TWENTY-ONE #2
‘Oh no,’ I whispered, the words raw in my throat, shaking with the sting of shame. ‘Oh… no…’
What the hell had I been thinking?
What the hell kind of person points a gun at someone who was trying to help? Who was I last night?
Maybe I wasn’t just drunk… or drugged. Maybe…
Scarlett had taken over me – slipping through the cracks, seeping into the hollow places within me.
She didn’t second-guess. She acted before I even felt the blow.
And now I was left with the mess. With the bloodless aftermath and the pounding question I didn’t want to answer.
Was I losing myself?
Cain didn’t flinch. Not once. He stayed calm, as if the cool steel didn’t even faze him.
Somehow, he reminded me of Ghost in this moment, and I couldn’t believe I was making that comparison. And fuck if that didn’t get my juices running even in this state of utter panic.
After a moment, he shifted backwards, stood, and left the room without another word.
I slammed the phone down onto my bed, my chest heaving as the full weight of what I had done hit me.
My fingers stiffened around the device, my mind racing.
Cain hadn’t yelled, shown anger or anything like that, but there was no way he wasn’t furious. No way this wasn’t going to ruin everything.
I couldn’t lose this job. Not after just a week.
Snatching the phone from the sheets, I navigated to Cain’s number, my thumb hovering over the call button. My hands shook, my breath came in short, shallow bursts. I didn’t even know where to start.
But I had to try.
Taking a calming breath, I pressed call.
I held the phone to my ear, each second of silence stretching tighter around my chest. Cain’s number rang once, twice, three times – then went to voicemail.
A cold knot of dread settled in my stomach.
‘Hey… Cain…’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘It’s Paula. I just… I wanted to talk to you. I—’ I faltered, running a hand through my hair as if it would shed the disgrace off me. ‘I’d really like to explain. That is – apologise. Please give me a call back when you get a chance.’
I ended the call, staring at the phone as if it might give me answers to questions I didn’t ask aloud.
No reply after several minutes. Nothing.
I choked down the anxiety, then went through the rest of the footage just to appease my increasingly fraying nerves. And when I found nothing until the moment I woke, I set the phone down and headed for the bathroom. A hot shower would clear my head. Hopefully.
The water poured over me as I washed night from my skin, the warmth soothing muscles that felt all wrong. My mind refused to stop sprinting, replaying the footage over and over. Me holding the gun, Cain leaving.
He probably thinks I’m insane, I thought with a sinking feeling.
After drying off, I threw on a pair of leggings, a long-sleeved tee and an oversized zip-up hoodie, then gulped down water as though I hadn’t tasted it in days. My head still throbbed, so a pre-breakfast ibuprofen was mandatory.
Breakfast.
I stalked over to the fridge. Opening it was more out of habit than hunger.
Eggs. Milk. A near-fossilised sausage that should’ve been binned a month ago.
The absurd normality of it felt unreal.
I should eat something, even though my nerves knotted my gut.
But first – coffee.
As the coffee machine whirled to life, my mind circled back to the same question: why was I drugged? Who the hell did it? It couldn’t have been Travis. He wasn’t the type to drug me and let me go. He would’ve tortured me. Made me remember every single thing.
I shuddered at the memories.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
It wasn’t Cain – that much was clear. I remembered him taking the bottle, sniffing it, frowning with concern. His reaction had been genuine, protective even, not the kind of response someone guilty would give.
And Vinnie? It didn’t seem like him either. Sure, he was loud and a little over the top, but he wasn’t malicious.
That left the two hosts; the men who had closed in on me when I walked into the club. But something didn’t add up. They had no time to get to my drink – they hovered near the entrance without a break.
A chill ran through me as another, darker possibility crept into my mind. Could Travis really be here?
My ex’s name hooked to my temples. He’d always been calculated, a shadow with patience.
I remembered the first time he showed up at my lecture displaying the exact same patience as ever.
The third time, I caught him staring from across the street.
I once mistook obsession for romance.
At the time, I was young and stupid. He’d told me he’d followed me for a year – and something in me had been thrilled by it. But now…
The idea that he could be here, in the same city, lurking in the background and pulling the strings – it settled into my bones like ice.
