Remy

23. Olivia

OLIVIA

The beepof a text wakes me at 11:01 p.m.

Remy

Tonigth

I frown at my cell screen.

His texts have always been elaborate. Downright flirty at times. This one hasn’t even used autocorrect.

I grab a hair tie from the nightstand, throw back the covers, and snatch my car keys from the dining table as I pass.

I don’t bother changing out of my pajamas. I won’t be leaving the safety of my vehicle. I just want to see that he’s at the funeral home. That things are under control like usual.

I eyeball the digital clock on my car’s dash as I drive, the early hour seeming like another oddity to list next to the weird text.

Maybe it wasn’t a kill confirmation.

Maybe he’s tired of the sexual taunts and has switched to unintelligible gibberish for the sake of efficiency.

God, I hope not.

I can admit my body’s response to his previous messages isn’t healthy. That the way my blood automatically runs hot whenever I wake to a text in the middle of the night is majorly problematic.

But those messages have become a highlight to a dreary existence.

Even though Dad refuses to speak to me about his cancer, I know the chemo isn’t working as well as it could. He’s losing weight and energy. I can see it in his eyes despite his continued placations that he’s doing well.

Ivy and Allison can see it too, especially after he confessed to being sick last week. Not that he could hide it anymore. There’d been too many days where he hadn’t turned up to work until lunch only to leave a few hours later.

That devolved into my best friends acting differently. They now handle me with kiddie gloves. Like one wrong word or look will send me into an emotional spiral even though they’ve never seen me shed a tear.

It’s only natural Remy has become a sickening thrill.

One I’ve vowed to experience from afar.

I drive into the funeral home parking lot and around the back of the building. But there’s no other cars apart from my dad’s Audi and the hearse. The delivery door is closed. The place is quiet.

Goddamnit.

I knew the timing was off. The message ridiculously uncharacteristic. I dragged my flimsy, satin-pajama-wearing ass out of bed for nothing.

I sigh and park in the spot opposite the overhead door, reversed in like usual, then reclaim my cell to stare at his message.

Remy

Tonigth

I keep staring for minutes that feel like hours, the heavy sense of disappointment making me hate myself because I can’t even find the will to drive home. I want to wait. Just in case he’s on the way.

“This is toxic.” I lean back against the headrest and sigh.

I don’t think I’m here because of safety and security anymore. I never go inside. Never step out of my vehicle. My only motivation is to watch Remy. To gain a glimpse of him.

It’s sick.

But even acknowledging my illness doesn’t make me inclined to leave.

Instead I sit wondering if my dad would know what’s going on. I scrutinize the second-floor windows for movement. Contemplate whether tapping on his door and having the awkward conversation about why I’m here in the middle of the night is worth gaining information on Remy’s whereabouts.

It’s pathetic.

“To hell with this.” I reach for the ignition, my finger almost poised to tap the button when the sound of another car approaches.

Headlights cut through the parking lot.

Remy’s Bentley comes around the corner of the building faster than necessary, the familiar van carrying his men hot on his ass.

I remain in my car as the overhead door rises, but instead of Remy parking outside and the van driving into the building, the opposite happens.

I sit confused as the Bentley speeds inside, the van pulling into the closest parking space beside the delivery room door, then Remy’s men rush out.

I don’t like this.

It’s frantic. Panicked. Nowhere near the calm control of the usual disposals.

I cling to my cell and keys then climb from my car to pad cautiously across the parking lot.

Shoes would’ve been helpful. A bra and underwear, too.

The cool spring night whispers over my arms and chest, but it’s not the temperature that has my skin breaking out in goose bumps. It’s the vibe. A sixth sense.

I reach the raised overhead door and stop to assess the situation.

Remy remains in the vehicle, his door open, his feet planted outside, elbows on knees, head hung.

He’s usually flawless while doing the devil’s work. Calm. Commanding. But tonight is different. He doesn’t notice me in his periphery. Doesn’t stop staring at the floor beneath his feet.

I can only see one of his men, the dark-haired guy reaching into the backseat of the Bentley to gently haul out a limp body. A limp male body. One far too lanky and lean to have reached adulthood.

“What the hell?” I whisper as blood drips to the floor.

The second man returns to the delivery room through the internal doors, hastily pushing my metal gurney toward the car.

They’ve never done that before, either. Never cared about using the gurney. From what I’ve seen, the cartage of dead bodies has only ever been done unceremoniously by grasped wrists and ankles.

