“I knew it.” He closes his eyes, then opens them again. “I knew you’d try to take my pants off. You’re not a good corporate whore, sweetheart. You’re not supposed to let anybody come home with you.”
I find his phone in the third pocket. There’s a crack in the screen, but it’s working.
“Code.” I dangle it in front of Will’s face. He gives it a wary look, like he’s never seen it before. “Four numbers.”
He picks up his left hand. It’s all taped up. What the hell kind of fight was this? I’d bet the fifty thousand dollars I owe him that there are purple bruises underneath that tape. Four taps at the screen, and his hand falls back down to the bed. Will curses under his breath.
“What do you need with my phone?” He’s already closed his eyes against the glow from the bedside lamp. It’s not enough. Will slings an arm over his face. Curses again.
If he wasn’t already pissed at me, he will be now.
I wish, with everything I have, that letting him stay was an option. It’s not. Mia and Ben are asleep. I don’t want them to run into him without a warning. And if this turns into an emergency, I can’t leave them to take him to the hospital.
I think this might already be an emergency.
I open his contacts app. The Favorites list pops up first. There are only two people on it.Sinclair Leblanc. Emerson Leblanc.
I put a hand over the ache in my heart and tap Sinclair’s name.
Half a ring, and the call connects. “Tell me you got the right superyacht and you’re in a better mood, asshole.”
“Hi, is this Sinclair?”
Metalclinksin the background, like keys coming off a hook. “Yeah. Who has my brother’s phone?”
“This is Bristol Anderson. I’m Will’s…”Corporate whore.“…secretary.”
And I’m calling because I saw you in a picture and you’re the oldest. That has to mean something.
“Does he always make you work this late?” A door closes somewhere in the distance.
“No, actually. He came to my apartment a few minutes ago. Unexpectedly.”
The sound on the other end of the line changes, like Sinclair has gone outside. “Is he too drunk to drive?”
“He’s too beat up to drive. He said something about a fight.”
“Okay.” A car door closes. The engine turns over a second later. “Text me the address. I’ll be right there.”
22
WILL
Well,fuck.
Everything feels terrible. My face. My gut. The shoulder that’s pressing into the bed is on fire.
“Does that sound mean you’re awake or dead?”
I force my eyes open. More pain. Sinclair looks down at me from the side of the bed, a glass in his hand.
It would probably be better if I was dead.
Takes me a few seconds to work up to words. “Hurts to move my jaw.”
“It’s not broken,” he says briskly.
Feels broken. “What bed is this?”