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“Your comeback has already been announced. When you get a second, check the news.” Ollie left it at that, hanging up on me before I could argue my point a little more.
I tossed my phone to the passenger seat and didn’t care about it falling to the carpet or the fact that Plaid Shirt watched my tantrum.
My knuckle bumped the on/off switch of the radio, and one of my songs filled the car. Immediately, I changed the channel, and there I was again. The same fucking song. I flicked over once more to another of my songs. And I kept flicking until I heard an unfamiliar voice.
“Fucking finally.”
Then, the presenter talked, telling everyone listening about the show I’d be performing next month.
I turned her off, anger wrapping around my bones as my fingers curled around my steering wheel.
I resisted the urge to put my fist through the windshield and stayed relatively calm for the audience, but if Plaid Shirt followed me again, he would die. My patience was gone.
The gears crunched as I shifted into reverse. I hated driving a fucking stick. I looked over my shoulder, careened from the space, and followed the road out.
The road ahead taunted me. Two turns were coming up. The farthest would take me home to Ollie and his insistent nagging. The closest would lead me to Cat—the person who would make all my problems worse because how could I convince anyone of my role as a loyal trafficker after breaking into someone’s house to rescue a trafficked woman—the very one that had them questioning my loyalties in the first place.
But as that junction approached, I didn’t care about any of that. My mind reeled over doing another show, and all my jumbled thoughts pushed Cat to the forefront.
My eyes flicked to my mirrors, and my fingers lingered over the indicator.
And then I saw it—Plaid Shirt’s truck behind me.
So, I continued straight…watching, waiting, to see if he turned off.
I prayed for him to follow me so I could kill him and deal with the questions later.
But a flashing orange light determined he would live…for now.
Chapter 4
Remi
There were only so many times I could circle the area, avoiding two zones: my current home and the dumpster where I grew up. I’d returned to Plaid Shirt’s driveway twice, but his truck blocked the entrance to his home, making me aware that he was expecting me, waiting, and watching for me.
I needed the element of surprise.
I had to wait.
And I had nowhere to go.
Home would mean Ollie. Ollie would mean questions. Questions would mean disagreements. Disagreements that he would win because my life would be on the line if he didn’t. I didn’t fear death, but I didn’t want to drag that poor bastard down with me. He’d saved me too many times, seeing my life as worth something when I, myself, felt like I had fuck all to live for.
Woody was wrong. I wasn’t the best big brother. That title was already taken.
By Ollie.
He was a good man beneath the persona of a scumbag.
For that reason, I’d avoided home, giving us both time to think over our next moves and how to get around the procrastination I’d caused.
It was crazy how I’d have done anything to keep my career at one point, and now, I’d have to be dragged on stage.
I had my fucking reasons. There was one thing that kicked me into my place every time I reached for a bottle of whisky or vodka or a handful of pills and thought of demanding my old life back, and it wasn’t Ollie, though he did the same.
It was Cat.
My shows put her where she was today in a fancy-looking hell disguised as a pretty Georgian manor.
