Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108721 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Except in this instance.
I’ve fought against myself, agonizing over how I would approach Elyse and wondering exactly what she heard. If I apologize, it will mean that what I said was a lie, which might make things worse, but if I don’t apologize, then Bel may never talk to me again.
Okay, that’s a lie; she’ll probably talk to me at some point, but knowing she’s disappointed in me eats away at my resolve.
It makes me feel slimy and bad.
But being an asshole to Elyse isn’t the only place I went wrong. I missed the entire thing with Yanov. When she moved into the house, a house I still can’t really think of as mine, I checked her out.
Both on paper and in person, she’s everything that she portrays herself to be.
Kind. Studious. Never been in any type of trouble.
Everything lines up. The only issue I now have is where Yanov fits into the puzzle.
There’s nothing about him in her paperwork; nor did her father mention him. It’s like he appeared out of thin air, which makes me uneasy and feel like I’m missing something.
So while apologies might be outside my capacity, at least for now, maybe I can feel better if I find another way to fix things. To keep her safe and out of that sick fuck’s hands. I snag my phone off the bed and switch the drink into my other hand to scroll through my contacts. Information is king in the world that I live in. If you know things about someone, you can use it against them. When I reach Grady’s number, my PI, I hit the call button. It’s late, but for how much I pay him, he should be available to take my calls at any time, day or night.
The phone rings for a while, and when he doesn’t answer, I call again.
“What? For fuck’s sake, what?” the deep Irish voice barks through the line.
“You talk to all your clients that way, Grady?”
There’s a pause. “I didn’t check the name, but considering the time, I’m not fecking apologizin’.”
I don’t give a shit, so I press on. “I need all the information you can get me about a man named Yanov. Works for Sidorov, the flesh merchant.”
Another long pause. “You got anything else? Something to go off that isn’t a couple of names that sound like damn characters from Game of Thrones?”
I roll my eyes. He’s always such an asshole when I wake him up. “Yanov is a cop here in town, and he’s friends with…likely working under an officer named Silver…at the police department.”
“That’s better. I can work with that. How fast do you need the information?”
“As soon as you can get it. I’ve got this guy eyeing something that belongs to me, and I’m not about to let him blindside me when he tries to take it.”
There’s some shuffling on his end, and I wait.
“I’ll call you when I get something that will help him see things your way.”
“Do. The usual rate, of course.”
He curses softly, too soft for me to make out the words. “Fine. Usual rate.”
He cuts the call without a goodbye, and I toss my phone back on the rumpled covers. I tell myself this is so I stay prepared, but really, I know it’s all for her. I miscalculated. I didn’t anticipate her worming her way under my skin, and I didn’t expect to be attracted to her goodness like a bee to a bloom.
Now I’m the one left guilt-ridden, feeling like an asshole for doing everything I can to keep distance between us. For shutting down other people’s thoughts on “us” when there is no “us,” and not because there couldn’t be, but because there can’t be. I know my words hurt her. I fucking know that, and I know I need to apologize, but I can’t help but think how apologizing will have the opposite effect on things.
On top of that, I’ve been meaning to have a conversation with her about what I overheard the guards discussing. I know now that she’s no longer sleeping in her room, but instead in a closet inside one of the spare rooms.
No matter how much I try to convince myself that it’s none of my concern, the less I believe it, and the more annoyed I become at the prospect of her sleeping on the floor in a closet when she has a perfectly good bed downstairs. Does it have something to do with Yanov? I haven’t forgotten his threat, and in the midst of everything else happening this week, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop. It’s the other reason I’m strung so tight.
Irritation zips across my skin. It’s easier during the day to keep my mind busy, to focus on other things and forget that she exists. Once night comes and the restraint holding my patience and tolerance for bullshit is thread-thin…it snaps.