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Laila’s blonde hair flies wildly as she twists around to face me. Her phone is ringing in her hand. She’s rolled up the sleeves of my oversized shirt so they’re folded over her elbows. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s our wedding night.”
The phone goes quiet and she scowls. “Is that supposed to mean something? Last I checked, it was a fake wedding.”
I shut the door behind me. “The wedding wasn’t fake.We’re legally bound to one another now.”
She opens her mouth, another retort all teed up and ready to be launched, but her phone starts ringing again. She looks down at it, her lips curling with disgust. “Pigheaded fucking bastard.”
All at once, it hits me that Laila might have been cursing someone else.
“What’s wrong?”
“What isn’t wrong with my life right now?” She barks out a humorless laugh. “It’s my father. He keeps calling and texting. I block him, but then he just finds another way to reach out. So we keep playing this stupid fucking game. And I keep thinking about jumping off a bridge.”
“I take it you’re not on good terms.”
“There are no ‘terms.’ Not since he walked out on us when I was a little girl. That was it for me. I would’ve happily cut him off.” The phone is white-knuckled in her hand and she’s back to pacing across the room. “But my mom and her bleeding heart…”
Frowning, I try to keep up, but I’m distracted by the way Laila has started limping midway through her rant.
“I can’t believe she told him she has cancer,” she growls. “What was she thinking? He’ll never leave us alone now.”
She winces, stopping long enough to massage a fist down her leg, directly over the scar I’ve seen up close and personal. I’m not even sure she realizes she’s doing it.
“Now, he’s sending flowers and cards.” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s disgusting.”
“Maybe he’s trying to apologize.”
“How can a man in your line of work be naive?” she seethes. “He’s not coming around because he’s concerned about her; he’s coming around because he wants his damn house back!”
She drops down heavily on the fainting couch in front of her bed and stretches out the scarred leg.
“Mom got the house in the divorce,” she explains as she digs knuckles into her hip. “Charles fought for it, but even a soulless motherfucker like him couldn’t come up with a convincing argument for why his ex-wife and daughter should be homeless. So he lost the house, but he never lost hope of getting it back some day.” She winces again and presses both palms to her thigh.
“Is your leg giving you trouble?”
She peels her hands away immediately. “It’s nothing. It flares up when I get stressed. Between you and my father, I’m amazed my leg’s not literally on fire.”
She glares at her phone sitting next to her, and my jaw tightens. “Give me your phone.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want to read his texts.”
“No.”
“I’ll take care of him for you.”
“I can take care of myself just fine, thanks. I’ve been doing it all my life.”
“And yet you’re here,” I remind her. “In my house. In my bed.”
“Are you trying to pat yourself on the back for kidnapping and extortion? Because I wouldn’t, if I were you. It’s a bad look.”
Gedeon’s words float back into my consciousness.She’s nice.To whom, though? It sure as fuck is not me.
“Don’t be stubborn. Asking you was a courtesy.” I drop down on one knee in front of her.
