“Cole,” Mike calls out, “a minute?”
“Be right back,” Cole says and heads off to join Mike.
No! I don’t want to be here. I want to go back to my little safe spot in the library.
York leans in. “You speak a word of what happened last night, and I’ll personally hand you over to the Cartels myself.” He kisses my temple and walks away.
I wrap my arms around my stomach after downing the rest of my drink.
Mark shows up and hands me another. He watches as I finish half of it in one swallow.
“Mark,” I whisper, “do you have any idea when you’re going away next?”
“Possibly next week, but it’s not set in stone.”
I feel the blood drain from my face.
“I don’t think I can stay here.”
Mark drops down to my eye level. “What? How can you say that? What are you talking about?” His eyes search mine, but I feel numb. I’m shutting down.
“Dinner is ready,” Abigail announces.
I turn and walk toward the table.
Everyone is deep in conversation. Paul is talking about the men they encountered at a house they cleared out.
I, on the other hand, am very aware of York sitting directly across from me.
Cole finally joins us, sitting on my right. Abigail is on my left, as usual.
Mark replaces my empty glass with another.
My head is swimming; no food and two martinis cause quite the head trip.
“What number is that?” York asks, pointing to my martini glass.
I lick my dry lips, pick up my glass, and take a long sip, keeping my gaze on his as I give him a silent ‘fuck you.’
Cole looks between the two of us, trying to understand what is going on. Cole’s smart enough not to ask me in public.
“So, Abigail, what time does Aunt June arrive tomorrow?” Mark asks.
“Seven.” Her face perks up. “You’re picking her up at the bus stop, right?”
He nods.
I want to ask if I can go along, but I decide not to push my luck, considering later on that evening we’ll be heading into town for Thanksgiving dinner. I’m excited to see some of the town. Hell, I just want to see past the first set of gates.
“Aren’t you feeling well?” Cole leans over when I look up. “You haven’t touched your plate.”
I glance down. “Just tired,” I fib, picking up my fork and popping a green bean in my mouth.
After the table is cleared, everyone moves out to the living room. I spot Dell by himself, pouring a drink, and I want to make my move and corner him for more details about the possible blackmail comment he let slip, when Mark steps in my path.
“You care to explain yourself?”
“Not really.”