Chapter Thirty-Five

Jaxon is late.

Twenty-seven minutes late.

My overnight bag is packed, my legs are shaved silky smooth, my hair is washed and wavy, and I smell like Rihanna.

No, I don’t know for a fact what Rihanna smells like. But, I’m swathed in her Nude at the moment, and I’d like to believe this is how she smells all the time, because this fragrance is dillydeewop awesome.

I’ve not heard from Jaxon since he kissed my brains out and sent me off with overnight bag instructions this afternoon.

For the past couple of hours, I’ve been actively blocking the influx of sage advice from my brain. I’ve laced fingers with my heart and have done all it told me to do, which is, simply, to make myself pretty.

I’m sitting at the bottom of the stairs on the ground floor, checking my phone for the umpteenth time.

He’s not coming. Hell, he probably even forgot about me.

This is Jaxon. The man who goes missing for days on end without notice. No big deal.

Except now I feel like a fool.

As for the talk Melanie wanted to have with me this afternoon…

“How close are you to finding the music box? Have you any clues to where it might be? Do you think it’s here at the house or somewhere else?”

I keep shaking my head, and she keeps talking.

“Markus is getting impatient. We’ve been here too long. We need to find that damn box. Have you even been putting any effort into finding it, or is there too much on your hands with the ongoing love triangle?”

I wince inwardly.

“You do know it’s forbidden to get attached to any of these people, right? Are you still a virgin? Which hottie got it—the White Snow with abs for days, or the Dark Rain with the bitable arse?”

And I lie.

Lie, lie, lie to my best friend. For a man. We’re literal partners in crime, and I stand there and lie to her face about the box. A sin I’ve never before committed, out of respect of our friendship.

Now, as I sit here waiting in vain for an unpredictable, unreliable, intentional muddler, liar, and unfair seducer, I regret my rash, asinine, selfish, selfish actions.

On a heaved sigh, I get up and am about to plod shamefacedly back up the stairs, when my phone pings.

Brick: Had a thing. It ran over. Super sorry. Sent a driver to pick you up. He should be there in a few. Name’s Ekko. Before you get in the car, ask him this question: What color is the sky? If his answer isn’t *Peanut Butter*, DO NOT get in the car and call me immediately.

I stare at the text.

Seriously?

As I reread the words, I consider telling him to sod off.

But naturally, I don’t. Because…one more night. Just one more. And hey, I didn’t shave my legs and get my hair all washed and wavy for nothing. Plus, I still smell like Rihanna. Can’t let that go to waste, can I?

Me: The human brain cannot create faces. So if you have a dream & see someone you don’t know, rest assured you have seen them before. No matter if it was a glimpse of them at a jam-packed concert.

Brick: I like you.

Me: Smelling onions will ease your cravings for salty foods.

Brick: I really like you.

Me: The cause for human lips to have a reddish color is the great concentration of capillaries right below the skin.

Brick: I really, really like you.

Me: Giraffes clean their ears with their eighteen-inch tongue.

Brick: I. Want. You.

Me: Pigs can’t look up at the sky.

Brick: Now.

Me: Too bad. Your punishment for making me wait.

Brick: You’ll forgive me.

The driver arrives five minutes later. Built like a boxer—average height, crew-cut hair. When he greets me and introduces himself as Ekko, I recognize his accent as Turkish.

As he opens the car door for me, I pause and casually ask, “What color is the sky?”

With a deep frown, he looks up at the sky before he brings his eyes to me again. “Blue?”

Uh-oh. This can’t be good.

I start to back up.

With a cough and a wheeze, I take another step back, unzip my bag, and begin digging around. “Shite.” I fake another wheeze. “I’m asthmatic, and I’ve left my inhaler inside. Can you give me a minute?”

Without waiting for his reply, I turn and start to leave.

“Peanut butter,” he says through a choked laugh.

I stop. Turn. “What?”

From inside his jacket, he withdraws a cell phone—the screen shows an ongoing call. He mutters into it, “A good liar she is, no, King?”

Then, his disembodied voice comes through the line, sending a sweet shiver down my spine. “That’s my girl.” A pause, then, “Bring her to me.”

He hangs up.

His girl? He just referred to me as his girl? Tiny wings flutter around in my stomach. Not entirely sure why, but the idea of being Jaxon’s girl makes me feel like…a girl. A girl who likes being called a cute boy’s girl.

I like it. I really do.

What I don’t like is— “He told you to lie to me?” I demand, irritated. “To test me?”

Ekko shrugs, as if this is the norm. He’s probably one of them. One of those people—like Jaxon and Nadine—who does “classified” things. “King is tricky man, yes?”

I glower at Ekko, but he just gestures for me to get in the car.

Brain is wary and shouting at me now, but Heart is in full control, so, I get in the car.

And Ekko does as he’s told and takes me to him.

To the man who called me his girl.