Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
EMMA EASTON
It’s been two days since the gala. Micah keeps insisting Rook is a man of his word and that he has a code for not breaking promises.
I definitely want to believe him. Maybe it’s because Rook was honest about the fact that he considered killing me, then decided against it.
I don’t know if that makes me feel weird. Okay…it definitely makes me feel weird.
I stand on the balcony of our hotel, coffee warming my hands even though the air is cold.
Micah and Heather are still asleep behind me, and I glance back at them, watching their soft and steady breathing.
I love Heather more than almost anyone, so having her here with me helps me not feel so lost. She’s been there for me through all of the good and the bad in life.
Then I turn back toward the skyline. New York is beautiful at this hour. I always thought Portland or San Francisco was big enough. But here? Holy shit.
I pull my phone out and log into my secret Instagram account. Jude has me blocked on everything, so this is my only way to check in without being obvious. I scroll and notice that he hasn’t posted since he left Seaside. My stomach sinks.
Then I see that Adriana has.
My thumb freezes over the screen as I click her profile.
She’s annoyingly beautiful, with forty-seven thousand followers and the kind of smile that looks like it was designed for cameras.
I snort. Being Jude’s fake girlfriend for that long clearly paid off in the one thing she probably always wanted: attention.
Even though she has nothing on his one million followers.
Her feed is a carousel of selfies—perfect lipstick, flawless hair, nails painted.
Her manicured hands holding a purse, a drink, a plane ticket, a luxury car.
I take another sip of my coffee to steady myself.
I can’t imagine my life being so full of so many fancy things.
It’s crazy that Jude’s life is a lot of that now.
While he was in Seaside with me, I wouldn’t be able to notice a change in him that would suggest he’s gotten used to a certain standard of living.
Of course, aside from the Audi. And the beach house they rented.
Okay, never mind. But you wouldn’t know how wealthy he is by his personality alone.
I keep scrolling, and the lies reveal themselves one by one. There’s Jude on a chair with his arm around her, smiling. Her hand on his neck while he drives. A photo of him standing beside her, eyes half-closed, pretending he’s fine.
He looks…normal.
And then I realize what I’m seeing. He’s only normal when he knows he’s being photographed.
Like he’s learned how to expertly fake it, and look alive enough for the cameras.
I zoom in on the latest photo she uploaded.
Jude, shirtless, standing near a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking what looks to be a huge city.
Maybe Moscow? The recent headlines and candid photo of them state as much, anyway.
My stomach twists.
He’s in his gray sweatpants I love. His tattoos carve over his lean, muscular frame in the light.
I love him.
I hate him.
Micah told me Jude insisted we leave him alone. But when he said he never wanted to see me again...I knew he was lying. He loves me. The stupid jerk.
I’m about to tuck my phone into my pajama shorts pocket when it vibrates. I gasp, nearly dropping the damn thing in a panic. It’s a message from Rook.
Rook:
My cousin’s boss agreed to see you. Turns out his wife is a huge fan of Jude’s band. I’m sending you the address for a restaurant he frequents. He told me to tell you to wear a blue dress, have your hair up, and wear red lipstick.
I frown, thumb hovering over the keyboard.
Why?
His reply comes almost instantly.
Rook:
So he knows who you are. Duh. You’re really bad at this.
I roll my eyes, but I type anyway.
Okay, you’re right. Thank you so much. This means a lot to me.
His next message arrives, blunt and casual.
Rook:
You’re welcome. Just know the guy is a little scary. I definitely don’t fuck with him. I sent him your number, so he might text you when he arrives.
I stare at the address and time that pop up on the screen.
This might actually work. I turn and look back at the bed where Micah and Heather are still asleep.
Micah’s arm is draped over her waist, looking too peaceful to bother.
But I can’t help it, because my chest is filling with so many different emotions right now.
I have to tell them.
I lean down and shake Micah’s shoulder gently. “Micah,” I whisper.
He mumbles something incoherent, eyes still closed.
“Micah,” I repeat, a little louder.
He groans, opens one eye, and squints at me. “What?” he says, sleepy.
I sit beside them. “Rook texted.”
His eyes widen, and he sits up. “What?”
“He says his cousin’s boss agreed to meet me,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “He said he’s a scary man, though. So, that’s great.”
Micah blinks. Then the seriousness hits his face. “He actually said he’s scary?” he asks.
I nod, and his jaw tightens.
Heather shifts in the bed, her eyes fluttering open. “Scary?” she repeats, voice thick with sleep. Then she squints at me, fully awake now. “Wait—what? Like…scary-scary or like good scary?”
I exhale, a small laugh escaping me despite myself. “Probably scary-scary. Rook said he doesn’t even mess with him.”
Micah tilts his head, messy hair falling around his face. “We’re saying ‘scary’ a lot.”
Heather rolls her eyes with a tired laugh. “Oh my god, Emma, that’s—” She pauses, blinking at the ceiling like she’s processing the reality of it. “That’s actually amazing. One step closer.”
“Yeah, and I guess I’m supposed to wear a blue dress and red lipstick,” I shrug. “So he knows I’m the one he’s meeting.”
“That’s interesting,” Micah huffs, rubbing a palm down his face. “These rich weirdos, man.”
I snort. “I don’t even know his name.”
Heather scrunches her nose. “You don’t?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Rook didn’t say.”
Micah exhales. “It’s probably like that for a reason.”
