hang up, I slam the medicine cabinet shut, throw on some clothes, and jog to my bridge.
Being without Preston is like trying to breathe when you’re already drowning.
Chapter 18
“So uh, this one time me and my buddy went to Vegas, you know?” The irritating man next to me recalls.
Paying him no mind, I reach for my glass of whiskey.
For the first time in a long time, I’m able to enjoy a few games of poker without Campanelli’s dark cloud hanging over my head and I refuse to let this bozo kill my vibe.
I walked in here tonight with a little over two-hundred, courtesy of my brother; and now I’m almost up two grand. It’s small potatoes, but the night is still young.
Unless this moron at the table continues babbling. Even the dealer looks like he’s getting sick of his stories.
Not taking the hint, he continues, “Picture it, table is full. We’re down to our last few thousand, right?”
The man on the other side of me sighs in annoyance. “Right.” The dealer clears his throat and the man shakes his head. “Check.”
I take a long drag off my cigarette and stub it out. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was the player with the motormouth’s strategy.
The dealer looks at me next.
“Raise.”
My cards aren’t the greatest, but I’m one right card away from a straight. And like my pal Max says—on a bad night, a straight can look pretty damn good.
