Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Leo
“—if you get what I’m saying.”
I haven’t listened to a thing Jack has said in the past five minutes. Still, I nod, mutter a convincing, “Makes sense,” and continue getting dressed so I can get the fuck out of here, away from him.
He continues talking.
I continue to not listen beyond picking up on key points in case the fucker decides I need to provide more than a two-word response.
I catch Mitchell’s gaze out of the corner of my eye, and he narrows it on Jack, who’s decided the best thing to do is sit in a towel on a Serpents’ office chair, three feet away from my locker.
There’s the faintest green hue around his eye from the bruise he gave himself to blame me.
The dramatic cunt drove himself to the hospital for a couple of bruises after texting a group chat my name, accusing me of attacking him.
Coincidentally, his injuries weren’t bad enough for him to not play—a true Christmas fucking miracle.
And every single asshole on this team was ready to hang me out to dry over it.
Jack tosses a hacky sack and catches it midair. I think he’s talking about someone we were mutual friends with in college—one who conveniently stopped talking to me the moment Jack befriended him—but I couldn’t be paid to care.
He leaves for a moment, only to come back and start getting changed right next to me. Putting a bullet in my head would be less painful.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asks, shoving on his clothes in record time and eyeing me up while I try to make my hair look presentable.
I should’ve used the mirror in my car.
The muscle in his jaw twitches even though the rest of his face remains unchanged. He’s displeased. I’m trying to look decent. Which means I’m about to meet someone who isn’t him.
Instead of the button-up I planned on wearing, I throw on a shirt and hoodie, and intentionally mess up my hair.
“Home. I want to watch more gameplay before tomorrow.”
I can’t tell whether he buys it. We have a travel game tomorrow against a team we’re always neck and neck with. Every single one of us will be pissed if we tie with them again.
“I was planning on doing the same. How about—”
“Sabrina’s bringing some gross vegan lasagna that she wants to try forcing me to eat,” I quickly say before he can suggest coming over.
A few of us went over to his place a couple of nights ago to do just that, and I wanted to crawl out of my skin the entire time. It’s my attempt at playing friends with him.
“Good luck with that.”
I don’t need to look at him to know that he’s not happy. His eye twitched yesterday when I skipped out on practice early to make the funeral. I’m on thin ice already, but if I spend more time with him than I already am, I’m going to go to prison.
“See you tomorrow,” I tell him, grabbing my shit and leaving, so he doesn’t take what I said as an invitation to join us for dinner.
To sell the story that I don’t dislike every person on my team, I say my goodbyes to anyone who’s still here, leaving Jack with a final nod and a mental fuck you, then drive across the city, breaking several road rules in the process.
I stop by my house to finish getting ready before spending an hour in traffic replaying every second of my interaction with Mina yesterday.
I’ve never seen her that upset before; I’m nauseous just thinking about it.
Fuck, okay yeah, it’s my fault the argument with her mother started, but it needed to happen. The sooner Mina cuts ties with her family, the better she’ll feel. It’ll be hell at the start, but she won’t be going through it alone like I did.
If she needs convincing that I’m all in, then that’s what I’ll do. I thought I proved it already, but I digress.
My phone rings as I turn onto her street.
“Any updates?” I say the moment I answer the call. The private investigator was paid for a service. I don’t care about his day; he doesn’t care about mine. There’s no point wasting each other’s time.
“No. Mr. Norton seems to have been at a meeting on the other side of the city when the assault and robbery happened; however, we have been unable to confirm this as of yet. We still have someone keeping an eye on him, as you requested, and will continue investigating his alibi.”
My lips curl into a scowl. I know that fucker did it. I just can’t prove it. I have no idea how far he’s willing to go, so as far as I’m concerned, targeting Mina like this is something he’d do.
I tap my thumb against the steering wheel. I don’t like knowing there’s someone out there who’s gone near her, and into her house, and he could come back for more whenever he wants.
“My team’s initial assumption remains: Miss Mendoza was a victim of a string of serial home invasions.
We were able to obtain police files to confirm that she fits their suspect’s MO.
He approaches the victim first prior to breaking in and raiding their homes.
If this is the same person, as they believe, then Miss Mendoza is lucky she wasn’t there at the time. ”
I’ve heard about it on the news. But if I’ve heard about it and relied on it for Thomas’s fate, then Jack could’ve heard about it, too, and done the same thing.
