Chapter 22
KINSLEY
Idon’t bother going back to my apartment, on the off chance that Royce comes after me. I don’t want to be anywhere near there. That girl was perfect for him, and he’d be an idiot not to go for her.
But you like him.
He should be yours.
I push back the thoughts as I step out of the hotel room shower. I’d popped into a boutique on the way here and bought an outfit to wear to Smoke tonight. I made an appointment downstairs for hair and makeup, and can order room service if I’m feeling really ambitious.
Done and done.
Brushing away the steam from the mirror, I don’t envy the stylists. The water washed away my tears, but the redness still remains.
I want to call Nessa or someone on the team, but more than that, I want to be alone.
Which is why my ride share pulls up to Smoke at quarter after ten, no one any wiser. It’s probably stupid being here alone, but I just want to feel normal for once.
Unattached to anyone or anything.
I want to be Kinsley Dane, almost thirty-year-old badass who loves to dance and wear red lipstick, not Kinsley Dane, forward for the Tennessee Tornadoes with the love ’em and leave ’em persona.
Zander will definitely be pissed when he finds out I did this, but that’s a problem for later.
One of Nashville’s hottest bars during the day morphs into something of a dance club at night. It’s my favorite spot if I had to choose, and tonight I’m thankful for the familiarity of it.
The bouncer lets me in with a nod and I bypass the line, weaving through people once I’m inside then heading straight for the bar.
Grabbing an open stool at the end, I order a martini and pull out my phone while I wait. I have a dozen new notifications.
All from Royce.
ROYCE: You’ve got to be kidding me
ROYCE: Open your door
ROYCE: Where the hell are you?
ROYCE: You want to end things? Fine. But you’re gonna do it to my face, Kins
ROYCE: Don’t I deserve that?
ROYCE: Baby, please—don’t do this
The last one has my heart clenching in my chest as the bartender slides my drink in front of me. I pay for it and slide off the stool, my eye catching on the unopened voicemail icon at the bottom of my screen.
It’s stupid, but I want to know what it says even if it’s just some automated message. I snort as I walk toward the bathroom because if that’s not any indication on my state of mind right now, I don’t know what is.
I hate this.
I hate being here.
Looking down at my outfit, I hardly feel like myself and realize a little too late I just want to go home.
Hotel.
Apartment.
It doesn’t matter; I just want to leave.
Decision made, I call up a ride share before hitting the voicemail playback.
Hey, Kinsley, it’s Scott.
I’m calling you from my new number. I kept getting all these weird messages and so I ditched that one when I moved to Florida.
A private investigator reached out to me about the messages you’re getting too—I didn’t tell him about mine because…
weird, you know? But I just wanted to let you know it’s not me.
I was totally an ass but like, I’d never hurt you…
and like there’s lots of girls here so it’s cool. Hit me up if you’re ever in Florida.
I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at the screen.
It’s not him.
I know it’s not.
But I’d been so sure, so blinded, even though Royce had told me it wasn’t him.
It couldn’t be.
Because the reality was so much worse—the timing of the messages, where I’d been. His demeanor when I was on a date, or even seeing someone casually. How they’d increased when I was with Royce or when I didn’t tell anyone where I was.
My phone vibrates in my hand as footsteps sound behind me.
UNKNOWN: It’s a dangerous world out there, Baby
The voice behind me is low and dangerous and so familiar I want to cry. “A very dangerous world.”