Pam clicked her tongue. “Well, he’s very persuasive. An occupational hazard, I’m sure.” She shut the door behind her and my vision quivered with tears.
I had no right to be as happy as I’d been in the past few weeks. My engagement to Matt and the love story we were telling the world stood on a platform of lies. And he … my tears dropped onto the manuscript, raising rumpled spots on the paper.
He was fucking smart enough to know that everyone would read Last Light as truth. No-fucking-body would mistake it for fiction. He’d made a fool of me in front of Pam. What the hell? I jabbed out a text message. I didn’t feel like blubbering my way through a call.
Pam showed me finished LL ms. I am so ANGRY at u. Thanks for the heads up. She knows everything now. U cannot publish LL.
Matt’s reply came promptly.
We’ll talk when you get home.
Talk when I get home?
A new surge of tears started, ugly and hot. I hiccuped and blew my nose noisily. I knew Pam could hear me from her office and I didn’t care. Some of us actually know how to show our feelings, unlike Matt-fucking-Sky writing as M.—fucking-Pierce.
I spent the rest of the workday reading Last Light. Why, I don’t know, except that I couldn’t focus on anything else. My mood vacillated among rage and sorrow and fear. And arousal. Fucking Matt. His books affected me, always.
By five, I’d cooled off enough to drive home safely.
I found him smoking on the balcony.
I carried the tear-dotted manuscript under my arm.
When Matt said nothing, I began to read from a dog-eared page: “‘Seth pulled my hand to his dick. My fingertips brushed the overheated skin and he sighed.’” No reaction. I skipped a few lines. “‘I wrapped my fingers around his shaft. He hardened fully in my hold. I began to stroke him, my gaze moving between his arousal and his face.”
Matt glanced over his shoulder.
“That’s what happened, no?”
“Matt…” My voice shriveled.
“Mm.” He turned back toward the city. “You gave me a full and free account of the incident. You knew it was for my book. It’s cruel of you to read it to me.”
“C … cruel? I’m the cruel one?”
“When would I touch your sister, Hannah? Not in a million years. What combination of drugs and drink could induce me to fool around with her? None. And not because she isn’t attractive”—he spun and loomed over me, his face thunderous—“but because she’s your goddamn sister. It would be wrong. Revolting. I would never—”
“Shut up!” I shrieked. My arms trembled. “Shut up or I’ll hit you, and I don’t want to fucking hit you.”
“Do it. It would be preferable to your reading from that—”
I shoved him. He didn’t move.
“Try harder,” he snapped.
I planted my palm against his chest and pushed. Mmph! This selfish son of a bitch. He barely wavered. I pummeled his chest with my fist, big tears rushing to my eyes.
“Sometimes I hate you!” I puffed.
He caught my jaw. Fingers like iron drew me up short, wrenching my face toward his. I froze, my eyes going round.
Matt brought his mouth to mine.
His smoky breath touched my lips.
“And sometimes I hate you,” he hissed, “for doing it with him. To him…”
His glare scoured my face—I held my breath—and then he let me go. I staggered back, flattening myself against the deck door. Holy shit.
“I thought we were past that,” I whispered. A tear dropped from my chin.
“So did I. And now you come to me, reading it to me.” He glared hell at the manuscript.
“Because you plan to publish it. How can you be so dense?”
“You knew I planned to publish it all along. What the hell is your problem? You realize Night Owl is for sale online, yeah? That the paperback will be in every bookstore in America come September? What the fuck, Hannah?”
“This is different. Matt, the truth.” I slapped the chunk of papers. “The … the fucking truth about me helping you fake your death, about Nate, about—”