Chapter 13
Dillon
By the time I’m behind the wheel of my car, I’ve got a location pin from Jack for an address thirty minutes away, in the suburbs. I make the drive in twenty, double-parking on the curb.
The bass of the music thumps under my feet before I even get inside, drawing up short just in the doorway.
The place is swarming with bodies, and so loud I can barely hear myself think.
I do a slow circuit of the living room, the smothering heat pushing down on me.
There’s not enough light and too many people, so I move to the next room, constantly searching for any kind of familiar face, keeping an eye out for Barrett’s height.
He stands about a head taller than the average person, and there’s no way he would leave Charlie’s side.
I reach the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor when a hand lands on my shoulder, digging in and yanking me backward.
“What the fu—”
Jack gets right in my face, his expression severe. “There you are. You took your goddamn time.” His usual humor is missing, and his jaw is clenched. “Come on. They’re this way.”
He lets me go without waiting for an answer, striding away from the stairs and down a darkened hallway. He uses his shoulder like a battering ram, forcing the crowd to separate and let us through.
“How did you know I’d come?” I call over the music.
Jack doesn’t look back, one shoulder lifting casually. “Lucky guess,” he shouts back.
As we move away from the sound system, the noise grows more muffled. “This is insane,” I tell him, able to lower my voice to a reasonable volume now.
“I know,” he agrees, shaking his head. “Carrie and Geoff gave every guest carte blanche to invite whoever they wanted. Bet they’re regretting that now.” He steps over shattered pieces of ceramic that look like they used to be a vase.
“No shit,” I mutter, head swiveling as we bypass the kitchen, still searching for Charlie.
The longer it takes to find her, the tenser I get, spikes of anxiety washing down my spine.
I’m not sure what it is—Jack’s ominous messages, his hardened expression, or just knowing that this will be the first time seeing Charlie since she left me.
Ahead, Jack draws up short in a doorway, waiting for me to join him.
I look into the room, finding a small office that’s lit by only one small lamp on the corner of a desk.
My attention shifts to three occupants of the room.
Barrett towers over the other two, and Marisa’s hair makes her easily recognizable.
It’s not until she shifts to the side that Charlie’s sandy brown waves come into view, making my heart jerk in my chest.
I’m frozen, drinking in the sight of her like a man who’s finally stumbled on an oasis in the desert after weeks without water.
“Marisa,” Jack calls softly, and they all turn in our direction. Her eyes wide are bloodshot, while Charlie and Barrett wear matching scowls. It takes a second, a heartbeat, and then her eyes slide off Jack and land on me, shock flaring them wide.
My stomach clenches with nerves, sweat gathering along my hairline. I take a step, and then hesitate, unsure whether I should get any closer. “Charlie,” I murmur.
Barrett’s furious eyes swing my way. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he grits out, flicking a dark look at Jack. “Did you tell him she was here?”
He holds his palms out, not breaking eye contact. “I get it, man. I do. But Marisa is one of ours, and that includes Dillon.” The implication isn’t subtle—Barrett’s the interloper here.
Charlie’s the one who flinches, her face blanching. I step closer, wanting to diffuse the tension, to ease the lines marring her brow. “What’s going on? Jack said that Bliss—”
Marisa lets out a sound like a pained animal, her throat bobbing. “What do you think would be the best way to scrub memories from my brain? A rusty spoon, or sandpaper?”
Barrett’s shoulders lose a fraction of tension, his mouth twitching. “I don’t think either will help,” he tells her.
Jack steps into the room, dragging her into his arms. He squeezes her tightly, his expression darkening into something menacing over her head.
“Where is she?” I ask. “Bliss.”
“Upstairs.” It’s an almost inaudible whisper as Marisa buries her face against Jack, a tremulous waver in her voice. Something really fucked up has gone down, and I’m trying to focus…but my eyes keep dragging toward Charlie like they’re being pulled in by a magnet.
“What did she do?” My voice is rough, and when she jerks back, it feels like a hit straight to the chest, all the air whooshing out of me.
“What hasn’t she done?” Barrett scoffs. “You all have just given her free rein to be the biggest bitch in all the land, right? And now she’s turned it on one of you, and you have the balls to act surprised? Un-fucking-believable.”
“Barry,” Charlie murmurs, reaching up to touch his arm. I watch the easy familiarity, refusing to look away from it. “It’s not the time.”
He looks down at her, his eyes creasing at the corners. “Yeah,” he grunts, flicking a quick look at where Marisa is still hiding against Jack. “Fine.” He crosses his arms, disgruntlement seeping from him.
I inhale, centering myself. “What did she do?” I ask again, and Marisa turns her head, cheek still against Jack’s chest, and watery eyes locked on me.
“She did what Bliss always does—especially when she thinks she might lose,” she whispers brokenly. “She blew everything up just because she can, just to prove the power is hers.”