Page 65 of Blacklist

“Poppy told me. He’s just a bargaining chip. No one wants him. They’re scared of them. They think he’ll hurt them. They saw the cover and decided his story isn’t for them without reading a single word.”

“They don’t know him,” she says quietly.

“And you do?” I ask her.

“Better than you think.” Her fingers shift from my grasp and lace through mine. “As long as you’re going to take care of him.”

“I swear on all the dog biscuits.” I spin her in a circle, dipping her backward slightly. She blinks like she feels a heady rush of blood. That makes two of us. I need to get this back on track, and quickly. “You work at the shelter?”

“I have to have something to do.” She doesn’t sound happy about it.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. We pause to find Kai there. “Mind if I cut in?”

Her knight has come to save her. She looks relieved. I release her into his custody, ignoring how empty my arms feel without her in them. I have to remind myself that Adair is a burden that’s too heavy to carry long.

22

Adair

The Past

The sun is really, really bright. I scooch up on my elbows and stare around me. Pink walls and a room my mom decorated to feel like the Beverly Hills Hotel greet me. I have no memory of making it back to the pool house last night, but there’s a pretty obvious clue snoring on the floor next to the bed. How the hell did I wind up back here with Sterling Ford sleeping at my feet?

My last memory—Sterling picking me up—is where the night ends in my memory. It’s as fixed as the period at the end of a sentence. But why him? Moving the sheets as quietly as possible, I creep out of the room, tiptoeing to the door so I don’t wake him up. I stop in the bathroom long enough to dig out a toiletry kit— my mother took the whole hotel vibe as far as possible— and brush my teeth. A quick glance in the mirror reveals yesterday’s makeup fared about as well as I did. I scrub it off until my skin glows pink, hoping to jar some memories free. No luck. There’s just Sterling’s worried face swimming in front of me, and then nothing. Full-stop. The end.

Down the hall, I hear someone moving around the kitchen. Another person is singing. Apparently, Sterling didn’t bring me here alone. I head down and discover Poppy buttering slices of toast.

“Good morning, darling,” she says, dancing over to peck my cheek. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I was run over by a truck,” I say, rubbing my temples. “I wasn’t, was I?”

For all I know, I might have been.

Kai and Poppy share a look before he returns to the eggs he’s frying on the stovetop.

“What did I do?” I demand.

“You did nothing,” Poppy says slowly. “You passed out.”

“I didn’t have that much to drink.” In fact, I can only remember taking one drink pre-Sterling.

“That’s exactly it,” she says. “Sterling thinks someone drugged you.”

“For real?” That explains the construction crew hammering in my head. Drugs aren’t uncommon at Valmont house parties. Some people want something stronger than alcohol. Some people have too much money. It’s a terrible combination. “I’m going to kill Sterling Ford.”

He’s the last person I remember. Why had I let myself be alone with him? How could Poppy have let him sleep in the same room as me?

“I don’t think you should be mad at Sterling.”

“He’s the last person I was with, and—”

“He found you and then he found me,” Poppy cuts in, officially stopping me in my tracks. “He helped us get you here. He even drove your car home. He stayed with you all night like a guard dog.”

I didn’t expect that. It’s not difficult to imagine the hot and cold egomaniac doing something heartless. It’s a lot harder to imagine him doing something selfless—and he’d done something selfless twice now. He’d been a dick about it the whole time, but, still, why did he care? Sure, it’s the decent thing to do, and if our situations had been reversed, I would have helped him. The trouble is that I didn’t expect that of him, which means I’m either completely wrong about who he is, or I’m actually the bitch in this scenario. Neither thought is comforting.

“Also,” she adds, “he’s really nice.”

“Nice?” I repeat. “That hasn’t been my experience.”