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“Olivier Segarra.”
Scars tickled the inside of my palm as I held out my hand and Rubbichon shook it.
“Olivier Segarra.”
A wave of nausea rolled in my stomach. He’d look me up and find out things he shouldn’t.
And that could get me killed.
“Spanish?”
“My great-grandfather was.” I drowned my nerves with another taste of alcohol. “Born in Barcelona. I grew up in California, my parents, too.”
“And what did you do over in California?”
“Full disclosure,” I began, chunks of broken lies woven into my truth. “I was a cop before. I chose that career path, thinking the insurances would be beneficial, but that was the wrong side of the law for me. I decided to leave—”
“Because you didn’t want to get locked up with the people you put behind bars?” Alerion’s patience was waning, about to snap over me and my omission, or his little rockstar, who we were all here waiting for. I couldn’t tell.
“I didn’t care about that. I don’t fear them. I left because it didn’t pay enough. I like money. I need money, whatever the cost. My life, or someone else’s. It makes no difference.” I took another drink. “You see, I have a little brother. He’s in and out of mental hospitals, and it’s costly. He—” My words cut off at the sound of someone else’s.
“Where the fuck are all the fucking—” the man hiccupped, falling into a wall like the mess he was. “Where the fuck are all the staff!”
Alerion’s attention instantly moved to the drunken fool walking down the hallway. The light was so dim he was squinting to see the instructions on his phone.
His agent had led him here under Badeaux’s orders, both of them owned by this cult.
A new scent entered with the singer of the song now stuck in my head. A song about the beauty of death and decay—how fitting, I thought, given where we were and what was about to happen. The scent was the opposite of those things, warm and spicy yet powdery and sweet, nothing like the mixture of rum and dampness surrounding me, and that was all I’d smelled since I’d gone nose blind to the man at my side.
My back straightened seeing Remington Cole in the flesh. Seeing him as the fool most rockstars became when they started putting shit in their bodies. I couldn’t say I was a fan. His songs pissed me off because they reminded me of the shithole I worked at now, constantly played there on repeat. But the guy had talent, a voice gifted by a cruel god, in order for his minion to collect souls.
Remington stopped dead, his phone close to his face when he looked up. The bright light made the scar on the right side of his face look deeper and his eyes look more sunken than they ever did on TV interviews or magazine covers.
“Where is she?” He scanned the room, almost falling backward as he straightened his back, putting his giant phone into the pocket of the jeans that were dropping down his skinny frame.
A step brought him forward. His eyes moved rapidly. He looked almost innocent as he pushed past everyone to look for whoever she was.
“Doesn’t look like she’s here, Remington. And I highly doubt she’d want a date with her rapist. Maybe this was just a lure, with her as the decoy this time.” Alerion was intentionally mumbling.
“I can’t hear what you’re saying,” moaned a heavily drunken Remington.
I didn’t let my mind stall on the question, why would a guy like Remington Cole, loved by every fucking female in the world, have to rape a woman? But there was no doubt there, given where I was and what I had done myself.
“Can I have that?” he asked, his blown pupils glued to the single mouthful of liquid left in my tumbler.
“I think you’ve had enough.”
He read my lips like he couldn’t hear me, his hearing aid proving to be little help.
“I didn’t ask your opinion, nor did I think this was a fucking AA meeting,” he slurred, taking the glass from my hand without waiting for me to say more.
It fell through his shaking fingers and smashed on the floor.
“You’re in a bad way, Remi. You need a hit?” Badeaux stepped forward, pulling a bag from his pocket that looked more appealing to Remington than it did me.
White powder half-filled the clear packet, swinging back and forth in Badeaux’s hand. His fingers were dirty, and Remington pointed that out before snatching the bag and stabbing his finger through the packet, unable to wait any longer to get it open. He rushed to an empty part of the bar, spilling cocaine onto the mahogany surface. A line was formed using a beat-up coaster. His perfectly straight nose hovered above, snorting that filth from the bar, and I watched, wondering how many years he had left before that perfect nose needed reconstruction.
He shook himself, barely able to stand. The damage in his head convinced him he felt better. Who the fuck knew what he was running from while chasing that high. What pain he needed to stop feeling. It must have been intense.