My hand flies to my sternum, the anxiety creeping in again like it always does when something feels like too big a deal.
Heather notices immediately. She scoots closer to where I’m sitting on the edge of their bed and wraps her arms around me. “Hey,” she says, her voice teasing but soft. “Don’t panic. This is just…you know…epic bad boy territory.”
I blink, then laugh. Her sarcasm is exactly what I need right now. It’s always been my lifeline when I was drowning in stress. I pull back from her, and my smile stays.
“Okay, so I need to go buy this stuff for our dinner meeting tonight,” I say, trying to sound casual.
Heather grins. “I will gladly go with you. Micah can buy me something pretty. You know, I love Gucci.”
Micah snorts. “Whatever you want, blondie.”
Heather points a finger at him. “You’re the goodest boy, Meekah.”
I roll my eyes.
Micah pulls me into a hug, and I rest my head against his shoulder. “Okay,” he says quietly. “If this guy is as scary as Rook says, then he’s probably not easy to reach. That means he’s valuable. That means he’s not just…some guy. He’s a top dog over here, I’m sure.”
My heart beats a little faster, but it’s not the panic this time. It’s hope and fear, because I’m terrified, honestly. “Yeah, I got that.”
“I’m serious, Emma,” he says, pulling away from me, his hands cupping my face. “Remember why you’re there and what you want. Sometimes, these kinds of men are a little intimidating, and it gets you off track. Trust me.”
I nod. “I’ve got it, Micah. For Jude, I have no other choice.”
Micah pulls up to the curb, and the restaurant looms in front of me. Wow. Yeah, I have never been anywhere like this before. Glass walls rise several stories high. The fall sky is already darkening, the air cold enough to nip at my legs as I step out of the rental.
The blue dress clings exactly the way Heather wanted it to.
She said that rich men love dresses that make you seem like a “bad bitch.” I certainly don’t feel like that, though.
It ends just above my knees, and I resist the urge to tug it down.
My hair is twisted up in a gold clip, neat but with a few strands framing my face. My lips are very red.
Like Rook told me.
Micah leans over from the driver’s seat. “We’ll park down the street,” he says quietly. “Text if you need us.”
I nod, my throat already tight. Heather gives me a wide-eyed look from the passenger seat and blows me a kiss.
I shut the door before I can talk myself out of this.
The restaurant doors glide open silently, warm air welcoming me.
Inside, it’s exquisite. Polished wood, low lighting, expensive minimalism.
Conversations are quiet but most certainly important.
Every person in here looks like they own something or someone.
Well, I’m definitely in the right place.
I swallow and step forward.
The hostess greets me with a professional smile. “Good evening. Reservation?”
My brain blanks. “No,” I say quickly, then recover. “Just—um. A table. Somewhere private?”
She studies me for half a second longer than necessary. She can definitely tell that I don’t belong here. Then she nods, leading me toward the back. “Of course.” My legs are shaking like a baby deer’s, but I keep my shoulders back and my chin up.
The booth is discreetly tucked into a far corner. Perfect for conversations that aren’t meant to be overheard. I can’t imagine whoever I’m meeting would want to be overheard, anyway.
I sit. My hands are cold, so I clasp them together under the table and inhale slowly through my nose.
You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.
A server appears almost instantly. “Good evening, Miss. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Yes,” I say, too fast. “A stramo—” My voice catches. “A mawb—”
Jesus Christ.
“Strawberry mojito,” I finish, mortified.
The server doesn’t blink. She smiles politely even though I just made a complete fool out of myself. “Certainly. I’ll be back.”
I nod like that didn’t just happen and stare at the table until she leaves.
Get it together.
People drift in and out of my peripheral vision.
Suits. Dresses. Laughter. Every time the door opens, my pulse jumps a little.
And then the doors open again, and my gaze lifts instinctively.
The first man who walks in looks like pure violence in human form.
Short, messy black hair. Dark eyes that seem depthless.
His jaw is sharp and menacing, and when his hands come into view, I see tattoos crawling over his knuckles and disappearing beneath his sleeves.
My stomach drops.
Another man follows him inside. Cleaner cut. Tousled black hair. And blue eyes cutting straight through the room. Both are in sleek black suits. I forget how to breathe.
The dark-eyed man notices me first. His gaze locks on, and he doesn’t hesitate.
He starts walking toward my table. Every nerve in my body is screaming.
The two of them slide into the booth across from me so casually that it terrifies me.
These are men who have likely killed people before. Just like Jude has, I suppose.
They are close enough that I can smell their cologne. Whatever it is, it is definitely expensive. Dark eyes tilts his head, studying my face. “Emma?” he asks.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
He watches me for a beat longer, then gives a small smile. He’s handsome, but intense. “I’m Nico.” He reaches out his hand. Tattooed and scarred.
Yeah, he’s definitely killed people with these hands.
I shake it. My fingers feel too light in his grip. “Hi,” I manage.
Then I turn to the second man. Up close, he’s devastating. Beautiful in a way that doesn’t even seem real. His eyes are so blue that they’re like ice. And they’re absolutely lethal. When he smiles, a single dimple appears in his right cheek—and it somehow makes him more dangerous, not less.
He also extends his hand. I notice the wedding band instantly, as well as what looks to be scarred, bruised knuckles. “Hello, Emma,” he says smoothly. “I’m Rafe Vaughan.”