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Opening the patio door, I walk down the hall, Angel’s incoherent nightmare-infused words ringing in my ears.
“Are you God?”
My eyes focus on the bedroom door, a sense of dread resting in the pit of my stomach. For a moment, I consider getting in my car and getting the hell out. But I can’t do that to her.
Because I made a promise once.
And pinkie promises are binding.
Lies are fascinating things. They’re like a grain of sand in between your toes, rough and uncomfortable, but the more you walk around, the less you notice it. It becomes normal, and before long, you don’t remember a time when it wasn’t there.
Tell a lie long enough, and just like sand, you won’t remember the truth. Wear a mask long enough and no one knows your real face.
Three weeks, one day, and four hours. That’s how long I’ve lived a lie since that night at Amalia.
Sitting on the third floor balcony, I look out over the grounds and remember the words I discounted so long ago.
“Fate always finds a way.”
Resting my arms over the thick rails, I inhale and let it out slowly without a wheeze or a cough. Smirking, I tip the neck of my beer bottle back and take a long drink.
It’s also been three weeks, one day, and four hours since my last cigarette. My lungs thank me, but my nerves are pissed as hell.
Especially since I still haven’t told Angel about Luciano. To be fair, she hasn’t asked. If she brings it up, I’ll tell her enough to satisfy her while holding enough back to keep her off the Vitoli radar.
Since that night in his office, Luciano has remained quiet. Too quiet. Which means he’s watching and waiting, analyzing my every move and following my every step.
Our tentative truce is shaky at best.
The scales are balanced for now, but it’d take only one miscalculation to bathe these walls in blood for the second time.
There’s a rattle of glass behind me followed by the click-clack of high heels. “I’ve been looking for you. What are you doing out here?”
“Just thinking.”
Angel nestles in beside me, leaning her head against my shoulder. “About what?”
“Time.” Or lack thereof. Staring out at the darkening sky, I tip my beer back again. Angel stands quietly as I lean over the railing, rolling the nearly empty bottle between my palms. “How did filming go today?”
Her shoulders shrug lightly against me. “Same as always. Rosten tried to do everyone’s job and made a bunch of homophobic remarks. By the fourth one, a production assistant had to escort Brent off the set.”
My grip tightens around the bottle. For three weeks, I’ve bit my tongue. A studio executive’s purpose is to fund projects. They make sure everything runs smoothly then get the hell out.
Not Greg Rosten. Not this project.
According to Angel, he’s on set every day, pushing people around and playing director, especially during sex scenes. No surprise, I was banned from the set before filming even started. It’s probably for the best. If I saw him get off on seeing her naked, I’d end up in jail.
Which is why I have an unlikely ally in Braddock’s boyfriend. He has been on set every day, keeping an eye on things and reporting back to me. The guy hates Rosten almost as much as I do and promised to look after Angel.
He’s a good guy, and his boyfriend’s becoming tolerable, too.
Okay, fine. Braddock isn’t so bad. I kind of like him now. Since coming out, his popularity has tripled, if that’s even possible.
Hollywood, man. Fickle as fuck, but they’ll take up a cause like a bad habit.
“Did he at least get one good swing in?”
“Unfortunately, not. Which I guess is a good thing. He doesn’t have a former actress-slash-cocktail waitress to conspire with to pay off the debt.” Tipping her chin up, she bumps her hip against my leg and grins.
