Mack’s eyes go wide. Her mouth snaps shut.
“I’m here because—because—fuck.” I quell the deep need to punch something. “I want to do good by you, okay? You have more self-worth than I do in the tip of my dick. Somehow, you kept it when I chipped away at you in high school and maintain it now. I’m not proud of what I’ve done when it comes to you, McKenna. But what I will not tolerate, what I will fly across the ocean and put my tour in jeopardy for, is to tell you you’re good enough. You were good enough back then, and you’re fucking gold standard now.”
Mack hesitates, emotion skirting across her features, then says, “I don’t need a pep talk from you of all people—”
“You still love to write?”
“I—what? Yes.” Mack slaps her thighs in frustration. “I still love writing stories.”
“I noticed when I wasn’t annoying the shit out of you, instead of having your nose buried in a book this time, it was your computer. You’re writing something.”
“A book,” Mack admits, but her resulting glare tells me this is the last thing she wants to be talking about. “But it’s stupid, and going nowhere, and you don’t have to pander to me because you feel pity.”
“That’s the last emotion I feel.” I close the space between us and put my hands on her shoulders. For some reason, she lets me. “I told you I’m here to help you, and I am. It’s not easy or smart, but I’ve never been either of those things. All I know is, you are what drives me. Whether it be driving me nuts, or horny, or for someone to talk to … it’s all you. And I can’t leave that behind. Not this time.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mack sighs. “Your impulse control has always been lacking—”
I slam my lips over hers, deepening the kiss and communicating what my lack of words can’t. I want you. I need you. We can both feel worthless together.
I wrench away when Mack gasps for breath and say through a ragged exhale, “You wanted to show me how to fuck gently. But you’re no glass sculpture. You’re not gonna break, but I’ll still stand by you. Face the fucking press and media questions. You have worth, Mack. You have a helluva lot of worth to me, and I’m not going anywhere until you figure that out.”
Mack’s shining stare searches mine. In a surprise move, she holds both hands to my cheeks, bringing me in for a closer study. She whispers, “Take your own advice, Mason,” then lets go.
Mack walks away, leaving me hanging in the middle of her best friend’s apartment. She glances over her shoulder before heading into the bathroom. “You know where the exit is.”
And locks the bathroom door behind her.
33
McKenna
Worth.
A word I never believed Mason knew the definition of, since he exuded so little of it. And if anyone deserves it the most, it’s him. He has talent, drive, strength, stubbornness, pride.
They’ve never gone away, despite the odds stacked against him since he was born. All traits I should’ve reminded him of in Dee’s living room, but couldn’t.
If I did, he would’ve stayed.
Maybe we’d become something.
And that, more than anything, makes me question my worth.
I finish setting my make-up in the bathroom mirror. I’ve yet to unlock the door and step out, but I doubt Mason’s still there. He’s never taken well to outright dismissal and has probably stormed off to either get black-out drunk somewhere or punch something.
Doesn’t matter. That can be Mason’s afternoon.
I click my compact shut and shove it in my travel cosmetics bag, then pad out of the bathroom in search of my heels. Donning the designer suede pumps gives me a sense of power, even if it’s false.
I call a car on my way down the elevators, having been texted the address by Giles a few hours earlier. As if I’ve forgotten where I was last strangled.
The nerves haven’t hit me yet. My head’s still in the clouds with Mason, and perhaps safer there.
Clutching my phone tight in my fist, I slip into the waiting car. I’ve chosen simple beige slacks and a billowing cream tank to match the sleek Jane-face I’ve put on. I’m not about to be Giles’s puppet and wear the dress he wants. It’s a tiny form of rebellion, but I’ll jump at the chance to maintain my independence in front of that man.
Thankfully, when I step outside and into the car, there’s no other cameras around to match McKenna to Jane.
Too soon, the driver pulls over to the curb of the luxury building I was hoping to never set eyes on again. Clutching the phone in my lap, I peer out the window, assessing the mirrored gray exterior all the way up.
“You okay back there?” the driver asks.
His question snaps the elastic drawn taut around my gut. I pull my gaze away. “Yes, fine. Thank you.”
Once out of the car, I smooth my slacks and brush errant strands of hair out of my face—clear distraction tactics, but I need something to do with my hands other than have them tremble in front of me.
Doing this alone seems stupider the closer I come to meeting Giles again, but doing this with someone—like Dee or even Mason—is even more frightening. Why drag them into this complicated mess and put them at risk? My reputation’s already in tatters. There’s no need to drag their lives down with me.
A security guard eyes me as I push through the revolving door. He murmurs something into the landline phone pressed against his ear, then places it down once I’m in the lobby.
“He’s expecting you. Go right on up, Miss Beckley,” he says.
I nod, and though my heels make confident clacks against the marbled flooring, my attention skirts everywhere, looking for cameras or anything else that could’ve tipped Giles off that I’m here.
I smooth my hair again when I enter the elevator and turn to the doors, using my blurred reflection in the brass as a mirror into my future. A whole canvas of obscured uncertainty.
The elevator slows and I take a deep breath as the doors soundlessly slide open. My shoes don’t make any power sounds at all as I stride down the carpeted hallway and stop at Giles’s door.