“Is that all?” I park in front of her apartment.
“I’ll be in touch when we have anything further.” He hangs up.
There are a lot of reasons to play the part of befriending Jack. This is one of them. I’ve been able to get into his phone during one of our “hangouts” and made note of the lunch date he supposedly had at the time of the break-in.
If I can prove what he did, we’ll be even.
He’ll have no choice but to leave me alone, or else I’ll talk.
Sighing, I jog up the steps, bag in hand, and help myself into Mina’s apartment with the key I copied, leaving my shoes by the door.
“Hey.” I nod at Joyce, who’s gawking at me, mid–paint stroke on her tablet, from the couch I ordered for them yesterday.
“Hi.”
Her stare burns the side of my face as I head straight for Mina’s room and walk in without knocking. She practically jumps off the bed, hand flying to her chest when she realizes it’s me.
“Leo!” Her rounded, red-rimmed eyes are on me, and she quickly shuts her laptop and puts it aside before pulling the blankets up higher.
I kick the door shut behind me and keep my appreciation for her lack of tears to myself. I’m not strong enough to deal with her crying two days in a row. Seeing her swollen eyes is hard enough for me to handle as it is.
At least I know the cause of her upset. It kills me that I can’t fix it for her—with her approval, at least.
“You can’t just barge in here. I could be indecent,” she says, exasperated.
My brain must work for once, because I decide against pointing out all the indecent things I’ve done to her without knocking first.
“You owe me a date, and the last time you didn’t give me what I wanted, I murdered somebody. What do you think will happen this time?”
Her lips part, then close, then part again, cheeks turning the prettiest shade of pink.
There it is. Proof she likes that she made a murderer out of me. The flicker of guilt in her eyes isn’t important.
And like she suddenly realizes I’m in her room, her gaze falls to my slacks, then up to the black button-up and suit jacket. This is the first time I’ve witnessed Mina ogling me, and may I just say, the urge to stand taller is there.
The delicate line of her throat bobs as her stare switches between my face and the rest of my attire. If I knew dressing up would get her so flustered, I would’ve gotten into more of a habit of it.
“I—I’m not dressed.” God, I love it when she’s this breathy.
A slow grin slides across my face. “It’s a good thing our reservation is in an hour and a half.” The six o’clock dinner she never made, and a prelude to her book’s release day in two days. I’ll be out of town tomorrow, so tonight I’m all hers.
“I have nothing to wear.”
I show her the bag, then place it on the bed. “Problem solved.”
“You bought me clothes?”
“Yes. You were supposed to wear them last week when you decided to meet Thomas for dinner instead.”
At least she has the decency to look semisheepish. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
I arch a brow. I recognize this game. She says something along the lines of, “No, I can’t possibly accept.
” I insist. She weakly fights back. I insist again.
Then she pretends to be reluctant about accepting.
We’ve been playing this routine for days, every time another delivery appears at her door to rebuild her house.
“Do you, or do you not want it?”
“You’ve gotten me too much already.” Again, she makes a show of refusal without actually saying no while staring longingly at the bag.
“Yes or no?”
She hesitates. “Leo . . .”
“I don’t have the receipt, so should I give it to Joyce instead?”
I’ve never seen this woman’s eyes flash with jealousy, and, shit, I’ll admit I get a kick out of it.
She sighs almost theatrically. “Fine, I’ll take it. But you can’t keep buying me things.”
That’s not a “stop, don’t get me anything.” The same way she hasn’t condemned me for taking a life, stalking her, or breaking into her room to feel her up while she’s asleep.
I ignore her added commentary and nod at the replacement makeup I ordered for her. “You can get changed last.”
Her nostrils flare, and she subtly eyes the bag one last time before dragging herself out of bed and plonking down at her desk, all huffy and tight-lipped. I chuckle to myself and lie in the spot she was in, folding my arms behind my head as I watch her.
Music plays in the background to fill the silence.
Every so often, she quickly glances at the nondescript gift bag.
Whenever she catches me staring, a red blush crawls up her neck and beneath the light layer of makeup she’s applying.
It’s surprising how long she stayed away from me when she’s so impatient.