Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84901 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
And I caught every bit of her shouting on video.
Lachlan opened the door—clean shirt, no blood on his face. Fatigue still there. The second he saw them, his mouth tensed.
Confused. Annoyed. He seemed to offer her a sharp retort. Tried to wave her off.
The girl giggled and swooped her arms around the back of his neck, coming in hot. The angle of my camera pivoted to cut his face from view. The footage would show her and his inked-sleeved arms. The paparazzi couldn’t deny that.
Natasha either.
I tapped the button to end the recording just before her lips locked onto him because she was stumbling back. He’d pushed her away. Needed to cut another second off the tail end of the video. No biggie.
It didn’t have to be true. It just had to look bad, especially for a father who’d take one scandal as an excuse to eliminate Lachlan. Vassili, you will do my job if our naive girl doesn’t break up with him.
I clicked open my contacts and hovered over her number.
No.
The pictures had to circulate. They couldn’t come from me.
I’d leak them to the best outlets in LA. Grab a couple of dollars. Then I’d call her. Play the concerned soldier. The old friend. The one who saw the real Lachlan. Unfaithful. And hopefully … unworthy of her.
22
LACHLAN
Montana and I had returned to the Airbnb, dirt-smudged and tired to the bone from digging graves in heat-baked soil, wordless. He’d gone his way. I’d gone mine. I showered, scrubbed blood and desert sand off my skin. My mind looped the fight. When I strolled downstairs to the kitchen, I didn’t know what I was after. Water? Because the dinner we never had bubbled my stomach.
When I saw the box of empty black lawn bags on the tile floor—the same ones we’d used to wrap the bodies—I froze. My bubbling stomach flopped. Turned over. I’d stashed those under the sink. Had I forgotten to shove them farther inside? Or was I just seeing them again everywhere now?
I couldn’t remember.
Not that it mattered.
At some point, Montana had grunted his way onto the stool beside me at the island and popped open two beers. One for him. One for me. He didn’t speak, just slid the bottle across the counter.
Bubbles climbed the deep amber liquid, turning into foam. Cold. Comforting. I should take a pull. Couldn’t lift the bottle.
My mind remained in the desert, in the dust, under the stars where I’d left two bodies. The second man had been unconscious before the third ghost vanished like smoke. You killed a man, Lach.
The first died when he hit his head. The second? My hands trembled as I lifted the bottle. I managed one shallow sip, but the liquid coated my tongue like guilt. A loud snap echoed in my mind. Before cracking his neck, I’d asked him questions while Montana held him down. He’d claimed not to know anything. I didn’t believe him.
Frustration flared.
And I reacted.
Too fast.
Too hard.
Too final. The MacKenzie way.
Montana’s voice cut through the haze. “Lach?”
I muttered, tone low, hoarse. “The third one was trained.”
“Bruh, I get that.” He roughed a hand over his face.
In one blink, I saw the dirt again. I closed my eyes hard. Opened them.
“We gotta figure this out, bruh.”
“I know. Guy Two. He didn’t have an accent.” I finally took a swig of beer.
“Russian accent?” Montana asked.
Nodding, I dragged a hand through my damp fauxhawk, jaw clenched. “You think Natasha’s father wants me dead, that bad?”
Montana frowned. Until now, he’d made it clear where he stood on the half-a-million-dollar rock. My promise to Natasha. The bawbag was never serious. Cocky? Aye. Funny? Given the circumstances, nae. But now there was a weight to his voice. “Did the soldier speak?”
I opened my mouth, ready to tell him no, that the bastard had saluted me, when my phone lit up on the counter. A soft buzz. Natasha.
Picking up my beer, I muttered, “Noooo.” Exhaled so hard the glass bottle whistled.
She’d called when we were in the middle of nowhere, dumping the bodies. I couldn’t take it then. Couldn’t fake normal. I had texted five words:
Don’t come tomorrow. Explain later.
Man, that sounded like a brush-off.
The phone had vibrated when I’d dropped it into my pocket and returned to digging. One ping, then a second. Never got around to checking it. Just took my shower, washed off the blood. A coward.
Now, a third message came in. The screen glowed.
“You better answer that girl.”
“I know,” I groused. I reached for it and clicked into our correspondence to start from the top.
NATASHA: So don’t come tomorrow? K. Can’t wait for your explanation.
Her tone sounded strained. Disappointed. Or confused? Then the next message from earlier landed a harder blow.
NATASHA: Then I’ll grovel about Greece, Lach. I’m texting Nan for a Dundee cake recipe. She’s gonna want something in return. Like baby pictures of me. Consider that every time your coach digs into you because of Greece.