Page 106 of Trigger Happy Ending

I sigh. I can’t blame this guy. He’s, what, twenty-one?

I’ll let him live.

I guess.

For now, anyway.

“And you probably won’t ever again.” I turn back to face him, placing my hand on his shoulder. “Now get your fucking eyes off my woman.”

This might be the first time I’ve taken the non-violent high road.

Raine switches off the shower, grabbing her towel, and wraps it around herself. I follow her up the stairs, towel slung over one shoulder. We step into the main lounge to find Carson standing there, phone in hand, biting a fingernail.

“Ah,” he says, dropping his finger from his mouth. “Good. You're back.”

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Change of plans.” Carson drops his voice. “We need to head back to Miami.”

I don’t ask why, because I know why. They’ve discovered Alex is missing.

I drop into a seat at the table, towel damp across my neck, and reach for a bottle of water.

Raine lingers by the door, towel wrapped tight around her torso, legs bare and still glistening with seawater. She catches my eye, brief, sharp. Her mouth doesn’t move, but she doesn’t have to say it. She’s got my back if shit goes pear-shaped.

“Alex is missing,” Carson whispers in urgency. “Fuckin’ vanished! When did you see him last?”

“Last night. Out the back,” I say with a shrug. “So full of blow he probably slipped and fell overboard. There’s no railing out back, you know.”

Carson glares at me, trying to measure the weight of the lie. Carson wouldn’t dare accuse me of foul play—not when I’m about to transfer him 250 million dollars—but everyone on this yacht knew I didn’t like Alex.

The Captain appears at the bottom of the stairs. Carson approaches and speak quietly to him. Guess we’re going back early.

I reach for a slice of melon from the fruit tray on the table. It drips down my wrist, sticky and sweet. I don’t bother wiping it off, but I do lick my fingers.

The same fingers that carved out the eyes of Alex.

Chapter 45

Raine

Something’s wrong. Cherry didn’t show up. And she would never flake. Even if she was unwell, she would have called, or at the very least, sent me a text. Especially since I haven’t seen her since getting back from Miami two days ago. An oily feeling swirls around my gut as I stand motionless and stare at my phone in the dressing room of the Golden Claw.

10:25 pm.

Something’s really, really wrong.

She was supposed to meet me at nine pm at some stupid bar she picked.

I call her one more time. All I get is her voicemail. “Hey, y’all, it’s me. Don’t bother leaving a message, I never check this shit!”

She’s so unserious. Usually, I love that about her. But right now, I’m frustrated contemplating all the variables, simply because none of them are good.

“Fuck,” I hiss, hanging up for the tenth time.

A burst of sound from the door leading out onto the floor of the club flows into the dressing room. Krystal, a short brunette with big tits, and an even bigger attitude, pokes her head in.

“Angel? The floor manager wants to know where you are?”