7. Adeline
Adeline
How does one kill their fake boyfriend?
My eyes burn, air pollution and the constant threat of tears wreaking havoc on them.
I shoulder my way through a busy crosswalk, pulling my bag closer.
Class just released, but instead of worrying about homework and upcoming essays, I’m freaking the fuck out over a dead bodyguard and Ciaran O’Connell.
You’re going to be okay, Adeline. You always think of something.
I’m the planner. The one who can pivot if something isn’t going right and make it work.
Except every time I think about this past weekend, I’m engulfed in a giant pit of flames.
I’m going to hell because it’s not even the dead guy making my skin heat. Ciaran’s brown eyes running over my naked body sends a flare of warmth to my belly every time the memory pops up.
The memory that annoyingly will not go away. Just like Ciaran himself.
Think, Adeline!
I dodge past a group of tourists while trying to come up with a solution.
My battle is on two fronts.
One is Ciaran bulldozing in and trying to claim me. The bigger issue by far, though, is the idea that Jack somehow got information out of me.
Learning to keep your mouth shut is growing up in the Bratva 101. Unknowingly giving something away claws at me from the inside. This is my fault. I fucked something up, and worse, I have no idea how or when.
Now every time I close my eyes, I’m faced with Jack, his hand digging under my dress, trying to worm his fingers into my pussy.
I pause right outside a grocery store, hugging the wall as I take a deep breath. No wonder I keep thinking about Ciaran. His hands were reverent in comparison as they trailed across my skin.
I square my shoulders, rolling my neck. Whatever he may think, I’m not opening my legs for him anytime soon.
I’ll get rid of him. Just like I’ll get rid of Wallen, the arms dealer.
Pulling out my phone, I search his name on the internet. Other than the soirees I help Mom with, I rarely come into contact with Dad’s business associates. There’s no image online, not even a profile.
I didn’t think he’d have a LinkedIn page, but there’s got to be something, right?
A message appears, my belly dipping.
Ciaran: Stop Googling his name.
The asshole won’t stop texting me.
I crawled into his bed on Friday night. At first he settled beside me, but he moved at one point. I’d closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep. I don’t want to think about how all the survival skills trained into me mysteriously disappeared. He’d slid handcuffs over my wrist, locking me to the bed.
Then he left the apartment.
Flashes of all the bad shit you see on the evening news flew through me. Surely, at some point my family would have to save me from the Irish psycho.
He came back hours later, creeping into the bedroom and sliding under the covers again.
“Where’d you go?” I mumbled.
“Got rid of the body.” He settled on his back, his voice sleepy. It would have been cute if I wasn’t chained to the fucking bed.
I watched him sleep for five minutes before slapping his chest.
His long lashes fluttered open, the scowl instant.
“Let me go!”
He closed his eyes again.
“I’m serious.” I didn’t even try to hide the panic. The girlish plea. I wasn’t asking to go home. I’d settle for my dorm room, where I could curl up under the covers and never complain about my roommates again.
“I have to go.” When he didn’t reply, I changed tactics. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
A deep breath left him.
“Do you want me to piss in your bed?” Jesus, what the fuck are the Irish into? The metal of the handcuff rattled against the bedframe as I tugged at my restraints.
“You are used to having everything handed to you on a silver platter,” he said, eyes closed. “Unfortunately, that is not the case anymore. If you can sit there quietly for five more minutes, I’ll consider letting you get out of the bed.”
“Do you normally have to trap women? Are you that shit in bed?”
His hand cupped my cheek. “You’ve been given everything in the world, Adeline Marie, but where did that get you last night? Alone, almost raped and murdered.”
His breath skittered across my skin, his face hovered so close. His thumb moved across my cheek. “You think being wild is being independent. That being a bad girl makes you tough. You need to learn to listen and to be patient.”
“And what? You’ll be the guy who teaches me that?”
His thumb stroked my cheek again before he lowered back on the mattress. I sank into the pillows as best I could, hating life.
Five minutes later he unlocked the handcuffs. I scampered to the bathroom, yelping when I realized he’d followed me.
“A little privacy!”
He didn’t even look my way as he turned on the shower. It was when he was leaving that I noticed the dark circles under his eyes.
What would you have done if he hadn’t saved you last night?
I decided I could be grateful and pissed at the same time. I did need his help the night before, but it didn’t mean I should be bound to him forever.
He came back with a large T-shirt and sweatpants. “I threw your dress away.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, soap suds sliding down my body. “That’s Valentino!”
“It had blood on it.”
