“Yes, it is,” Dean responded calmly, his nose still bleeding all over the carpet. Goddammit. “The girl screwed me over.”
“She didn’t,” I finally roared. I threw my arms in the air, using what little control I still had in me not to go at him again. I spotted my lit blunt burning a hole in the bloody carpet behind Dean. He noticed where my eyes landed and crushed it with his designer Monk Straps.
“She didn’t screw your life over. I did,” I repeated less heatedly. “I sent her off with twenty thousand dollars. In exchange, she promised she’d tell you she ran away with someone else, specifically stressing that she didn’t want to hear from you ever again.”
“Why would she listen to you?” He crossed his arms over his chest, skeptical, his brows arched.
“Because I threatened her. I told her I’d fire her parents. Her sister Rosie is constantly on meds. They needed the money.”
Silence fell between us, heavy and loud.
“You’re such a sick psycho,” he mumbled.
I said nothing because it was an observation, not a question.
“It doesn’t change shit, though, Vicious.” Dean finally moved to the door, and when we stood side by side, me squeezing the handle and him on the threshold, our eyes met. “You’re saying goodbye to Millie and firing her, or I’ll make sure you’re kicked off the board. Good night.”
ROSIE GOT BACK FROM TODOS Santos on Monday morning, all smiles and stories about Mama’s new sewing machine and Daddy’s weird fascination with Toddlers and Tiaras. I had to admit, Little Rose had never looked better.
I smiled through my heartache and tried to look like someone who was not losing her mind over a man who’d specifically and repeatedly told her that he was only looking for casual sex.
We talked. For long minutes, maybe even an hour, but I didn’t listen. Not really. The room spun around me, like a ballerina on her toes, round and round, and in the blur, there was only him. His dark eyes. His scowl. His air.
He was taunting me, even when he wasn’t there.
“Did you see Vicious?” I finally asked, my words hurried. I hated that my voice was hopeful, and I hated that every single thing I learned about him made me crave him even more. It was all so stupid, and I was an idiot who needed to face the truth—I had feelings toward the man who was notorious for lacking them.
Rosie shrugged. “He dropped by and packed up some his stuff from his old room on Christmas Eve after you called. I offered my condolences and he, in return, offered me his middle finger. He looked pissed off. I mean, he always looks pissed off, but this time he also looked like he wanted to maybe go on a shooting spree and spare no one, kittens and puppies included. You know what I mean?”
“Of course. It’s his usual office look.” I said dryly.
“Speaking of which, why aren’t you at work? Oh yeah, the funeral’s today. Did you get an extra day off? Or better yet, did you quit?”
I stared at the floor, my teeth grinding together. “Still deciding.”
Truth was, my mind was already made up. It was easier to accept Vicious’s job offer when we were only two consenting adults with a shared past that was less than pristine. Ever since I’d found out what he really wanted from me—to break the law, to lie for him to Jo—paired with how he’d now sent those typical demanding texts, finally made me feel as disposable as he always wanted me to feel when we lived next to each other.
But what really hurt the most was that he took me in my ex’s bed. That was the most humiliating part. The part I was desperate to forget, but never could.
She chuckled, but it didn’t bloom into a laugh. “Please tell me you didn’t sleep with him while I was gone.”
My face reddened, my cheeks answering the question for me.
My baby sister knew everything about me.
Every little secret and dirty thought that passed through my head.
I would have eventually told her, but it was obvious that she didn’t need a verbal confession in order to put two and two together.
“Millie, hon.” She rubbed her forehead in frustration, “I told you not to fall in love with him again. He is majorly screwed up. Not fun screwed up, either. Not like Justin Bieber. More like…Mel Gibson. He didn’t even look sad about his dad dying. Just like he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there.”
I swallowed. “People deal with grief in different ways.” I knew why he hadn’t looked sad—because he wasn’t. But I couldn’t tell Rosie that Baron Senior had let his son be abused. That was Vicious’s secret. Our secret. And as sad as it was, sharing a secret with him was holding on to some intimacy between us I wasn’t sure even existed anymore.