“It’s how some relationships work.”
I picture Blue with his lust and his anger, fire and ice. I remember him that last night at the club, the sweet way he kissed my clit before making me come. I don’t know how it can work while I’m stripping. I don’t know how it can work if I’m not. “All I know is that I want him. I want something real. For the first time in my life, I want something better.”
*
I push the glass doors open and send a small wave to the doorman. I expect him to give me that genial smile and press the button so the elevators work. Instead his expression is serious as he steps out from behind the desk.
My stomach drops. Has Blue banned me from coming to his building?
“Ms. Brown?”
I almost feel like crying as I stare at the doorman who once believed I belonged. What does he think of me now? “That’s me.”
“If you have a moment, I’d like to add you to our systems.”
I blink. “What?”
“If I can take down your information, I’ll add you to the system. That way I can give you a key card and the guards on other shifts will know you’re allowed up.”
“Oh.” A question is forming, and I’m afraid to give it a voice. “Did something change? I mean, we didn’t do this before.”
And then I get the gentle smile I’ve been missing, almost fond. “Actually, Mr. Blue notified us that you’re to be given complete access to his apartment. If you’re busy now, we could do it another time.”
“No, I think…now would be best.”
Because depending on what I find upstairs, what I say—Blue may very well throw me out. And he might forget to notify security when he does. At least then I’d have a way of getting back in.
Chapter Nineteen
It turns out I don’t need the key card to get in. The elevator doors open on a quiet hallway, everything beige and silver and sleek. From a few yards away I see the crack in Blue’s door.
It’s open.
I slow down but keep walking. My eyes narrow as I take in the strange state of the door—and the smudge of something dark on the handle. Blood?
I’m probably overreacting. It’s probably just dirt or paint. And the door is probably propped open because he needed to carry something heavy. I can’t shake the dread in my stomach though, especially after our last conversation.
I put my palm on the door and push. It’s heavier than I expect.
The apartment looks normal enough. The furniture is in place. No horror-movie pools of blood. No body on the couch, still warm but long gone—that was how I’d found my mother. That vision has haunted me for most of my life. It still does, but now I’m moving past the empty leather couch. Now I’m searching for someone else.
The bathroom door is cracked open, yellow light streaming through.
I don’t knock or call out. The bathroom door lists open as soon as my fingers brush against it. Then I can see him—all of him. He’s standing at the sink, scrubbing his hands. There’s no paint on them, no dirt. And definitely not any blood.
The water that runs down the drain is clear.
“Blue?” I ask.
He doesn’t look up. He just keeps washing and washing his hands, running his fingers over clean skin. “What are you doing here?”
I bite my lip, unsure what to say. He must have thought I might come. That’s why he added me to the list. He must want me here.
He doesn’t seem to want me here, though. It’s a private moment I’ve walked in on.
I step into the bathroom. “Are you okay?”
After a second, he turns off the faucet. Silence rings in the small space. He sets his hands on the edge of the counter and hangs his head. He looks defeated. Broken. I didn’t do that, did I? Was he okay before he came back?
Has he ever been okay?
I want to go to him, but the lines of his shoulders are rigid. “Blue, whatever you did—”
His mouth is on mine before I can answer. It’s not a kiss, it’s a fusing of him and me—it’s rough and invasive. It hurts, and I never want him to stop. His hands sink into my hair, still wet from the sink, sending droplets onto my neck.
“What?” he asks, nipping at my lips, not letting me speak. “If I killed someone, you’ll forgive me? If I have a body in my fucking fridge, you’ll help me hide it?”
I shiver. I know he’s trying to scare me—and it’s working. I’m afraid.
Fear doesn’t control me anymore. It doesn’t define me.
“Yes,” I say softly. “That’s what I’d do. I’m on your side. Now and forever. I’ve always been on your side.”
A shudder racks him, and he presses his forehead to mine. “It’s not safe for you with me.”
And then I can’t help it. I have to touch him. I put my hands on his big shoulders, feel him vibrate with tension. It’s like touching a wild animal. There’s power and ferocity and intelligence. I could never control him. I only want to follow where he leads.