Page 61 of Gilt

I pick up my phone and stare at the Instagram feed again. It’s definitely her, and while whoever’s blessed us with this account only identified her by her initials, it hardly feels anonymous. I scroll through the handful of other photos that have been posted. Hugo Roth practically dragging an unconscious girl down the hall. Monroe West, peeking guiltily over a pair of black sunglasses like she knew she was being watched. There’s nothing outright incriminating in any of the photos. It’s simply the suggestion contained in each one. It wouldn’t take a nut job to weave conspiracies in all these pictures. It’s clear that’s what The Dealer wants his audience to consider. Or her audience, I guess. There’s no sexism in stalking.

“Who do you think took these?” I ask.

“If I knew, I’d already have strangled them and stolen their phone,” Josie admits.

I study the picture of her for a few more seconds, this time zeroing in on Josie’s dress.

“Wait.” My mouth goes dry, and I lick my lips. “This is the dress you were wearing the night of...”

But it seems she’s already realized that because she gulps and nods. Thumbing back through I find the picture of Hugo with the blonde draped over his shoulder. I can only make out part of his shirt. A D and two E’s.

“STD Free,” I mutter to myself as I picture the shirt Hugo wore that night. I’d called it false advertising. Staring at this picture, I stand by that claim. Conscience-free would have been a lot more fitting.

“What?” Josie asks in confusion.

“Nothing. It’s not important.” There’s no need to fill her in on the details. “This picture is from that night, too. Why would someone be posting pictures from the night Nathaniel West was murdered?”

I glance up from the phone just as Josie’s eyes zero in on me through the screen.

“I have a better question for you,” she says. “How many more pictures did they take?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

An hour later, I finally pry myself away from the feed and head into the kitchen. All the paranoia is making me hungry. But a note on the fridge stops me.

Getting a blowout. Back by 1!

I have the house to myself and I’ve wasted that time stalking some perv’s idea of a good time. Sighing, I reach for the fridge door and freeze when I catch a figure reflected in the stainless steel. I spin around and blink a few times as if he might disappear. But he’s still there, leaning against the doorway. In my defense, he looks too good to be real, but then again, he always has. His wild coppery brown hair is longer than the last time I saw him, falling just over his ears. He rakes it back with one smooth, self-assured motion, but despite the smile playing at his lips, he doesn’t greet me. Instead, we stand and stare at each other. Can he sense the line in the sand between us? We’d parted on good terms, at least as good of terms as one can when their boyfriend is being hauled off in handcuffs, but things got a little more complicated since then.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I should have come to visit you.”

Lightning flashes in his silver-blue eyes. Without a word, he straightens and strides toward me. Reaching out his hand, he cups the side of my face with his palm, and my eyes close involuntarily. Time didn’t dull the electric connection of his touch. Jameson West caught me the first time we met. While we were apart, I questioned that, but now I know I’m gone hook, line, and sinker.

“Don’t,” he warns me. My eyes flicker open, and I see my questions reflected in his eyes. “Never apologize to me.”

I start to pull away, but his hand shifts to grab my chin.

“I should have—” I begin.

“I don’t care about any of that,” he stops me. “When I heard what happened, I lost it. Are you okay?” He pulls back and grabs my hands, studying the fresh, pink scars marring my skin. “Not being able to come to you nearly drove me crazy.”

Is that what happened to me? I wonder. Had being apart from him driven me to insane thoughts? It must have, because here in his presence, all my fears seem ridiculous. His touch erases my doubt, leaving only certainty behind. Whatever happened the night his father was murdered, Jameson isn’t guilty of what they think he did. Looking into the depths of his blue eyes, I know he still has secrets, but who doesn’t? I have to trust he’ll share them with me when the time is right. There are a million things we need to discuss, but being so close to him that I can feel the heat roll off his body, none of them seem to matter.

“This is your home away from home, huh?” he asks, looking past me into the gourmet kitchen that’s barely used. There’s probably still plastic wrap on the appliances.

“My mother’s, mostly. She never really took to Hollywood. It reminded her too much of Vegas.” I can’t help but wonder what he thinks of the place. My stepfather’s sprawling, private estate stretches across the patchy desert, nestling into the foot of the mountains. Someone else might be impressed, but Jameson owns a casino and a mountain home and God knows what else. I really should take the time to Google his real estate holdings.

“Is she home now?”

“She had an appointment in town,” I tell him.

He releases a heavy sigh I didn’t know he was holding onto. “Thank God.”

In one swift movement, his hands slide along my torso, lingering on my hips before they slide further down. Jameson lifts me off my feet and I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist. His face slants towards mine, but he hesitates a fraction of an inch before our lips meet. I can already taste the sweetness of his breath.

“Where’s your room?” he murmurs.

It’s hard to find words, given the promising situation I’ve found myself in. My tongue darts out to wet my lower lip, then I jerk my head backward. “Down that hall.”