Wicked Fortune (Wicked Nights #5)

Chapter 13

THIRTEEN

The monsters are back.

I feel them pressing me down into the rough carpet of the living room, their voices filled with scornful laughter as I stare up at the ceiling, too scared to breathe, too small to fight back. Their words slither over each other, talking around me, through me, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.

I’m trapped.

Terrified.

A scream locks in my throat and tears fill my eyes. I want to move. I want to leave.

But all I can do is hide inside myself, counting the seconds until they leave me alone.

Will they ever leave me alone ?

I tremble, wanting to lash out. To pound and scratch and bite, but I’m too small, and they’re monsters. How could I ever beat the monsters?

And then he’s there. The Stair Man.

My eyes widen, and I’m about to cry out, but he lifts a finger to his lips. He’s halfway up the staircase, hidden inside the shadows as he looks down at me, strong and silent, waiting for the right moment to pull me away from this. From them.

And then, before I even know what’s happened, the monsters are gone, and I’m standing tall and straight, no longer a child but a woman clothed in nothing but lace and silk, soft against my skin.

My nipples are hard, and when I look up, The Stair Man is right in front of me.

Not the shadowed figure of my childhood, but Matthew Holt. Those intense, green eyes trace over me, sending a lingering heat spiraling through me. He steps forward, and his gaze is as potent as a touch.

“Please,” I whisper, and his only answer is a slow, sexy smile as he traces a finger from my lace-covered breasts all the way down to the band of the tiny thong.

My heart pounds, anticipating what comes next. His finger slipping beneath the band, finding my core. Then sliding inside me as he pulls me close for a kiss so wild and passionate that it will send me over the edge, spiraling into a whirlwind of pleasure.

“Please,” I repeat, but the word catches in my throat as I see movement behind him. A shadow. A woman.

Lila .

She’s standing just beyond him, watching us with a cold, dark malice.

“You’re a fool not to realize he’s playing you. He’s a magician, you know. An expert at sleight of hand. You see what he wants you to see.”

“No,” I begin, but my words are cut off as the room shifts under me, everything twisting and blurring. The silk and lace are gone. I’m naked. Vulnerable. Trapped.

A scream rips out of me, and I thrust myself upright as my eyes fly open. I gasp, confused, my skin hot, my body tangled in my sheets.

Then I see Mr. Quack’s adorable yellow face on the nightstand, and my body goes limp with relief.

A dream. It had only been a dream.

But even so, my core is wet and my nipples are tight—and the featherlight touch of his fingers lingers like a ghost against my skin.

I’m curled up under a blanket on the couch, the television on mute, the images only for company. I take another sip of the wine I’d poured, telling myself the hour doesn’t matter. I need wine now to steady my nerves.

Holt.

With a sigh, I drag my fingers through my newly-conservative hairstyle as the reality of my plan settles around me.

A bad plan. A dangerous plan.

Jenny’s initials were right there on his desk blotter. And that conversation I overheard? A PR nightmare? Hardline events that were a liability? That had to be the meet-and-greets, didn’t it?

I can’t be sure, but the knot in my gut says yes, and I try to steady my nerves. Even in dreams, he’s got me wrapped around his finger, and he doesn’t even know it.

Or maybe he does.

Maybe that’s the most dangerous part.

I force myself to take long, slow breaths. This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. Whatever’s going on at those parties, Hardline’s in the middle of it. Somehow, Hardline’s responsible for Jenny’s death. I may not have concrete proof, but I know what I know, and in my gut, I’m positive. And even though Bree would say it’s just woo bullshit, my gut is hardly ever wrong.

But if Hardline is at the center, then so is Matthew Holt.

A equals A, after all.

Fuck.

I toss back the rest of my wine, then head into my kitchen for another bottle. I refill my glass, then pace my living room as I empty it in four long swallows. And pour once again.

I don’t want those thoughts in my head. I don’t want to believe he’s bad. I’ve laughed with him. Craved him. Shared drinks with him.

Hell, I’ve admired him. The way he built that company. The command he exercises over everyone he employs. The way he worked his way to the top. The confidence he always exudes.

Or is it just a fake confidence based on lies? Are the stories about his rise fiction? Instead of climbing his way up using intellect and talent as footholds, did he really claw his way to the top, with lies and deceit and violence?

I close my eyes, fighting the urge to hug myself.

He can’t be the bad guy. A man like that—he should be the hero.

The words echo through me as I finish off the bottle, then plop down on the sofa, my blood too full of wine, my head too full of that man.

No .

I don’t want him in my head.

I don’t want to believe any of the thoughts swirling through my brain.

Mostly, I don’t want to want him.

But I can’t erase him. I’ve left sober behind, and my thoughts no longer obey my commands. Even if I was stone cold steady, I’m not sure I could banish him, no matter how much I might tell myself I want to.

Fuck it.

I stand and start pacing, albeit unsteadily. I need him out of my head. I need to step back so I can have some perspective on this man. On who he is. On what I fear he’s done.

The next thing I know, my phone’s in my hand, and the line is ringing.

It rings twice before he picks up. “Hey, stranger,” he says, his words full of heat.

The sound of his voice snaps me back, and I hang up, my heart pounding even harder. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The screen lights up as he calls me back immediately. I consider ignoring it, but I push the damn button anyway.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to sound casual. “That was a butt dial.”

“Sure it was.” I can practically hear him smirking on the other end. “I can come over. Bring some wine. Or maybe something stronger …”

Something about his tone both entices and disappoints. Like he’s too eager, too quick to slip into that role.

“Tempting,” I say. “But no.”

“You sure? I’m?—”

But I don’t know what he is because I’ve ended the call.

Then I pull up my contacts, find the entry for Decker and hit block . I don’t want a fast fuck with my go-to FWB.

I want Holt. And I hate myself for that weakness.

God, I’m a mess.

Without thinking, I dial another number—Bree’s. One ring. Another. Then another.

When it kicks to voicemail I glance at the time. Almost midnight.

Well, damn.

I toss my phone onto the coffee table and pull the snuggly blanket up around my shoulders. I should be tired, but I’m not. I guess my cat nap took care of that. So instead of moving to the bedroom and sliding into bed, I use the remote to click on the television, then randomly poke around the various streaming menus until I stumble on Jagged Edge . I haven’t seen it in years, so I hit play, pick up my wine, and settle back to watch this movie where a man kills the woman he’s sleeping with.

And how fucked up is that?