Chapter Twenty

My phone’s been going off for the past two hours, but I’m too engrossed with my work in progress to care. The phone is brand new, so it can only be Melanie. Or quite possibly Jaxon, come to think of it. I never gave him the number, but I noticed his number programmed in my phone this afternoon, and I’m not the one who put it there.

At first when I saw it, I’d been confused, because it’s not stored under J for Jaxon, but under B for Brick. Huh? Took me a while to remember our conversation in the kitchen when I told him he was like a brick. I suppose this is his way of being a wanker about it.

Anyway. If I have his number, he has mine.

When my neck starts to ache and my stomach whines and grumbles, I straighten up and stretch my arms above my head to get the kinks out. The blinking notification light from my phone begs for my attention.

Resigned, I pick it up.

Twenty-two missed calls, eight messages.

Oops.

Mel: Where’d you go?

Mel: Are you in Brooklyn? If so, set up something for Monty. I forgot him the last time I was there.

No shite.

Mel: Hey, Kingker is here. He’s asking for you. (<<——See what I did there? King + Wanker = Kingker! Bwahahahhahah!)

I roll my eyes.

Mel: Tim, where are you? Kingker is being a wanker. He doesn’t believe I don’t know where you are. He thinks we’re up to something. I so wish we were. Ha!

Mel: You need to get back here now before I throw a stick of dynamite in your crush’s face! He’s pissing me off.

Mel: Wankerface wants me to remind you that you’re a hostage & you weren’t supposed to leave the house without someone from the team.

Mel: All right, now I’M getting worried. WHERE ARE YOU? If I don’t hear from you soon I’m going to assume you’re in trouble & contact Markus.

Brick: Timberly Day.

I frown at the last message. From Jaxon. It’s no surprise he knows my full name. But what does he mean by that cryptic text? Is it supposed to be a threat? To let me know he knows how to find me?

Since when did he become the threat-issuing type?

I set my phone aside, giving my brain some time to process that. A yawn stretches my mouth, more from hunger than weariness. I head for my bedroom.

From the wall safe, I grab a couple hundred in cash and another one of my antique knives. A lady should always have a fancy knife in her purse, not lipstick. Unless it’s a knife disguised as lipstick.

From my closet, I choose a purse and a shoulder bag that still have tags on them, so I can lie and say I went purse shopping. Seeing as they confiscated the old one. Dumping the knife and cash inside the purse and then the purse inside the shoulder bag, I trek back to the office for my phone. First I text Mel.

Timber: On my way. Don’t tell Kingker, though. Let the bastard feel out of control a wee bit longer.

I thought for a moment, then typed out a message to Jaxon.

Timber: Jaxon King. 28. Only child. Millionaire by 16. Felon by 18. 2 years in prison. Pauper by 20. Profession: con artist specializing in Sweetheart Con. Taciturn. Boring. Tyrannical. Closet nerd. Unreliable team player. Manipulator. Big time hypocrite.

There. That’ll tell him. And then some.

The phone tells me it’s 9:42 p.m., so I ring for a cab.

The wait time is three minutes. I shut everything down, reactivate the security system, and exit the building.

Monty is fast asleep under his tarp canopy, a dusty gray blanket draped over him and a stuffed Army bag as a pillow. I espy a McDonald’s food bag and a two-liter Pepsi bottle peeking out from under his blanket. Guess he made the right choice, after all.

Just as the cab pulls up and I’m tucking my cell into my purse, it chirps and vibrates.

Brick: Come back.

Brick: Please.

Clearing the screen with a smile of gratification, I drop the phone in my bag, duck into the cab, and give the driver my destination.

Why am I affected?

Why do I let him affect me?

He’s so much more poisonous to my brain than the alcohol I actively avoid. He truly muddles me. He takes over my mind and clouds me. He overrides control of my anatomy so every part aches and pulses and begs for him. He burns the center of my chest in the same way a damn good shot of whiskey would.

And the worst part is, I like it.

And I hate it.

And I’m annoyed and confused by it. By him.

What makes him think he can hold my hand and kiss me and take me to lunch and smile at me, then abruptly shut down, wall me out, abandon me without a word…and then suddenly turn around again, expecting the world to be in the same order he left it?

Expecting me to be in the same place he left me?

I’m not the one auditioning for his team, Melanie is. I don’t owe him a damned thing. I have an agenda, a mission, so I play along. But that does not mean I have to drink his poisonous potion and get muddled.

Screw him and his fucking head muddling.