Knocking softly, I suck in another inhale. I can do this. Make this quick. Give Giles the money, ensure my dad’s safety, then start a new life somewhere, anywhere, else.
Thinking of my rainy day fund stashed in an untraceable bank deposit safe gives me a sense of calm. I have a way out of this.
The door swings open to a pine-filled, woodsy scent that I still smell in my nightmares.
“McK—oh. I see we have Jane today,” Giles says as he appraises me head-to-toe. “Come in, darling.”
Never will I give you the real me.
The thought takes me back to the sex I just had with Mason, and how that’s the most real I’ve been with anyone in a long time.
Giles appears as misleadingly dashing as ever, with tousled, thick brown hair streaked with just the right amount of gray, a blue button-down open at the neck, and smokey gray suit pants capped off with designer, lacquered black shoes.
“Drink?” he asks. His back is to me as he reaches for two crystal tumblers at his mahogany cocktail bar in the main room.
“No.” I don’t bother with platitudes or manners. “Can we get this over with?”
Giles ignores both my answer and my question, pouring me a glass of bourbon. He spins around, handing me the glass.
“I said no.” I hold my purse and phone in front of my stomach like a shield. “I don’t want to be here, Giles. I’d like to get this over with.”
Giles smiles. In some circles it could be considered serene, but I recognize the reptilian curve of a snake when it’s in front of me. “In due time, darling. Sit.”
He directs me to the lounge area where he places my unwanted drink on a coaster where I suppose he wants me to sit.
“I’d also like assurances that my father will remain untouched after the transaction is completed,” I say, remaining where I am. Perhaps if I sound professional and detached, it’ll become real.
&nbs
p; Giles straightens from placing my drink on the coffee table. “You have my word.”
“I don’t believe your word to be enough—”
A thousand tiny, crystal shards burst against the wall above my head, the sound so shocking I lose the voice to scream and inhale a strangled gasp instead as I flinch and duck.
Giles latches onto my forearm and pulls me against him so I have no choice but to stare into his face as he bends close, his breaths hot and shallow as he seethes.
“Some men might enjoy your spirited behavior, but not me,” Giles spits. His eyelids are so stretched, the whites of his eyes are more obvious than his irises. He shakes me by my arm that he’s pressed up between us, his fingers spindly vises that’ll surely leave a bruise. “I get to ask the questions. I hold the power.”
I breathe through my nose, afraid to keep looking at him. Afraid to look away.
“Now is the time to apologize, McKenna,” Giles says against my harsh breaths. His grip on my arm tightens. “Be a good little girl, now.”
My lips part, but nothing comes out.
Giles lifts my arm and inspects it. “Do you like this appendage? Wait. Silly me. I should be aware of your most important asset by now.”
With the movement of a viper’s strike, Giles cups my vagina, his fingers spearing through the thin fabric of my pants like it’s non-existent. The resulting pain burns through my struggles, but he still has me by the arm.
“Stop!” I yell.
He digs in harder. “Say you’re sorry for acting so very immaturely and I will, my darling.”
“I…”
He dips his head like he can’t hear me as he continues his assault. “You what?”
“I’m sorry!” I cry, hitching with a sob. “I’m sorry for insulting you. For being immature. I’m sor—”
I stumble back after an abrupt release. I hold a hand to my mouth to quell the sobs, but nothing will work to slow down the erratic, panicked beats of my heart begging to be let out of this cage. What have I done by coming here?
“You are nothing but a pawn whore who’s caught herself up in a very dangerous web,” Giles says. “I suggest you start acting like it.”
I swallow, attempting to control my gulps of air.
“Now sit.”
This time, I do, the places where he assaulted me rubbing raw against the cushions.
Giles snaps his fingers, and a man in a black suit comes out of the hallway as if he were standing there waiting for Giles’s call the entire time. My eyes follow his movements in a silent plea for help, but I might as well be positioned in his blind spot. He hands Giles an electronic tablet.
Giles taps his fingers against the screen as he speaks. “I have my details right here, my darling. If you would be so kind as to hand me yours.”
The last thing I want to do is give Giles access to my bank account information, but my logic, still operating smoothly despite the jarring situation, insists I can close the account the instant I’m out of this room.
Besides, there’s no knowing how much Giles has gleaned already.
I pull up my information and hand him my phone without argument, which he takes, pulling a face of surprise as he sees how much is in my checking.
“I stand corrected,” he muses. “The whore business treats you well.”
“It’s all yours,” I say in a cracked voice, despite Giles going nowhere near my neck. “Take it, and let me and my father go.”
“How daring, continuing with your demands.”
“It’s not a demand if we’ve made a deal,” I whisper.
“Come again?’
I peer up at him, saying with stronger emphasis, “We made a deal. The money in exchange for my father and I’s safety.”
Giles waits a few beats. “Mmm, your father, yes. But I don’t recall making any kind of deal about you.”
In that moment, I realize just how very, very sharp the precipice I’m balancing on has become. My heart drops out of its protective barricade and into the deep unknown.
