I get an argument together, but the dark-haired guy shouts for somebody named Nicholas. The one with the scar climbs up to the ropes.
“Help me get him down.” An order to Nicholas from the dark-haired guy.
“I don’t need help,” I say.
Nicholas ignores this completely. The two of them help me over the ropes like it’s the railing of a ship. Then I’m in a sea of people, being steered toward the exit. There are more guys with us by the time I step out into cool, fresh air. Both my ears ring. One of my ribs feels broken. Bruised, at least.
I head in the direction of my car. Ithinkit’s the direction of my car. If it isn’t, I’ll just keep walking until I find a place to sit down.
A minute later, headlights stretch out my shadow on the concrete. A black SUV pulls up alongside me, and the dark-haired prick from inside jumps out. “Not a chance, hellion.”
“Go away.”
“Then I’d have to tell Ashley I left you for dead, and I’m not going to do that.” He opens the passenger door and half-lifts, half-shoves me inside. “You have everybody?”
I don’t have anyone, but he’s not talking to me. He’s talking to Nicholas, who has jogged up behind us. “They’re all out.”
“Send them to the ship. Tell Ashley I’ll be back soon. Don’t say a fucking thing to my brothers.”
“Oh, like she’s not going to tell them herself.”
“Fuck you, Nicky.” It sounds affectionate when the ocean guy says it like that.
“Fuck you, too.”
Fuck me. Fuck all of us. I mean to get back out of the SUV, but I need a minute to catch my breath. The guy who’s stronger than Sinclair—taller, too, what the hell—shuts my door and climbs into the driver’s seat.
“No hospital.”
He rolls his eyes. “Where, then?”
I give him Bristol’s address.
21
BRISTOL
A good time tosort out one’s feelings about her angry, kind, cold, unbelievably hot temporary boss is while washing dishes. Actually, it’s a good time to work through just about anything. You can go through the motions of transforming dirty dishes into sparkling clean ones while your mind works.
I don’t have to wash dishes anymore. Not as long as we live in this apartment. Not as long as the brand-new, top-of-the-line dishwasher from Will holds out.
I run the plates and cups and silverware under hot water anyway, turning them over and over until there’s not a speck of lasagna left. Late-night rinsing. The twins have been asleep for a couple hours already.
Will’s been all over the place. I’ve only known him for a little while. Iknowsomething’s up, though. In my bones. In my soul. Whatever.
Those things he said today were something else.
How long would it have taken you to run the con to the end, Bristol? A month? A year? What would you let me do to you before you walked away?
He talks about time more than anyone I’ve ever met. About staying. About being locked in.
And the suggestion that I was angling formoretime, a longer con that would ultimately end in me walking away with a bag full of money?
All I can think is that the scenario puts him in control of the timeline. He’s the one who’s cutting it off at two weeks. He’s the one who’s deciding.
Never mind that he’s always been in control.
Or maybe it only seems that way.