Page 58 of Stay Toxic

I shake my head. "I didn't ask him to. I mean there's a difference between helping me out and paying six figures per year for me. And I'm not even sure he can afford it."

Even the five grand he sent were probably too much. It'll last me a good long while.

"Oh, trust me, he can."

I lift an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

"One second." She types away on her phone, before finding what she's looking for, and handing it to me.

She's brought up a New York Times article about the newest bachelors joining the ranks of the people with the highest net worth in the state, and sure enough, I'm staring at a highly flattering picture of my brother, wearing his trademark smirk and a well-tailored suit as he sits behind an imposing desk.

"Wow." I blink several times. "Not that it changes anything. I'm not his kid. Nor is André."

"Well, André isn't your kid either," Tanya reminds me. "He's your half brother, and Caleb's half brother, too. Opening up about that issue might work."

I nod, but honestly, I already feel like I'm taking way too much. He's out on his own—has been since he was eighteen. And here I am, twenty-two, and completely dependent, first on my mother, now on him. Handling André is the least I can do, isn't it?

"I know I already said it, but I love your hair," Tanya gushes again. "You'll have to tell me where Mrs. Stewart works."

"Lauren. And I don't know, actually."

That gives me an idea. After lunch, I stop by the florist on the same side of the road as the Gold Theater. Lauren might have refused to be paid, but I still owe her, big time. I compose the most extravagant bouquet I've ever seen and drive it down to southie, finding her street from memory.

On my way from the parking lot to the door, I call Ari, balancing the phone between my ear and my shoulder as I carry the heavy bouquet in its vase.

"Hey, what's your apartment number? I'm in front of your building. It's the middle of the day, but I figured I could leave flowers in front of the door and your mom will see them when she gets there?"

From what I remember, the building isn't locked, so I should be able to walk in without issue.

"Aw, you're too sweet," she tells me. "It's 7124. Seventh floor, to the right, and?—"

The phone is suddenly yanked from my ear and chucked on the floor. I only have a moment to gasp before a hand is pressed on my mouth, and I'm jerked backward.

I try to scream, dropping the flowers. The vase crashes against the pavement in a mess of glass, water, and long-stem roses. My arms flail in every direction, attempting to push away from the man dragging me back toward a black van, but he's way too strong, and I have no idea how to get out of a hold like that. I try to kick back toward his crotch, but only hit his thigh.

"Bitch!" he grumbles, and I freeze.

I know this voice far too well.

"Joseph?"

My mother's bodyguard has starred in enough of my nightmares for me to recognize that voice. With that identification, I know it’s him; his height, build, even the way he holds me is as familiar as it is distressing.

I think back to the dozens of times when he’s grabbed me, locking me in the dark. And he wants to do it all over again.

God, I should have known better than to play with fire. Distance and time made me believe I had some freedom. But within a day of my first show of rebellion, she’s sent her dog after me.

Unless he came here of his own volition. I can’t decide which would be worse.

What I know is I can’t let him get me into that car.

I bite his fingers and scream when he lets go for a moment. I yell. I kick and punch and do my best to bring as much attention to us as I can. We’re in broad daylight. I might not see anyone in our immediate vicinity, but that doesn’t mean we’re completely alone; there might be someone across the road or at a window.

“You really are a spoiled bitch,” he spits, when I kick back against the back of the open van to avoid being pushed into it. “No one is coming for you.”

“Wanna bet?” I hear.

Moments later, I fall on my ass, bruising my tailbone, as Joseph drops me.