“What’s going on?” I add steel to my tone.

Remy’s men ignore me.

Remy does, too.

I continue inside, transfixed as the men I’ve mostly known to be silent, threatening automatons place the body onto the metal transport with cautious, deliberate care.

“Is that a child?” I can’t see the victim’s face, but even the shaggy hairstyle speaks of a younger age.

The decedent can’t be older than sixteen. Seventeen, max.

“You killed a child?” I can barely control my whisper-shouted tone.

I storm for Remy as his men pause at the double doors leading to the hall, their hate-filled eyes skewering me with warning.

I’m fueled by devastation. Empowered by disgust.

This can’t be a part of the agreement. It’s too much. Too immoral.

“You killed a child?” I repeat, stopping in front of his hunched form in the driver’s seat.

He straightens, his face slowly raising to look up at mine with such devastatingly tortured eyes it steals my breath.

“Yes” is all he says.

One fractured, tormented word.

My stomach bottoms.

He holds my gaze, his posture lacking the usual authoritative command, his expression bleak.

“You killed a…” I can’t repeat it this time. Can’t finish the sentence.

His eyes swim with desolation. “Yes, Ollie. I killed a kid.”

“Bullshit,” one of his men snap. “You didn’t do this. The blame is on the cartel. Working for you was the highlight of the boy’s life.”

It’s as if a shovel plows into me, scooping out my insides.

I’m hollowed. Emptied.

I snap my gaze back to the gurney. To the boy. To the teenager I recognize from taking a photo of me outside Smoke Mirrors. The same one who lives with Remy.

Oh, God. The cartel killed him, and Remy blames himself.

“Are you going to be okay while we take care of him?” one of the men asks.

Remy nods, looking straight through me, face pale, eyes bleak.

“You should leave and get stitched up,” the other guy says. “We’ve got this covered.”

“I’m fine.” Remy raises a carnage-stained hand and scrubs it over his face, blood having dried into every crack and crevice of his fingers.

The guy scoffs and starts pushing the gurney into the hall. “The claret pooling at your feet says otherwise.”

My gaze drops to the cement floor, the puddle of crimson stark beneath Remy’s right thigh.

“What happened?” I gasp, rushing to do a visual search for injuries.

He stares at me. Stares right through me.

“Remy?” I grab his arm, my heart heavy, pulse intense. “Talk to me.”

He shrugs off my hold. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Someone you care about is dead. And you’re bleeding. It definitely matters.” I drop to my knees before him, doing another visual scan of his clothes, finding two small holes close together in the upper right thigh of his dress pants. “You were shot?”

He falls silent, the bleak void of his mood sinking into me.

“Tell me what happened.” I scan him for more bullet holes, fear and panic making my hands shake. “Is it just your leg?”

Again, nothing.

Goddamn him.

“Tell me.” I reach for the bullet wound, pulling the wet, suctioned material away from his skin. “Now, Remy.” I dig the tips of two fingers through the hole in his clothing and pull, tearing the fabric wider.

“Leave it,” he murmurs. “This isn’t an opportune time to take another stab at getting me out of my pants.”

I sigh, understanding his need to deflect. “You can rest assured knowing that seduction is the furthest thing from my mind. I’m still a virgin, and we both know you don’t mess with those.”

“If only you didn’t make me want to break my own rules.”

My heart lodges in my throat.

Stupid, traitorous heart.

I focus on keeping my gaze on his leg. To not look up at him even though his eyes burn a heated trail over my face. “This is ridiculous.” I pull harder, ripping the fabric barely half an inch. “I need to take you to a hospital.”

“I don’t do those either,” he murmurs.

I purge a frustrated huff and drop my arms back to my sides. “So you plan on bleeding out?”

“If that’s what karma dictates.”

“Oh, okay.” I roll my eyes and glare up at him, ignoring how his dejected stare makes me weak. “Just for clarity’s sake, will disposing of you in the retort earn me another twenty grand, because if so, I might need you to call out to your men to return the gurney.”

He doesn’t laugh.

I guess the comedy festival is over.

“Come on. At least let me get you into the prep room.” I grab his wrist. “I’m not a surgeon by any means but?—”

“No.” He drags his arm toward his chest, my grip on his wrist tugging me toward him. “I’m not spilling any more blood here for my men to take care of. I’ll clean myself up at home.”

I let go as he turns in his seat, raises his feet into the car, then grabs the steering wheel. But all he does is sit there, staring out the windshield to the closed double doors.

