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“Conor usually collects. I-I was expecting Conor today.”
“Yes, one of my henchmen. But instead, you have me. I wanted to deliver my apology in person. Problem?”
Lorcan’s words are more loaded than a gun.
“Of course not,” Mickey says, keeping his voice even. With slow, deliberate movements, he rises to his feet, takes the two steps to the safe against the back wall, and sinks to his knees to punch in a long passcode.
I feel more and more nauseous with every beep, whir and clink. Suffocated by the unknown. Mickey drags a duffel out of the safe and drops it onto the desk with a heavy thud. He drags open the zipper and takes away a few stacks of cash. “The five percent,” he says, glancing towards Lorcan, as if to double-check this deal is still good.
“Count it.”
Mickey falters and he says, “Oh, come on, Mr. Quinn. Conor never counts—”
“Not you.” Lorcan turns to my little corner of the office, eyes grazing mine. “You.”
I’m pinned to the chair by the sudden attention of both the men. My mouth flaps open and closes as quickly.
“You can count, right?” Lorcan challenges me.
The heat rises to my face, along with a prickle of annoyance. “Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. “But—”
“Then count,” he growls with a tone that immediately shifts the atmosphere in the room. In one, swift motion, he picks up the bag and dumps it on my lap. Then, he turns back to Mickey, a broad, menacing smile stretching over his lips. “How about that drink, then?”
Mickey fumbles on the buzzer, ordering something French-sounding on the rocks. The words pass right over my head. The only thing I can focus on is the stack of money weighing down my thighs and Lorcan’s intense, unwavering glare.
I pick up a bundle of hundred-dollar bills and begin to count. I’ve never held this much money in my life, but I’m not acompletestranger to counting cash. Running my restoration business in college, I had a handful of old-school collectors that’d prefer to pay in crisp Benjamin’s rather than bank transfer.
I snap the band off, passing each hundred dollar bill from one hand to the other, trying my hardest to do basic arithmetic under the weight of the thick tension swirling the room.
But as I thumb note after note, something seems off.
I pause, running a trembling finger over the edge of the bill.
I’m sure I’m right…
“Is there a problem?”
Lorcan’s ice-cold voice cuts through the suspense. Again, my mouth flaps open and closes.
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Mickey says, but the breeziness in his tone is forced. “It’s all there. I counted it twice—”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” Lorcan growls, cutting him off. “Poppy,” he says, eyes glowering, “what’s the problem?”
I take in a lungful of thick air, knowing that I have mere seconds to assess the situation.
I hate Lorcan Quinn. I hate everything about him. He might look like a movie star but evil intentions trickle through his veins.
I owed him nothing but yet he took everything. I have nothing to give him, apart from two things:
My virginity, and the truth.
There’s a part of me that hopes if I give him the latter, he won’t take the former.
“The security thread should be on the left.”
Lorcan’s jaw sets. “Explain.”
I clear my throat. “On a hundred dollar bill, the security thread should be on the left of Franklin’s portrait. All of these bills… the thread is on the right,” I blurt out.