“That was fucking Valentino!” And I damn well know he checked my ass out in it when we walked up the five flights of stairs to get to this crappy apartment.
He dropped me off at the dorms. I got out before he could say anything, slamming the car door. I didn’t care what he ended up doing with Jack’s fleet car. I rushed into the dorms, high heels in one hand.
I used my iPad to message my mom about losing my phone. A replacement showed up that afternoon.
When I turned it on for the first time, messages from an unknown number popped up. Except I knew exactly who they were from.
Unknown Number: Don’t worry, you can keep my T-shirt.
Unknown Number: Unless you’d like to return it. Bring it over tonight.
Adeline: You’re a bit fucking clingy.
Ciaran: And you’re not very appreciative, princess
So began a string of messages. Like right now when I’m clearly in the middle of trying to work out what the fuck Wallen wants with my family.
I ignore his message, trying a new search. What the fuck was Jack’s last name?
Ciaran: Stop.
Ciaran: Go study.
Leave me the fuck alone, I want to shout.
Adeline Akatov does not need help. I do not need help.
I do, however, already need a new phone because why the fuck does Ciaran know what I’m up to?
Adeline: Did you hack my phone?
It’s stupid how long I took to put that together. He’s been calling me by my middle name for days.
I open random apps, like I’m going through drawers, looking for clues. My heart stops when I see a new calendar event for tomorrow.
Lunch with Ciaran.
Adeline: I’m not going to lunch with you!
Ciaran: Sure you are.
Adeline: I don’t even know you!
Ciaran: Good thing we’ve got a date tomorrow.
I stuff my phone in my pocket, trudging back to my dorm. At least he hasn’t asked for any nudes yet, like all the other men who message me.
Seeing Ciaran again is like being greeted by the daylight once more. This isn’t a dream. I didn’t wake up from a nightmare.
This—whatever it is—is still happening.
I take the opportunity to really study him.
There’s all the stuff I noticed before—broad shoulders, thick brown hair, a beard, and his warm brown eyes.
There’s also a tiny scar above his right eye. The leather strap of his watch isn’t polished. He taps his thumb against the table when he’s in thought.
I like the accent, I’ll give him that. Not that he’s talked much even though we’ve been sitting at this table for roughly fifteen minutes.
The boutique bistro is Nat’s favorite, but we’re here so early the place is sparse. There are two women who look like they’ve just finished a session of private tennis lessons. There’s an old couple who appear to be regulars.
The navy suit Ciaran wears fits him well, but something is off.
I saw the Irish at Mom and Dad’s party. They drank easily.
Laughed and joked. This upscale restaurant is meant for people like Nat.
Middle-aged women who read the Economist for fun.
Rich stay-at-home moms who are grabbing lunch with their friends.
Hell, I’m sure if I asked the old couple across the room whose idea it was to come here for lunch, it’d turn out to be the wife’s.
Ciaran is trying too hard, but I have no idea why. He’s not bothered to look at me other than a kiss on the cheek when I spotted him right outside the restaurant.
“How old are you?” I ask.
He blinks, remembering that I am in fact sitting across from him. “Twenty-two.”
“Why are you in America? How long have you been here?”
“Since the day of the party your parents threw.”
“Since—” I choke on my water. He’s only been in the US for a couple of weeks and somehow already managed to fuck up my life?
“Any more questions?” he asks.
“Are you gay?”
He smirks. “Do you think I’m gay?”
He’d spread my thighs open and licked his lips when he eyed my cunt. I thought I’d die, flames flickered along my skin, and he’d barely touched me.
I toss hair off my sticky neck. “I think you’ve been staring at that guy over there for the past ten minutes.”
Some older businessman in a suit. He’s at a table alone, the staff treating him like a regular. He’s been on his phone most of the time. The bistro is a fancy spot to be working remote.
“Who is he?” I ask.
The waiter appears before Ciaran can answer. He orders the cheapest thing on the menu.
“The chicken Caesar salad, dressing on the side.” I hand over my menu. “And a bottle of Caymus Cabernet. The fiftieth anniversary.”
Ciaran’s scowling before I even finish.
“Isn’t the drinking age twenty-one?” he asks when the waiter bows his head and leaves.
As if this place would bother to card me. My family has spent so much money here.
“What?” I ask, shrugging. “You don’t want to treat your girlfriend right?”
“That’s a four hundred dollar bottle of wine,” he growls.
“Oh, sorry, did you want to go and share it with that guy over there?” I cross my arms and lean back. I’ve got a quiz I could be studying for.