Giles snaps his fingers and the man in the suit reappears in the doorway.
“Take her to the table,” Giles says.
I rear back. “The table? What do you—?”
The man strikes halfway into my garbled question, holding me in a bear trap as I scream and fight against his hold.
“Let me go!” I scream in between gnashing teeth. I’ll mar any part of him I can find. Kick him in the balls. Stomp on the sensitive tops of his feet. Bite his fingers off, but he brushes my defenses off like he’s swatting at a butterfly.
“You’re getting what you want!” I say to Giles as the man drags me out of the room. “Please! Let me go!”
“In due time, my darling,” Giles says with ineffable cheer. “I have some branding to attend to, first.”
As I’m dragged through the vast hallways, my screams echo to the ceiling.
34
Mason
I ain’t no stalker.
There’s no harm in noticing the bar across the street from Mack’s friend’s place, or that it looks good enough to catch a few beers in, and there’s no problem in happening upon a barstool that gives me a perfect view of the front entrance of said building.
If Mack happens to leave and I just happen to glance over and notice, what’s the big deal?
Nothing. It’s a free city. I can drink and brood where I like.
The bartender chick comes over, wiping down my area as I straddle the stool.
“Jeez. Wish I were the girl who’s got your dick in a pinch,” she says.
I take enough time to drag my attention from the windows over to her. “Whatever special you have on draft’ll work fine. Thanks.”
She replies with a salute. “You got it. Big fan, by the way.”
My lips peel back in a smile, but it’s barely genuine. I’m too busy waiting for Mack to show herself and the plans she’s made straight off my tour and her downfall.
A descent you played a big part in, asshole.
It’d be easy to plead dumb and insist I had no idea what Sorsha was up to, but I’m not a coward. I’m aware of how cunning she is and how she manipulates with sex. Brax didn’t stand a chance, and I can’t blame the poor schmuck who spends more time in rehab than with women in the outside world for blabbing to a gorgeous celebrity who must barely seem real in his eyes.
My job now is to fix it. Only problem is, how can you give a woman her credibility back when she never asked for it in the first place?
I think back on the recent sex between us and how real it was. How good it felt, almost like we were us again, but with careful intentions. I touched her like she was precious. Stroked her like a shining jewel. Kissed her like she was mine.
And kept thinking about Mack Beckley long enough to want to hitch a ride on a bar stool until I can see her again.
Fuck. I’m screwed.
The cold pint’s slid in front of me and I down half of it in one gulp, then signal for a shot of Jack.
Clearly I’m in this bar to think, not stalk. And I have a lot of goddamned pondering to do.
When my phone rings, I chance ignoring it since it can only signal bad things. My band mates. Jess. Managers. Hell, the record label. All with threats and stress, and each and every one figuring that deciding my future behind my back is much more preferable than dealing with the repercussions of me finding out.
It goes to voicemail. I order another beer.
The phone buzzes against my ass again. On a growl, I pull it out and check the display.
Brax.
The one fucker I shouldn’t ignore.
I swipe to answer then snap, “What?” as I hold the phone to my ear.
“Dude. How long does it take you to answer? You ignoring me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, well, you shouldn’t, asshole. I have some big news I’ve been trying to tell you all fucking day. But you won’t pick up your phone because you’re a pussy and are afraid to talk to all the big boys an
d deep pockets you’ve ditched.”
I belch, then take another long swig of beer. “Get to the point, fucker.”
“It wasn’t Sorsha that said that stuff about Mack.”
Silence, which Brax misconstrues.
“The prostitute stuff,” Brax clarifies. “That’s all over the internet. You know, the event that made Mack leave us early—”
“I’m well aware.” Even to me, I’m impressed by my careful dictation as I speak, in spite of the volcano about to spew some lava all over my poor, misguided brother. “Who dared to do it, then?”
Brax pauses, then says, “Jess.”
This time, Brax construes my silence correctly.
“I know, right?” he says. “Totally out of left field. But when Mack left, then you left, I got suspicious. Did some digging of my own. A lot of people think I’d only make friends with junkies while in rehab, but no one thinks to remember that we’re not junkies first. We’re people with careers, and families, and aspirations. Some of them illegal, sure, but—”
“Brax.”
“Right. Sorry. The point I’m getting at is, I know a hacker or two, and I might’ve called in some favors to break into some of the blogs that broke the news first. And it turns out, the emails providing the scintillating information about you and Mack came from Jess.”
“She wouldn’t,” I say. “Jess isn’t so stupid as to use her personal email to leak information—”
“Well, right. The email to the blog was from a dummy account. But without getting into computer speak, which is way over my head, my boys traced the IP address, got into Jess’s emails, and saw her exchange between someone else who wanted the information made public.”
In an attempt to sort the circular chain of individuals Brax explained, I push the rest of my beer away. “Come again?”
But Brax continues as if I haven’t said anything. “Do you know a guy named Giles Bennett? ‘Cause that’s who gave Jess the info—she seems to be on his payroll, by the way—and asked for it to be leaked. It didn’t take much, since it’s obvious Jess has had it out for Mack since the beginning.”
Strum Me Page 24
