“The file,” he repeats with meaning when he reaches me. He looks around before leaning in. “Operation Strike, Mac. You wanted me to help you.”
“Oh.” I rummage through my bag and pull the sleek manila folder out. “Here.” Eli flips it open and scans the first page quickly. “I have to go.” I start walking backward, suddenly not caring about the file or being a Badass Brigade member in the least. I was happy with my life. I want it back the way it was. “Are you coming to the party at Casey’s tonight?”
“No,” he replies, a faint frown on his face as he looks up. “I have something I need to take care of.”
JAKE
Loud banging cuts through the quiet of the duplex. Someone is bashing their fist at the front door.
“Jake?”
It’s Mac. I pause my packing, my stomach in knots.
“I know you’re in there!”
Of course she knows. My car is parked out front, ready to load with my suitcase. Mac is a drug and I’m addicted. The only way I can be free is to leave.
But like any other junkie, I’ve promised myself one last hit. Just not right now. Not when I’m trying to be strong. Later tonight at the party. My final goodbye. To her. My final goodbye to everyone.
“Jake!”
I sink to the edge of my bed, a tee shirt scrunched in my balled-up fists.
Go away.
“Jake, please!”
Oh, Princess. Don’t beg like that. With your voice all hoarse and desperate. It makes me weak.
I rise from the bed.
Don’t, Jake. Fool.
My legs start moving toward the door. Toward Mac.
“Goddammit,” she growls.
The front door judders as if she’s just kicked it.
MAC
He doesn’t answer me. He always does. But not this time. It’s what I deserve. If you kick a puppy enough, he’ll never come when you call.
My phone rings, the sound faint from inside my handbag. I ignore it and kick at the door from frustration. It rings again.
“Goddammit,” I growl and reach for it, walking away.
Casey’s name is on the screen, along with an image of him giving me the finger. My friends did that one night when I was sleeping. They hacked my phone and edited my contacts, adding an image to their individual profiles of them flipping the middle finger to the camera. My brothers, Evie, Henry, and Quinn. Even the band, including Jake. I had to give them credit for that. It was funny, especially when I got a call from Dad and they’d managed to get him in on it too.
“Hotdog,” I answer, putting the phone to my ear as I jog down the front steps.
“Mac Attack,” he replies. “Need you.”
I start toward our duplex on the other side. “What’s up?”
“The party tonight. Grace won’t sit down. She needs to rest and I can’t do it all on my—”
“Say no more,” I interrupt as I reach my own front door. “I’ll be there in an hour.”
“May God grant you a thousand of the best orgasms of your life,” he replies and hangs up.
Using the key, I let myself inside. “Anyone home?”
No one calls back as I close the door behind me.
I shower quickly and plan my outfit as I massage a facial scrub over my cheeks and forehead. When I’m out, I dry off. After wrapping my hair up in my towel, I tug on the sexiest underwear I own. Black lace, demi cup bra and a thong so tiny I may as well be wearing dental floss on my butt crack.
After that, I slide on tight black pants. Horizontal zippers decorate the front and the back. My top is a fitted leather vest that zips upward into a low-cut V and pushes my breasts up and together to create some much-needed cleavage. I complete the look with sleek hair, heavy, dark eyes, nude lips, and strappy black stilettos. The whole process leaves me feeling battle ready.
With no one home, I call an uber and get assigned ‘Louise.’ She arrives in ten minutes. I open the car door to a driver who looks no older than ten. “Are you Louise? How old are you?” I ask as I slide inside the passenger seat.
I don’t hear her answer because everything blacks out for a moment.
“Oh my gosh, are you okay?”
My breath comes with conscious effort as waves of nausea roll over me. “I’m fine,” I say, buckling my seat belt.
We zoom off into the street but panic begins to creep in. It’s okay, I tell myself in a cool voice. You haven’t eaten today. That’s all it is.
My breathing eases a little but the nausea does not.
I’m not pregnant. I’m just exhausted.
We’re halfway to Casey’s loft when I spot a pharmacy looming ahead. There’s only one way to be sure. “Stop the car,” I bark.
“What? Here?” Her tone is confused but she pulls over, parking by the kerb.
“I just need to—” My stomach heaves, and I gesture at the building we’ve stopped in front of. “Be right back.”
JAKE
Casey’s loft is a crush of people by the time I arrive. My eyes seek Mac the moment I step through the door. She’s standing in the kitchen, talking and laughing with Coby, Evie’s brother. The craving sets in with a steady thump thump thump. Everyone is dressed in varying shades of colour, and she’s all in black. The effect is dark and sexy, like Satan’s blonde mistress. Her green eyes flicker my way as if she feels my stare.
You’re so beautiful.
I draw air deep inside my lungs. They expand, my chest rising.
Be strong, asshole.
I force a distant expression, turn away, and exhale with care. Moving through the living area, I spy Henry in conversation with Cooper and Frog. I come up from behind and slap him on the back.
“Hey,” he says, half turning.
I steal his beer and take a long pull before joining in their conversation. After about ten minutes, Henry leans in, speaking in a low voice. “Have you seen Mac tonight?”
“Yes.” I look for her again and catch her watching me, her eyes pained. She knows I’m avoiding her. If she didn’t get the hint at the duplex, she knows it now. I don’t know what it was that brought her to my door this afternoon but pride will stop her from approaching me again. At least tonight. And after that it will be too late.
“Why?” I ask Henry.
“Because she doesn’t look so good. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mac sick before. She’s always seems so invincible, but tonight …”
Mac turns away when someone steals her attention, and I study her face. Henry is right. Faint shadows line her eyes, and the golden hue to her skin appears faded. Her health doesn’t appear to have improved since our return from tour. I abandon all sense of self-preservation and start toward her.
When I reach her in the kitchen, Mac is holding an arm across her belly, as if she’s moments away from puking all over the timber floor. She watches my approach with wary eyes.
“Princess?”
The endearment slips out. Dammit.
“I’m not your princess,” she snaps, tension gathering in her slight frame.
My jaw grinds. I get it. Mac humbled herself earlier today. Her desperate “please” still echoes in my head.
“You okay?”