I’ve witnessed that far-off stare enough times to recognize it for what it is.

Grief has him by the throat.

“Why don’t you let me drive you?” I whisper.

“Why not just wait to see if I die?”

Because the thought of losing him hurts for some reason.

Because he’s made me grow attached to him, if even from a distance.

“You’ve saved my life twice already. And believe it or not, I don’t necessarily enjoy being indebted to a murderous criminal.”

He turns his head and meets my gaze, drowning me in his sorrow.

“Please, Remy.”

His hands tighten around the steering wheel. “Don’t fucking beg me, Pyro. I’m not in a state to deny you.”

“Then don’t. Let me drive you home. I’ll help clean you up. I know a thing or two about stitching wounds.”

He sighs, bone-weary and lax.

“Come on.” I hold out a hand, praying he’ll take it. “I’m itching to slide behind the wheel of a luxury vehicle.”

Those eyes search mine for long, silent seconds until finally he shifts.

He doesn’t take my hand, but that’s okay, because he climbs from the car, forcing me to sidestep as he unfurls his large frame to stand towering before me.

He reaches into his pocket, pops the trunk, then shuffles to the back of the car to retrieve a black blanket, returning moments later. “For the blood.” He leans into the car to lay it down on the driver’s seat. “I don’t want you sitting in the mess I’ve made.”

Forever the chivalrous murderous gentleman.

“Thank you.” The appreciation is stupid. I’m thanking a criminal for sparing my clothes after a lethal encounter. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. But that’s what he does—makes me an idiot.

“Let’s get out of here.” He makes his way around the car, favoring his left leg.

My insides churn for him. For the teenage boy. For whatever they went through.

But I force myself away from the mental distraction and into the car. There’s blood everywhere. On the steering wheel. Along the dash.

I don’t dare to look in the backseat.

What the hell are you getting yourself into?

I close my door before I can contemplate fleeing, dump my cell and keys in the center console, then readjust my seat and drag on my belt.

Remy settles in beside me. “You’re not even wearing shoes.”

“Is that seriously a safety concern when you could be slowly dying?”

He glances out his side window. “I didn’t take you for a catastrophizer.”

“And I didn’t take you for the type to go down without a fight, but here we are.” I start the car, shift to reverse, and press the accelerator, the vehicle lurching backward fast enough to wrench a squeak from my throat.

“Sorry.” I wince. “She’s sensitive.”

He drags on his seatbelt. “If memory serves, she’s not the only one.”

I ignore the innuendo. Completely disregard the heat that settles low in my belly as I continue to reverse, the bloody scene in the delivery room stretching out before me until I shift the car to drive and gently take us out onto the street. “You’re going to have to give me directions, Swiss.”

His brow hikes.

“Like the cheese.” I smile.

“Yeah, I got it. I just didn’t expect Little Miss Volatility to be cracking jokes.” He jerks his chin at the road ahead. “Take a left at the intersection.”

I follow his instructions. But apart from the simple left, right, keep going straight, he’s uncomfortably silent for miles, which makes me uncomfortably concerned.

“You should really make a tourniquet for your leg. I’d offer my pajamas as a makeshift tie but…” I clear my throat, not bothering to finish the sentence.

It’s obvious I have nothing on under my skimpy camisole.

“What?” He looks at me, deadpan, his gaze making the briefest journey to the ring that has found its home at the start of my cleavage. “Are you waiting for me to protest?”

I roll my eyes, hating the spark that shoots through me. “I’m sure you wouldn’t. But seriously, you need to stem the bleeding.” I glance down at his leg and the crimson painted across the car’s cream leather seat. “Take your belt off and tighten it around your upper thigh.”

“It’s a through-and-through flesh wound. I’ll live… Turn right at the next intersection.”

I sigh, succumbing to his instructions.

I let panicked thoughts keep me company in between his murmured directions toward Harbor East—what will happen if I’m pulled over? Should I take him to a hospital if he dies? Will his uncle and brother blame me?

“This is it.” He points a lazy finger toward a stylish apartment building on the corner of a harbor block, then deftly unfurls his belt from his pants. “Go around the back.”

I chance continued glances toward him as I circle the glass tower to a parking garage door Remy opens with a remote. I drive up level after level while he wraps his upper thigh with the strap of leather and secures it tight with a wince.

“Now you make a tourniquet?” I ask.

“I don’t want to trail blood through the parking lot.” He jerks his chin at a space signposted Reserved—Penthouse right before the elevators. “Park there.”

