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In all her time here, she’s been obedient and quiet. She’s always eager to do whatever the fuck Enzo demands her to do. But tonight, I saw a different side of her. And something tells me the side I’m seeing now is the real her.
The girl who played dumb when I caught her trying to sneak into Enzo’s office and then pretended like she’d heard it was a library while batting her lashes at me—that girl is long gone. Left behind is this woman who seems to give zero fucks that I’m twice her size. She’s mouthy and not afraid of anything.
And to be honest … I fucking love it.
And I hate that I do.
Even though I’m fully clothed with no intention to swim, I sit in a lounge chair next to the indoor pool because I needed a change of scenery as I draw in my sketchbook. Or attempt to anyway. My brain is stuck playing a repeat of when Hudson kissed me last night.
And the huge bulge under the fabric of his pants, pressing into my body, begging for my touch.
Putting the pencil down, I wave the book in front of my face because it’s suddenly hotter when I think about Hudson and what he’s packing below the belt.
Hudson, Rossi, as well as a few other guards, have been randomly passing by the door, always peering in to check that I’m still here. I feel like a small child who is supposed to have floaties or a life jacket on, whose parents can’t leave them next to the pool area, unattended.
Perhaps I should feign drowning in hopes that Hudson would give me mouth-to-mouth.
Shaking my head at myself, I toss my sketchbook next to my side and force myself to take a bite of my peanut butter sandwich, chewing it slowly before setting it back down before relaxing back in my chair. The chef asked what I wanted for lunch, and when I rattled that off, he frowned. He almost wouldn’t make it because he felt ashamed. I assured him it was what I wanted, and finally, he agreed.
As a kid, I ate more peanut butter sandwiches than I care to admit. Sometimes, we’d run out of bread, and I’d just eat spoonfuls of peanut butter to fill my belly. Other times, we’d run out of peanut butter, so carb paradise it was. When I left Sunset Drive, I swore I’d never eat another peanut butter sandwich again. Because for so much of my childhood, it was all I had. But when I woke up today, I longed to be back in that grungy, old, rat-infested house instead of this palace, surrounded by people who don’t give a shit about me.
My childhood was painful and undoubtedly far from perfect, but at least I knew I was loved. It also made me the person I am today. So many times, I’ve heard people crying about the most insignificant things. I don’t sweat the small stuff because, to be honest, what’s the point?
My mind continues to go back to the kiss. Over and over again. Being here has clearly made me go crazy enough that I keep thinking about my killer bodyguard, who’s probably going to murder me one of these days.
The sex though … would probably be totally worth it.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I shake my head at myself. “Jesus Christ, would you listen to yourself?” I whisper. “This place is making me go insane.”
The buzz of my phone saves me from myself and my deranged thoughts, and when I see Walker’s name on the screen, I smile. Ever since I broke the news to him that I was in Italy, we haven’t spoken. I miss him. And a part of me—a big part—wishes I could tell him to come get me. To beg him to find a way to get me the hell out of here.
“Walker!” I answer, unable to stop the excitement in my voice because my baby brother called me. And not really caring to either. “Hi!”
“How’s Italy?” he mutters, clearly still pissed at me. “Married yet?”
My heart sinks, and I wonder how he knows that.
“Yeah, Beckett told me,” he mutters. “I’m disappointed. And mad. But that’s not why I’m calling.” He sighs, pausing. “Van is dead.”
My heart stops, and I sit up straight in my chair. “Wh-what?” I breathe the word out, hoping I didn’t hear him correctly.
“Yeah. He overdosed yesterday,” he says, and even though my brother isn’t an overly emotional guy, I can tell he’s hurting.
Van is Poppy’s twin brother, and both are Walker’s age. The three of them were best friends for years.
“Poppy had to identify him last night,” he utters quietly.
I put my hand on my chest, which suddenly aches. “Oh, Poppy,” I cry, tears gathering in my eyes because my friend has already been through enough pain in her life. And now this? How is she supposed to go on?
“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Anyway, I just figured you might want to know. You know, in case you want to actually come back here and be there for Poppy.” He stops. “She needs us, Briar. You know how many people she’s let into her life. It isn’t a lot, and she just lost one of them.”
Of course, in a perfect world, I’d be on the first flight out of here. I’d be there for my friend the way we were always there for each other, growing up. And my brother too. I’d comfort him, even if he tried to act tough.
But what’s the use in lying, telling my brother I’ll be there when I know I won’t be?
“Walker, I … I don’t know if I can come home right now.” I swallow back the thick lump that’s lodged itself at the top of my throat, burning like a bitch. “I’ll try. But—”
“Yeah, I get it. Don’t worry,” he snaps. “You can stay over in Italy, B. It’s clear family and friends don’t mean a fucking thing to you anymore!” he roars into the phone before the line goes dead.