I remembered the sweet, metallic taste of opiates he fed me while the world bent sideways, and he whispered, ‘You made me do this.’
He’d done it before. Drugged me to get his way, to take control when I didn’t comply. And now he was trying to manipulate my life from the shadows of the past.
I gripped the edge of the counter, the knot of dread in my chest tightening. This wasn’t just paranoia. Travis was the kind of man who thrived on power, and he hated losing. Last I’d heard, he was released from prison. And if he was behind this—
A loud knock splintered the silence like a gunshot.
I flinched, every nerve in my body going taut – the mug slipped from my hand and exploded across the tiles.
Air locked between my teeth. My pulse thundered.
It felt as if I were already running, even though my feet hadn’t moved.
I just stared at the door like it might lurch open on its own.
Another knock. Suppler this time.
I backed away from the counter, my socks sliding around the shards of mocha-covered ceramic, a hand flying to my chest as if it might keep my heart inside. Every inch of my skin screamed.
Grabbing my gun from the purse, I gripped it tight in one hand and pressed the other to my throat, as if I could coax the air through it with my fingers alone. My lungs felt raw, scraped thin by panic.
On tip-toes, I leaned towards the peephole—
—held my breath—
—and exhaled in a shaky rush when a blond ponytail swung out of view and a single ocean-blue eye filled the tiny lens.
My pulse skittered.
Scrambling, I shoved the gun into a shoebox on the built-in shelf beside the door, fingers fumbling over the lid as though they no longer belonged to me.
I unlocked the door.
‘Hey, Vinnie.’ His name came out on an exhale.
His smile spread easily, lighting up the hallway and, for a moment, slowing the gallop of my heart.
‘Hey, sweetheart,’ he murmured, though the warmth faltered when his gaze searched mine a beat too long. ‘All good? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
I let out another long, trembling puff of air and pulled the door wider to let him in.
‘Just a headache this morning,’ I said, pivoting towards the wreckage of my coffee splattered across the tiles.
‘What happened here?’ he asked in a light but probing tone.
‘Just a decaffeinated Paula DeLuca.’ I snorted, forcing a smile I didn’t feel in my eyes. ‘What brings you here?’
He trailed after me to the kitchen island, pristine white muscle shirt bright against the morning sun filtering from the blinds. Then he leaned over it casually. A few blond strands slipped forward as he peered down at me just as I crouched to pick up the pieces of my late mug.
‘Just wanted to check up on you after last night,’ he said softly, but the quiet note in his voice hinted at more than concern.
I bit the inside of my cheek, praying my heart would stop sprinting like it was trying to rip out of my chest.
Scooping the shards into the bin, I stood and reached to the side of the fridge. Grabbing a mop, I turned—
—and smacked straight into the solid wall of Vinnie’s hard chest.
I froze.
Looked up.
Our eyes locked.
My pulse slammed back into my throat.
He rested one palm casually atop the fridge, caging me in between it and the counter, leaning just enough to fold the space between us into something too deliberate.
‘Are you really okay?’ he asked, voice dipped in velvet, a slight rasp vibrating low in his throat. ‘Want me to take you to a doctor?’
The tangle of curses in my throat made it almost impossible to bring the words out. My victim-instinct screamed at me to run, but Scarlett kicked me in the shins and rooted my feet to the ground.
‘I’m fine,’ I finally managed.
He hummed, thoughtful, eyes roaming my face as if he were reading a confession right off it.
‘I want you to know I made some calls to have people look into what happened – with the drink.’
I gave a small nod, whispering a thin thank-you, and pressing my back harder against the fridge. Thankfully, he didn’t follow. He let the fragile distance between us remain as he stared at me.
‘Did… something else happen?’
My jaw snapped shut, teeth colliding in a sharp crack that echoed far too loudly in the still kitchen. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Cain… he didn’t come back to the club.’
My lips parted, a wave of worry passing over me – and his gaze pounced on the tell.
‘He didn’t stay long last night,’ I murmured, pulse thundering as I glanced at my phone on the farthest end of the counter. He also didn’t pick up my call this morning.
Cold dread started climbing up my legs and towards my chest.
‘He dropped me off and left.’