Chapter 21
“So he’s like Batman.”
Demi pops a grape into her mouth with the same ease most people reserve for commenting on the weather, not unpacking a weekend murder confession.
I blink at her. “No. Not Batman. Batman doesn’t kill people.”
“Are you sure?” She lifts a shoulder, unconcerned. “Okay, The Punisher, then.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Demi.”
She leans forward, eyes lighting up. “Wait. Hold on. Did he kill someone while you were on your date? Like, mid-pancake challenge? Did he just get up, murder a guy, and come back all, ‘Hey babe, wanna head to the next stop on my sexy as hell motorcycle?’”
I stare at her.
She glows with amusement. “That’s a yes.”
“Not mid-date. I mean, technically we were still on the date, but I wasn’t there… just nearby… allegedly.”
Demi sighs dramatically and slouches back into the couch. “Lame. Would’ve been more exciting if you got to watch. A fucking rapist? I’d have asked to do it myself.”
I throw a pillow at her. She cackles.
Across the living room, I spot my mom at the bar cart she just bought “me” for my birthday, humming as she experiments with her latest questionable cocktail.
Her short, tousled dark hair—laced with unapologetic gray—looks effortlessly stylish.
She’s tall and athletic that makes people assume she once played competitive tennis or hiked remote trails.
But her confidence doesn’t come from adventure or sports. It’s just who she is.
She waves a hand at us while the other pours vodka into something that looks suspiciously like darkened pureed watermelon.
“Girls, I’m telling you, this is going to be the next big thing. Came up with it last weekend at Gloria’s lake house. She threw one of her ‘Sangria and Seniors’ parties.”
Dabbing her finger and tasting her concoction, she smacks her lips. “Oh, that’s good.”
I side-eye Demi, who perks up instantly. “Oh! Tell me about it?”
“Oh, yes,” she stirs, adding a dash more of black licorice?
What else would be black? “Everyone talked a big tequila game, but by nine, half of them were barefoot in the grass, belting Cher’s greatest hits.
Anyway, one of the new gals helped me concoct this drink, and let me tell you—they loved it. ”
“Name it, Marilyn,” she challenges, pointing at my mom.
Mom lifts the shaker proudly. “The Black Velvet Meltdown.”
Demi holds out her hand. Fingers wiggling. “Pour me one.”
I groan. “Demi, for the love of God, she just made that up five seconds ago.”
“And? You know I live for this.”
I shake my head. “I’ll pass. The memories of the Chartreuse are still too fresh.”
Mom rubs some glittery sugar on the rim of the martini glass and hands it over to Demi.
No matter what life throws my mother’s way, she finds a way to turn it into a good time. Tornado warning? Marilyn’s making cocktails by candlelight. Car trouble? She’s befriending the tow truck driver. The woman has never met a stranger.
Demi takes a sip, considers, then nods approvingly. “Ten out of ten, Marilyn. Would black out again.”
Mom beams. “I knew you’d love it.”
I shake my head at their nonsense.
Bash is outside, thankfully, playing with a friend from the neighborhood. Last Sunday, I came home to a freshly landscaped yard. Weeded flower beds, a new seating area under the oak tree, and a playscape obstacle course that Bash immediately claimed as the greatest thing to ever happen.
Through the window, I catch a glimpse of him gripping the rope swing, his friend cheering him on.
Good. That means he won’t hear me telling his godmother that I let a hitman—excuse me, “handler”—give me the best orgasm of my life on top of a bar.
Demi turns back to me, hazel eyes gleaming with mischief. “Alright, back to the more pressing matter. The bar. Tell me everything.”
I set my glass down. “It was a moment. A very… intense moment.”
She tilts her head. “Intense. Sure. That’s one word for it.”
“Demi.”
She holds up her hands. “I just want details, okay? How many surfaces did you desecrate? You said there was barbeque. Wait—oh my God, were baked beans involved?”
“No, baked beans were not involved.”
She snaps her fingers. “Damn. That would’ve been iconic.”
I drop my head into my hands. “I hate you.”
“You love me.”
I sigh. “I do. Which is why I’m telling you this.”
Demi props her chin in her hands, practically vibrating. “You’re telling me this because you know you’re in too deep, and you need me to tell you that it’s totally fine that you’re dating a killer.”
I point at her. “Handler. You said it yourself. He confirmed. There’s a difference.”
She snorts. “Suuuuure there is.”
I groan, grabbing my water. “I can’t believe I’m having this conversation while my mother is five feet away mixing potions, and my child is playing in the backyard.”
Demi clinks her glass against mine. “Happy birthday, babe. Best one yet.”
A knock at the front door cuts through the room. It’s a sharp interruption to the easy rhythm of conversation. I glance toward it and my curiosity flares. I’m not expecting anyone.
I get up and open the door to find a delivery guy, too bright-eyed for a Sunday afternoon, holding a massive pink box like it’s filled with The Crown Jewels. He sets a small envelope on top and smiles.
“This is for you,” he says, his young voice too calm for my current level of intrigue.
