Chapter 3 #2
It’s been nearly a month since I left Las Vegas.
Tristan hasn’t turned up in an obituary yet.
It’s troubling, but there’s not much more I can do to sabotage the prick, especially not from here.
The longer he stays alive, the more precarious my situation becomes.
He could talk. The men he was stealing from could come looking for me and the money.
I invested a lot of money and time in fake identities, but someone could connect the apparent tech start-up millionaire who pushed Tristan into increasingly risky bets to the man fucking Tristan’s mistress every time Tristan was out of town.
And a reverse-image search of a security photo of me entering or leaving Tristan’s building would likely yield any number of pictures of me in Wet’s promotional materials.
Tristan’s mistress might have realized that I wasn’t listening to her complaints about Tristan’s failed promises because I cared. Maybe she recalled my interest tended toward Tristan’s gambling problem, his personality, and his habits. Guilt might have led her to confess—to him or someone else.
And now I have Louisa Gallo to deal with.
It’s too warm, but there’s enough of a cool breeze off the lake to keep the infernal mosquitoes at bay.
I stand in the shadows at the party's edge, away from the minimal protection of the citronella candles, take a sip from my glass of wine, and resign myself to the bright burst of cherries. It’s a full-bodied fruit-forward blend I might have enjoyed if I hadn’t eaten that maraschino cherry earlier.
Louisa is here. She was here when I arrived, helping Gina get ready. She’d stepped out of Gina’s bedroom, spotted me in the kitchen, then tilted her pointy little chin into the air and walked out.
She’s cleaned up—although I’m not sure a knee-length black halter dress covered in skulls and blood-red roses is appropriate for a wedding. But considering I’m the one who put most of her clothes in boxes, her fashion choice isn’t exactly a surprise.
The way she’s talking and laughing with everyone is a surprise, though.
I guess she saves her acidic tongue for me.
She’s also profoundly drunk. I’m not sure how she’s still standing, given she’s on her seventh rum and cherry Coke.
It probably helps that she took off those spiky red heels.
They’re now dangling from her hand. As drunk as she is, she hasn’t lost the swagger in her step or the ability to cock her hip without losing her balance. Her every movement is a flirtation.
As though she can feel my gaze, her eyes settle on me and narrow. The shadows aren’t deep enough to hide me—even though, like her, I’m wearing black—so I raise my glass in her direction. She raises hers but holds it in a way that lets her extend her middle finger.
How unsurprising.
“You look like you’ve had enough of this,” a woman says, joining me in the shadows and gesturing with her wine glass.
I tear my eyes from that middle finger and look down. The bride’s mother looks up at me with a mischievous grin. Dawn—that’s her name. She has the easy, flirty manner of someone not looking for anything more than a good time. She might even be fun.
“Weddings aren’t my thing,” I say, taking another drink and glancing at the people dancing or clustered around the tables.
“Wanna get out of here?” she asks pointedly.
“And miss the drama?” I point my wine glass toward Milo, who stands trying to blend into the shadows in his black shirt and pants, staring at Briar with panty-dropping intensity. Briar, talking to a young man near the dance floor, laughs so loudly I suspect she’s aware of the lumberjack’s gaze.
“Lou has some competition,” Dawn remarks.
My eyes find Louisa again just as she follows Milo’s gaze to Briar.
Those full red lips turn down into a befuddled frown before she turns back to look at Milo, who is still staring at Briar.
With a toss of her long dark hair, Louisa spins on her bare feet and saunters over to Milo, who reluctantly takes his attention off Briar.
“Interesting,” Dawn says quietly, and when I glance at her, she’s watching me with a knowing smirk.
“What?” I demand. It’s too warm and the collar of my shirt is too tight, but I resist the urge to fuss with it. I don’t like the way Dawn is looking at me.
“Drama never did it for me.” She walks off, raising her wine glass and wiggling her fingers at me. “See you around, Clay.”
I narrow my eyes after her. Surely she’s not implying I’m involved in this apparent love triangle?
When I turn back, Louisa and Milo are gone, and Briar’s not laughing so loudly.
I’m ready to get out of here. What a waste of a night’s inflated sales. The thought of finishing the wine turns my stomach, so I leave it on the nearest table and follow the citronella candles and dim solar lights away from the reception.
Half the town of Havenwood was already here when I arrived, so I’m parked far down Happy Lake Lodge’s driveway.
It’s dark, and I don’t want to scuff my Italian shoes on the gravel, so I take my time.
The dark has never bothered me, but once I’m away from the heart of the lodge, I’m uncomfortably aware of how menacing the forest feels at night.
And when clouds cut off the dim light of the crescent moon, I sigh and dig around in my pocket for my phone.
“Hey! Wait up!”
Louisa Gallo’s smoky voice stops me, and I slowly turn as she recklessly flies down the driveway.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she says, breathless.
About what? I open my mouth to ask, but she grabs my shirt, hauling me down. I choke on a gasp as she kisses me like she’s kissed me a million times before.
She tastes like rum, sugar, and those infernal cherries, and I buckle. Instead of removing her fisted hands from my shirt, I cover them with my own.
It’s a bad idea, but I’m already kissing her back, fumbling to catch up, like I missed the shot marking the start of the race.
She moans. The throaty, delicious sound that goes straight to my cock. “How far to your tent?” she asks against my lips.
“Tent?”
She freezes.
Something icy creeps up my spine.
She takes a step back, her hands falling from my shirt. I let her go.
The cloud passes, moonlight catching cruelly on her lips, transforming them into a midnight rose blooming in surprise as she recognizes me. “You.” There’s no mistaking the disgust in her voice.
I scrub a hand over my mouth, trying to remove the feel of her bruising kiss. Impossible when I can still taste her. “Unfortunately.”
“I thought you were someone else.” There’s an accusation in her voice.
Someone else wearing black. Maybe with tattoos and a man bun. “Clearly.” The wine in my stomach turns sour. I should know better than to drink the cheap stuff. I turn away from her and continue walking to my car.
“You should’ve said something.”
Why is she following me? “When, exactly? You came out of the dark and plastered your lips on mine.”
That pisses her off—her voice vibrates with anger. “You kissed me back.”
I shrug. “Felt like the safest option.”
“Well, it wasn’t,” she snaps.
Finally, my car comes into sight. “I’m aware of my mistake. Next time, I’ll hold perfectly still until you realize yours.”
“Next time?” her enraged voice rises into the dark trees. “There won’t be a next time. It’s dark. You’re both wearing black.”
I stop next to my car. “And neither of us is particularly interested in you, Miss Gallo. But that’s where the similarities end.”
She gasps.
I open the passenger’s door. “Get in. I’ll take you home.”