Jhene #3
There’s no way I’m letting him drag me upstate where I’ll be even further away from saving Eva and where I won’t be able to execute the plan I’ve started putting together.
I’ll let him think I’ve accepted his protection plan, then I’ll disappear the first chance I get.
“Good,” he says finally. “Chantal’s already preparing a room for you. I’ll drive you up there Sunday.”
I nod, my expression neutral even as my mind races with possibilities.
Sunday. That gives me a few days to figure out my next move.
A few days to plan an escape.
Killian and I make for uneasy roommates over the next few days.
Sharing a five-hundred-foot living space would be difficult for even the most devoted couple, let alone two strangers who are introverted grumps by nature and can’t really stand each other.
We trade off on the bed and the rollaway, alternating nights like kids playing a game of rock-paper-scissors.
The bathroom situation is less tricky. Killian showers in the mornings while I take the nights. It works out since he goes to the gym in the morning and at night, I’m usually coming off another sticky shift at the Banshee.
When our schedules do overlap, he makes a point of knocking loudly before entering any room I might be in.
It’s weirdly considerate, in a gruff, wordless, Killian sort of way.
He’s gone before dawn each morning, slipping out while the sky is still dark to beat the shit out of punching bags and sparring partners at his gym. I’ve gathered enough from eavesdropped conversations at the Banshee to know he’s got a big fight coming up.
Meanwhile, I’ve thrown myself into work as a server.
I spend every possible hour at the Banshee, picking up shifts nobody else wants, staying late to help Tom close up, doing whatever it takes to earn as much money as I can.
The tips are still unimpressive—turns out I’m not Bridget when it comes to charming customers—but every crumpled dollar bill I shove into my pocket is one step closer to freedom.
One step closer to Eva.
Thoughts of her keep me going when my feet ache and my head throbs from exhaustion. The hard work will be worth it if we’re ever able to be together again.
The hours I am at the studio sometimes mean I’m cooped up in the same space with Killian for more than sleep.
We usually eat in silence. We watch TV in silence.
…honestly, we do most things in silence.
He sticks to one side of the studio and I stay on the other, both too stubborn and guarded to make even polite conversation like most people would.
When Saturday evening rolls around, we’re once again trapped in the studio together early into the evening.
I use the bathroom first, quickly changing into one of the two T-shirts and jeans I have and emerging with my curls in my usual halfhearted attempt at a bun.
It’s easy to get ready in under ten minutes when the closest thing to makeup that I wear are the glasses on my face.
Killian’s rummaging in the closet when I step out, his broad back bared to me so that every muscled bulge and defined divot is on display.
“Finally figured out something I like about you,” he grunts. “You don’t take a fuckton of time in the bathroom. Some women treat getting ready like a full-time job.”
“Hard to do that when I’m living out of a backpack.”
I pass him up, noting the shirt he’s selected for the evening. It’s dressier than his usual plain T-shirts, more of a V-neck cut that looks like it might actually be expensive.
He first examines it for wrinkles and then tugs it on over his head.
The fabric stretches across his broad chest and shoulders in a way that’s... distracting.
I blink and look away, confused by my own reaction.
“You coming to the pub tonight?” I ask, my tone decidedly casual.
He doesn’t answer straight away. He actually takes so long answering that I glance over at him again out of curiosity and notice a faint flush creeping up the back of his neck.
“Got plans,” he mutters gruffly. “Taking Bridget out to dinner.”
Oh.
My stomach twists into an uncomfortable knot, which makes no sense. Why should I care if Killian’s going on a date with Bridget?
It’s none of my business. He’s none of my business.
I did overhear the two of them flirting the other night, but I didn’t really know what they were talking about. Just that Bridget giggled and touched his arm as if she’s never seen nice biceps before.
Kind of awkward considering the night before she was lying to get out of work so she could go on a date with that guy Tyler she bragged about.
Does Killian know about that?
None of your business, Jhene. It doesn’t matter either way.
“Sounds like you two have a very fun evening planned,” I say more sarcastically than I mean to. “Enjoy yourselves.”
His dark blue eyes flit over to me, obviously noticing the change in my tone. The way he stares makes me wonder if he’s confused by it.
“I will…” he trails off slowly. “So long as I’ve got your word you’ll behave yourself tonight.”
I barely resist rolling my eyes. “I’m not a child. I don’t need constant reminders to stay out of trouble.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
“Um, what?” I say incredulously. “I’ve done nothing but listen to what you’ve said. Despite the fact that I never asked you to make me your pet project. Remember that?”
He crosses his arms, his biceps straining against the short sleeves of his V-neck.
His scowl gradually returns, his heavy brow furrowing.
“It’s less about the fact that you’ve listened so far and more about the fact that I know what goes on in that little head of yours.
You think I don’t know you’re plotting an escape?
That you plan on leaving the place upstate as soon as you think you can get away?
I know how troublemakers like you think, girl.
“I’m well aware you still don’t grasp the deep shit you’re in. The very real fucking danger the Bratva poses, and how I’m the only one who’s kept you safe thus far. So if it sounds like I’m pestering you about behaving yourself, that’s the fuck why. Make sense?”
His tone is so rough, blunt, and condescending that it sets me off.
Irritation flares up inside me, a hot pulse coursing straight through me.
It’s not enough that I’ve complied or that I told him I’d go to the stupid place upstate—he has to remind me how much he views me as a problem to be solved.
…how he thinks I’m so weak and useless I’ll get myself killed, and how he can’t wait to be rid of me.
But even as irritation burns through me, I spin around and give him my back. I shut down like I usually do even when feeling intense emotions.
I settle for scowling to myself, jaw clenched and posture stiff.
“Don’t even think about pulling any disappearing acts, girl,” he goes on. “I mean it.”
“How many times are you going to repeat yourself?” I blurt out suddenly. I whip back around, glasses sliding so far down my nose I impatiently nudge them back up. “Go on your date, Killer. Have a fabulous evening with Bridget. I hope you do so you stop micromanaging me!”
He bares his teeth in a deep grimace, vaguely resembling a beast who’s been pissed the fuck off. Rather than fire back a rebuttal, he snatches his wallet and keys up and strides toward the door. Only once he’s wrenched it open does he speak.
“If I come back and you’re gone,” he growls, “god help you. You’ll be in a world of fucking trouble.”
The door slams shut behind him and rattles the walls. His heavy footsteps thud the rest of the way down the hall, more aggressive sounds that emphasize his anger.
I’m fuming just as much.
I fold my arms and glare at the last spot where he stood, skin warm and thoughts racing.
Killian thinks he’s protecting me. Maybe he even believes he’s doing the right thing. But he doesn’t understand. He can’t understand.
This isn’t about me. It’s never been about me.
It doesn’t matter if he thinks upstate New York is safer, or that I can’t survive on the streets on my own.
My number one priority is Eva and getting her away from Fedorov, and I’ll do anything to make that happen.
Including defying the Irish mob’s boneman who seems to think he owns me.