He climbs out as soon as the car comes to a stop.

I rush to cut the ignition, grab my cell, and then catch up to his uneven gait as he approaches the nearby elevators only to continue farther around the corner. “Wait. Where are you go…?” My question is cut short when he presses the call button to an elevator on the other side, the doors opening instantly.

The interior is luxuriously appointed, the walls covered in sparkling mirrors with subtle ambient lighting. There’s not even a complete button panel. There are only three options. G - ground, P5 - parking, and P - penthouse, alongside some sort of scanner he places his fingertips against.

Of course he has a private elevator.

I ignore the obviously necessary security measures and wrap my arms around my middle as the doors close. “How are you feeling?”

“Peachy,” he drawls, pulling out his cell to tap into the screen while we ascend. “You?”

My heart pangs at his dejection. “Remy, I…”

I don’t know how to finish the sentence.

I’m sorry.

I wish I could make this better.

The doors open and he lumbers into a breathtaking apartment, the bird’s eye view of the harbor stealing my breath.

I step inside only to stumble over something on the floor—a pile of sneakers haphazardly stacked in the entry, the hallmark sign of the teenage boy who once lived here.

My heart drops, but Remy ignores my stumbling. He’s already walking ahead, hobbling through a magnificently opulent living room, the blood on the hem of his pants dripping on the polished tile floor.

What I imagined his home to be is nothing like the pristine penthouse spread out before me. I think I anticipated a dark, sinister lair. Instead, everything is light—the cream walls, the tasteful white furniture. The space is welcoming—the stylish abstract art, the blanket draped over the closest arm of the plush sofa.

It’s clean, professionally appointed, and tastefully lavish.

Remy continues to the kitchen and snatches a bottle of liquor from an overhead cupboard, screws off the lid, and gulps at the amber liquid.

I try not to fixate on him. On the bob of his throat. His perfectly chiseled jaw. The steely grip of his hand.

I turn back to the open space, occupying my eyes by cataloguing the luxury. A chandelier hangs over the glass dining table, the glistening glow reflecting in the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Baltimore skyline.

“You have a nice home,” I say lamely as I pad farther into the penthouse.

The hall to the left is long and wide, matching the one to the right. The television is huge. Over five times the size of mine. And there’s a coffee table that…

I narrow my vision on the spectacular glass table with its thick gold trim. But the white lines of powder steal my attention.

My heart takes another sweeping dive, the reminder of Remy’s career choice acting like a leash to my wonderment.

“The medical supplies are this way.” He walks for the left hall, bottle in hand, only to pause when I don’t follow. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”

I glance from him to the drugs then back again, my stomach churning.

The two don’t add up. They’re mismatched.

I can’t entwine them. Can’t make them fit into the same box. Only I need to. I have to remember he’s a criminal. A brutal mafia murderer. Yet what stands before me is a man riddled with tightly wound emotion. The grief is easy enough to decipher, but there’s so much more I want to discover.

“It’s not that big a deal, Pyro.” He continues on without me. “I can handle the wound on my own.”

“I’m coming.”

He walks away and I tag along.

Do I hate myself for it? Of course.

Could I stop myself? Not even if I wanted to.

I follow him halfway down the hall to a glistening bathroom bigger than any I’ve ever seen before. There’s a lengthy vanity with polished tap ware. An open-ended shower. A standalone bathtub situated right beside the floor-to-ceiling glass with an immaculate view of the city.

It’s the type of bathroom you’d see on Pinterest dream boards. On architectural websites.

I pause in the doorway as he yanks open vanity drawers, pulling out handful after handful of supplies.

“It’s okay to have second thoughts.” He diverts to the basin, his gaze meeting mine in the mirror’s reflection while he cleans the blood from his hands.

I agree. But those thoughts should’ve taken place before I climbed behind the wheel of his car. Before I rushed from my house just to catch sight of him.

“I can handle it.” I step inside the room, closing the door behind me.

He shoots me a curious look. “You caging me in?”

“I thought it best to have another barrier to the screams you’re going to make once I start my handiwork. We wouldn’t want your neighbors calling the cops.”

He huffs a hollow laugh, the agony of it squeezing my insides. He shucks his jacket and throws it to drape over the edge of the extravagant bathtub, exposing a mass of dark blood stained into the front of his white shirt.

Panic floods my veins.

“You have other injuries.” I rush forward, scanning the button-down, searching for more bullet holes. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”