Either way, I still love her.
“So that’s okay?’ Tiffany interrupts, looking at me like she thinks I’ve been listening to her.
“Sure.”
She gives me a kiss on the cheek and scampers off.
And then my fucking phone rings.
I leap up, whack my head on a towel rack, and my phone goes flying, cracking on the tile floor with the sickening sound of a screen shattering. My tools go everywhere, and Tiffany squeals.
The phone still works, thank God. I don’t recognize the number, but that’s not new. I ignore it.
I flip back over to the scene in the bedroom.
Lindsay and John are kissing like they’re in the backseat of Daddy’s fancy car on prom night.
Stellan’s leering at Jane.
My stomach falls through the floor, blood picking up speed like it’s a horse in the Kentucky Derby on its last leg.
What the fuck am I supposed to believe right now?
My phone rings again. Same number. I pick up. Maybe it’s Silas on a new line.
“Drew? Jesus, Drew, get the fuck out of there.” It’s Mark Paulson.
“Mark? What? Did Silas tell you -- ”
“I’m not the one who got you released from jail, Drew.”
“What?”
“I didn’t get you released. I was in D.C. with Galt, trying to use every connection we have between the two of us. I was obstructed and stalled in every way you can imagine. My dad said he’d never seen anything like it, and if Galt Halloway can’t get shit done, you know there’s something deep at play.”
“You’re saying Stellan, Blaine and John got me sprung?”
“I’m saying,” Mark says slowly, as I watch Blaine Fucking Maisri waltz into my bedroom and rip Lindsay and John apart, then turn and say something to Jane, “that you’ve been set up even more than you ever imagined. Whoever got you out of jail, and whoever blocked my dad and me from getting you out, has power that goes all the way to the fucking top.” I keep flipping between watching the scene on the other side of the wall and listening to Mark, my phone flying fast and furious between my eyes and my ear.
“Where are you, Paulson? And why should I trust you? You’re telling me you’re not the one who got me out, and -- ”
“Drew, you don’t have a choice. We’re on our way.”
Can’t trust Lindsay, can’t trust anyone. I look at my screen and there’s Blaine, on top of Lindsay on the bed, and she’s screaming.
I feel the screaming in my bones.
And then the screaming ends, abruptly, like a snapped wishbone, like a twig turned to kindling, like death is a fulcrum you use to break everything to pieces.
“No time. They’re going in for the kill now, Mark. Now,” I whisper, hanging up.
And then I ready my weapon as Blaine cups Lindsay’s breast, his hand going lower, lower...
My leg’s ready to kick in the panel. Milliseconds before I deploy the kick, John leans down, his face filling my phone.
As I let all the kinetic energy in my body release, my gun in my hand, my mind a blank slate, he says, “Hi, Drew.”
Chapter 9
Lindsay
My hearing’s shut down, the sound of my own blood rushing through me so strong, I almost miss the splintering gasp of wallboard breaking. Drew crashes into the room like something out of an action movie. He’s holding a weapon in each hand and Blaine’s on me, his cock rubbing hard against my thigh through his pants, his wet mouth demanding my lips, my tongue, my attention.
A sound like thunder in my ear makes me scream deep in my throat, biting hard on Blaine’s tongue. I taste copper and pain, then he twitches and trembles, the violent shakes so bad I feel electrocuted.
And then he slumps forward, deadweight, crushing me.
Can’t breathe.
Can’t hear.
Can’t see.
Can’t anything.
Oh, thank God.
It’s over and I’ll just faint and fade out and be nothing and oh drew oh drew i love you and please please please --
Someone shoves Blaine off me and my world is bright and big and full of pain.
Loud crashes, my throat being squeezed, and eyes that fill with love and horror aimed at me.
For me.
It’s Drew.
I’m covered in blood, all over my belly and thighs. I look like I got my period but it’s too far north, congealed in my navel, stroked along my lower ribs like warpaint, like feathers dragged through holiday paint.
I’m bleeding.
But I don’t feel like I’m bleeding.
John and Stellan are screaming. John has a gun at Drew’s head, pressed right against his temple, while Stellan’s holding his knife to Jane’s throat.
There’s a huge, human-sized hole in the wall, pipes in the way, tufts of pink insulation poking out like cotton candy, begging to be eaten.
Nothing makes sense. There are too many sounds, too many movements, so much motion and light and dark and space. The air’s scent is rife with blood and fear, all our musks mingling to make for sour promises and tangy loose ends. I don’t move because I don’t have a framework for what it means to move. I don’t speak because I’m not certain what words are.
I just look at Drew.
And he stares right back, unreadable.
Has he given up, too?
No. Impossible. He can’t have given up, because he wouldn’t have crashed through the wall. Wouldn’t have killed Blaine. Wouldn’t be standing there, chin jutting up, facing off with John and Stellan.
I know backup is coming. Mark and Silas? Someone else? Drew wouldn’t do this rogue.
“Hello!” A high-pitched, fake voice comes through the hole in the wall. “Is there a party in there? I just love -- ”
“We’ll be right there, Tiffany. Stay in your apartment. Go to the living room,” Drew yells.
“Fine,” she says, never coming into view, her voice full of bitter acceptance.
Stellan glances at Blaine’s body. A giant dark stain is pooling under him, right where his head is. The room’s turned into a dark tunnel, with two points of vision for me, so I’m not sure what I see. I reach up to rub my eyes and my hand is gooey.
Blood.