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“There’s more than one door in this house, rook.” He blows a ring of smoke into the night air, a small smirk curling his top lip as he lifts the bottle. “And more than one stash. A man should always be prepared.”
I hate myself for staring, but I can’t stop. I’m too busy remembering how hard those lips claimed mine. How forbidden they tasted. How quickly I folded to their rough demands.
Clearing my throat, I jerk the cigarette out of his hand and stomp it out under the rubber sole of my Chuck. “I told you those things are going to kill you one day.”
Shrugging, he tips his head toward the paparazzi-infested lawn. “The line starts back there.”
I hate how unaffected he is about everything. Sighing, I collapse onto the lounge chair beside him. “How long have you been out here?”
“Long enough. Here.” He shoves the bottle across a small glass table between us. “You need to take it down a few notches.”
I shake my head. “Slugging whiskey out of a bottle isn’t my style.”
“Suit yourself.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him tip the bottle back, his gaze burning into the side of my face. For a moment I consider going back inside, but to do what? Sit in silence? Answer my own questions? Stew in my own regret and fear?
Fuck that.
I clear my throat. “So, what was the disappearing act all about?”
He shrugs. “I had to make a few phone calls.”
I’m so tired of his non-answers I could scream. “You care to elaborate?”
“Nope.”
I shouldn’t be surprised. He can have his silence for now. I can play this game, too. Evade and deflect are tricks right out of the Angel Smith playbook. Dominic can dress it up and call it whatever he wants, but I know an ulterior motive when I see one.
It’s like Violet always says: putting makeup on a lie doesn’t make it the truth.
Does that mean I don’t believe the future of BTN is on the line? Quite the opposite. What we’re doing carries too high of a risk for money not to be his driving force. But I’d be a fool to think there wasn’t an underlying motive as well.
Dominic straddles the lounge chair. As if wrestling with what to say, he shifts forward, the bottle clenched between his palms as his forearms rest on his thighs. “You did all right out there.”
“Just all right?”
The thin olive branch snaps along with his mood. “What the fuck do you want?” he grumbles, slamming the bottle on the table. “A medal? You let that asshole get to you and broke character. Whatever else you said won’t matter. That’s the stuff they’ll print.”
I resist the urge to smack him. “What the hell did you expect? I did the best I could. It’s not like you gave me any warning.” Then something ugly whispers in my ear. Something unfamiliar but dangerously sharp. “Is that what you and your girlfriend were doing in that fishbowl you call an office? Making bets on how long it would take for the paparazzi to tear me apart?”
They’re baseless accusations. I have no idea if that woman is his girlfriend, and it’s none of my business. He can do whatever the hell he wants. But I saw how close they looked.
Dominic turns, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Are you jealous?”
“What?” I spin around, almost knocking the bottle off the table. “Don’t be stupid. I don’t care who you do”—his smirk widens as I catch myself—“I mean what you do. I’m here for the money.” Gritting my teeth, I jerk the bottle off the table, ignoring the trail of fire it leaves in my throat.
Dominic quirks an eyebrow. “I thought slugging whiskey out of a bottle wasn’t your style?”
“Yeah, well neither is hijacking someone else’s identity.” I scowl, shoving it back toward his chest. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.”
“Are you seriously pulling the moral card on me right now? You just lied to the entire world.” Grabbing the bottle, he slouches back in his chair, pointing the mouth in my direction. “Don’t pretend we don’t walk the same crooked line.”
His assessment hits home. For as much as I condemn him for what he’s done, I’m the one stealing another woman’s identity. This is getting my card punched straight to hell kind of shit.
I wrap my arms around my chest. “You’re right.”
I expect him to gloat, but his voice takes on a brittle edge. “Nobody likes having a mirror shoved in their face. That’s why it’s called the ugly truth. What we’ve done, where we’ve been, what we’ve seen—none of it’s a pretty reflection. No matter how hard a person sweeps their past under a rug, it always finds a way out.”
