Chapter 7 #2
I write it all down anyway. Bodyguard’s height, stance, patterns. License plate of the Mercedes. Timing of his exit. Everything matters. Anything could crack open an opportunity later.
The fantasy itches at the back of my brain: getting him alone at my table. Pinning those manicured hands down with my daggers. Reading him his sins while his mask of false divinity crumbles.
I almost smile, imagining his face slack under the black bag.
But reality smacks me quick. I’ve spent nearly a year trying to get to this asshole. Speaking engagements—guarded. His personal address—untraceable. The doors at his stupid institute—watched and guarded by security.
I pick up my phone and look up the number. They close in one minute, so I quickly hit call and wait.
“Phoenix Marrow Wellness Institute,” a man answers. He sounds annoyed that I would dare call sixty seconds before closing. I don’t blame him. “How can I help you attain better wellness?”
“Yeah, I was wondering if I could book some private sessions with Phoenix?” I ask, trying my best not to let my disdain for the man leak into my tone.
“We’re currently booking out ten months,” the man says, dismissively, as if he knows I won’t follow through. “And we do require a non-refundable booking fee of five thousand dollars, due at the time of reservation.”
I practically choke on my own tongue. Five fucking thousand dollars? I’ve never had that amount of money sitting in my bank account. “What about scholarships?” I ask, my words coming out too high-pitched. “Or grants? Do you ever have any of those?”
“The Institute issues twelve pro-bono cases per year, but unfortunately, they are all assigned for this year. You can apply when the spots reopen in January.”
Dammit. “Alright. Thank you.” I hang up before he does.
How? How is someone this inaccessible? Every other man who has met my daggers has been decently easy to lure out.
But I can’t pull that with Phoenix. He’ll see right through me if I try to approach him and seduce him.
I’ve left too many comments, and he’s replied too many times for him not to instantly recognize who I am. He’d never fall for my act.
I don’t know what the answer is right now, where my opportunity will arise from, but until then, I’ll keep watching. I will memorize. I will hunt from the shadows. Because Phoenix Marrow may be worshiped by the masses, but to me, he’s nothing but my eventual prey with good PR.
I’m about to turn the key in the ignition when my phone buzzes in the cup holder.
It’s a number I don’t recognize.
I frown, swipe it open.
What are you doing right now?
No emojis. No context. Just bold, invasive, teasing in a way that instantly makes my skin prickle.
I stare at the message. And I just… know.
It’s him.
Kade. Saint Shade. Whatever the hell his real name is.
The man who cleaned blood with me like it was Tuesday laundry, who has my face in his memory, my life in his hands. The man I’ve left very public, very thirsty comments for.
My throat tightens. My first thought is he’s flirting. My second thought is, how the hell does he have my number?
I type back, quick and literal:
Staking out the next five fingered steaks I’d like to carve.
I don’t clarify. I don’t add context. I’m not dumb enough to type “plotting to murder Phoenix Marrow” into a text box. But the words are close enough that my heart races as I hit send.
The message shows Read. And then… nothing.
Thirty seconds. A full minute. My pulse climbs with every empty second.
Oh shit. I shouldn’t have admitted what I’m doing. What if it’s too much? What if not-Kade is sending it to the police?
I’m two seconds away from a full-blown spiral when my phone lights up again. But not with a text.
It’s a call.
I almost don’t answer. Every instinct screams at me to hang up. To sever this line, cut this cord before it knots any tighter.
But curiosity wins. Curiosity, and something else I don’t want to name.
I swipe to accept. “What?”
“Damn, Willow.” His voice floods through the speaker, rough silk, urgent. “You’re really staking someone out right now?”
I bristle, my defenses rising. “You jealous? Afraid it’s you?”
He hesitates for a moment, as if he isn’t sure how to proceed. Apparently, it’s with caution. “Just afraid it’s trouble,” he says, the words low and filled with wariness.
I can’t quite get a read on not-Kade. Is he judging me? Preparing to turn me in? Being unnecessarily protective? I don’t know this guy well enough to tell. But I do see an opportunity. So, I test him. Push him. “Tell me, not-Kade… ever heard of Phoenix Marrow?”
There’s a pause. I can hear him breathe, so I know I haven’t lost him.
But I can practically hear the gears in his brain whirling.
Me calling him by his non-name, actually asking about a specific person, giving my target away.
“Yeah, I guess. He’s the wellness guy. Billboards everywhere.
Looks like he’s auditioning for prophet of the year. ”
“That’s it?” My fingers drum against the steering wheel.
I’m hoping for more, for a lead, for something that cracks open the fortress Phoenix has built around himself.
Saint Shade has a massive following online.
Phoenix has half of what Saint Shade has, but still, it’s large.
They are both based out of Las Vegas. There could be a tie I never expected.
Kade exhales. “I don’t follow his crap, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ve heard the name. Seen his face. But that’s it.”
Disappointment twists in my chest, hot and sour. I’d hoped for a second that Kade might be my way in. That this was fate handing me the key. Instead… nothing.
But there’s relief, too. Relief that the man who saw me kill, who’s gotten under my skin in a way I hate admitting, isn’t tied up with Phoenix Marrow.
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” he says, his tone suggestive.
Something in my stomach hardens. “I do not need a man to help me, thanks. I’m a big, bad girl all on my own.”
“No, Willow, I…” he scrambles, obviously thrown off by me assuming the misogyny was coming out. “Trust me, I fully believe how damn capable you are. I just… Fuck. I just care that you come back alive.”
The words slip past my armor before I can stop them. I don’t know what to say.
“And,” he says, slyness creeping back in, “I was meaning that you really don’t have to do this alone. If you want company. If you want someone else with a morally gray compass to assist plotting a demise. If you want to get to Phoenix Marrow, you don’t have to do it alone.”
I blink at the windshield. He really didn’t mean take over. He truly meant that he’d help. And not judge?
“You’ll help me,” I repeat slowly, like I’m tasting the words.
“I can make sure you’re not alone. It never hurts having someone who’s six-foot-three watching your back,” he points out. “But I could phrase it more romantically if you’d like.”
I laugh, sharp. “You just had to drop in the height fact, didn’t you?”
“Figured it wouldn’t hurt my case,” he laughs through the phone. “Because I have another reason for calling.” His voice drops a note lower. “Can I take you out tomorrow night?”
A date. He’s clearly asking me out on a date. Did the invitation to his show count? Probably not, since he was on stage and I was in the audience drooling over him like a dog. But this time, there’s no question about it: this is clearly a date invitation.
My heart pounds, confused and hot and wild. Because what kind of man asks for a date after a discussion where he knows your endgame is murder?
And what kind of woman says yes to a man like that?
Me. Apparently.
Instead of calling him a psycho, I hear myself say: “Fine. Tomorrow night.”
I hang up before he can hear my breath catch. But his words keep echoing. I care that you come back alive.
For the first time ever, I don’t feel alone in this. And that terrifies me more than Phoenix Marrow ever could.