Page 46 of The Killer Card

I know I should have told them. I definitely should have said something by now I just… I’m a fucking coward I guess. This is Nelly’s wedding and the last thing I want is to make any part of it about me or my illness. All eyes should be on her and I will tell them. I will tell them everything, eventually.

For now, I take another sip of my water, fold my legs underneath me and just allow myself, for once, to quietly appreciate the company I’ve craved these last four years.

Nelly is getting married in three days, and I am so lucky I’m still alive to be able to see it.

✽✽✽

I’m getting ready for bed when I feel more than hear him lean against the doorframe. “What’s in the bottle, Naomi?” He asks calmly.

Turning, I take in his gray sweat pants, his hoodie left unzipped to reveal a plane white t-shirt. His eyes are slightly bloodshot and hooded from the joint he finally finished before we came inside, but he still looks pretty focused.

Focused on me. On the water bottle I just sat down on my bedside table. My shoulders drop with a sigh, too exhausted to do any of this right now.

“What does it matter?”

He sucks at his teeth. “Are you hiding it in here? If I check your suitcase will I find a bottle at the bottom—”

“If you go through my shit you’ll earn my fucking handprint across your pretty fucking face and we both know Nelly is really invested in the wedding pictures,” I warn him, fingers clenching.

Graham takes a deep breath. “What’s in the bottle, Naomi—”

I toss it to him. “It’s fucking water, asshole.”

He catches the bottle with ease.

“See for yourself.”

And because I’ve never actually given him a reason to trust me, he does, twisting off the top and taking a tentative sip. He seems surprised to find that it is in fact just water, capping it and tossing it back.

I turn away to avoid staring as he licks his lips. “Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed—”

“Goodnight, Graham.”

For a long time, he doesn’t move, and then with all the subtlety of a buffalo he pushes away from the doorframe, muttering, “Buenos noches,” as he pulls the door closed behind him.

Closing my eyes, I take three slow breaths, willing thoughts of him away. Willing away the urge to apologize for all the times he tried to help me and I denied him. Willing away the part of me that wishes I could just go back and do it all over again. Because that’s not how time works. It only ever moves forward and that’s exactly what I need to do if I am ever going to make it another six months. Another year. Just keep moving forward.

One day at a time.

4 Years Ago

Chapter Fourteen

Naomi

How does the phrase go?

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to?

I’d like to make an amendment to Ms. Gore’s iconic lyrics because this is my party, but I have no plans to cry tonight. No, tonight I plan to exactly three things: drink roughly my weight in Graham’s Pain Killer cocktails, find two- no, three- no, four of the hottest players on Miami Sharks soccer team willing to practice passing all night long, and come. A lot. Loudly.

Because it’s been roughly three months since I let Graham take me back to his place and fuck me into seeing God for the first and last time. Three months of avoiding The Cellar, of picking up guys right in front of him only to be left disappointed two to three times a week when they proved him right.

I’m the only one who can make you come, mi reina.

For the record, I did believe that would be the last encounter we ever had. Nelly was going to marry Cristian, and we were all going to go to great lengths to ensure we never ran into the Island King or his friends ever again. I would limit my nights at The Cellar, we would never come to El Rincón, and over time we would all fall back into our old normal. Except, Elias had to go and grow the biggest balls in the universe, drive his fucking Bugatti onto Vincent Winchester’s golf course and crash the Lightning Cove wedding of the century.

It was without a doubt the most romantic crap I’ve ever seen. But it also means I’m now perpetually stuck in Graham’s orbit. Stuck being the object of his hungry stares. Stuck with the constant reminder of how soul shattering it felt to come on his cock like my body was made to do just that forever and ever and ever—