Demi appears behind me and squints at the box. “Is that a fucking cake from Lisa’s Bakery downtown?”
Taking the package from the guy and shutting the door behind him, I open the flaps, and the breath leaves my lungs.
Red velvet. Frosted to perfection. Thick, creamy layers that could be described as nothing but sinful.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, resisting the urge to lick the frosting from the lid.
“I might just cream in my panties.”
“You’re disgusting,” I reply, barely juggling the oversized box.
Demi giggles, takes the cake and hands me the envelope. “Open it. I need to know who sent this.”
I tear it open and slide out the card. One glance confirms what I already expected. It’s Hex. Short. Sweet. Warm enough to melt steel.
“Happy birthday, Sable. I wanted you to know I’m thinking about you today. If you need space, I get it.
But I owe you a cake, and I wouldn’t dare let your birthday slip by without acknowledging such a beautiful woman.
If I’m lucky, one day I’ll get to taste that cream cheese frosting with you... and maybe a little more of you too.
Enjoy—H.”
Demi clasps a hand over her heart. “Aww, Frank is so sweet. And hot.”
I freeze. “Don’t call him Frank. He’s not the fucking Punisher.”
I take back the cake and walk to the kitchen.
Behind me, I hear her murmur something that sounds a lot like, “he punished that pussy…” and I nearly drop the box.
Mom spots it and beams. “Ooooooh, who’s the cake from?” she teases, her eyes glinting mischievously.
“A maaaann,” Demi drags out the word to get a reaction.
I roll my eyes, but my pulse spikes. I can already feel heat creeping up my neck and into my cheeks.
“A man, huh?” Mom’s smile widens as she leans in to inspect the cake. “What kind of man sends cake to a woman’s house?”
“Oh, you know, just a guy who knows I like red velvet and thinks I’m hot.” I try to downplay it, but Demi isn’t having any of it.
“Uh-huh, hot, that’s all,” she says, leaning against the counter, enjoying herself way too much. “What’s his little nickname for you? It wouldn’t happen to be Legs would it?”
“Fuck off, Demi.”
My mom and Demi continue, but I’m gone. I stare at the cake, and my thoughts go right back to Hex. His card. His words. His admission.
He kills people.
Can I get past that? Or is it not about moving past, but accepting it?
He’s dark. Dangerous. But kind in a way that’s rare. He doesn’t go after innocents. He protects the people he cares about.
I swallow hard. I’m so damn conflicted.
But the cake? It’s drool-worthy.
And so is he.
Fuck.
My pocket vibrates and I pull my phone out, half-expecting it to be Hex, but the moment my eyes catch the unfamiliar number, my stomach drops. It’s not him. My pulse spikes, and my hands go cold, but I can’t look away as I unlock the screen.
The first image lands hard, knocking the air from my lungs.
It’s me—on top of the bar at Ruin's End—legs wrapped around Hex—
No. No. No.
My body freezes. Blood thunders in my ears. Another image appears. I’m kneeling. Hands gripping his thighs. His cock in my mouth. The angle leaves nothing to the imagination.
I want to look away. I really do.
But I can’t.
I want to run from the trainwreck, but I'm stuck staring at the threat encased in a blue bubble.
My stomach sours.
[unknown number]: Hope ur having a good birthday, slut.
If u don’t want these going public, u better work on getting me back in good graces with Andrew.
If I don’t see any effort from u, I’ll make sure ur precious business gets a healthy dose of scandal.
Let's see how long u last with the reputation ur company deserves.
Ashley.
I know it’s her. This whole damn thing. All of it. I didn’t want to believe she’d go this far, but here it is. She’s blackmailing me with these fucking pictures, demanding I fix whatever damage exists between her and Andrew.
I never knew how serious things got between them. Didn’t care.
What I do know, I sure as hell don’t want the father of my child dragging that unhinged woman into Bash’s life. And now, she wants me to undo whatever crazy she showed, effectively scaring him off from the way her message reads?
I rub my eyes, a headache already pounding at my skull.
My pulse thrums in my ears. No. Absolutely not. This is insane. I can’t—won’t—play along. But Ashley has been fucking with my life for too long, always finding new ways to twist the knife every time I cauterize her last jab. She’s become desperate.
Now, she’s coming for my entire goddamn life. She is threatening to affect my business. Affect my son.
I want to hurl my phone across the room and hear it shatter, but I don’t. I won’t give her that kind of power over me.
Across the room, my mom and Demi are laughing, completely unaware of the storm tearing through my chest. I’m supposed to be enjoying my birthday. Instead, I’m here, hijacked by the fallout of Ashley’s madness.
How the hell am I supposed to fix this?
I inhale deeply, trying to steady myself, but shit is getting too real, too fast.
A plan. I need a plan to take back control, to cut her out of my life for good. But every path I think of ends in a dead fucking end.
My hand trembles as I run it through my hair, the weight of everything closing in.
No more games, Ashley.
I’ll handle this on my terms, but right now, I don’t know how.
I need Hex.