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)
That first text wasn’t sarcasm. She was concerned. The second? Regret. Sympathy. An apology in which she took the blame and friggen offered to bake my favorite Scottish Dundee cake.
Natasha Resnova was too good for me. How had I forgotten the lassie was more than my weakness? She was my best friend. All those smaller moments in the beginning? Then almost two years of craving her, falling madly for her. She didn’t push. Manipulate. She just showed up for me. And this night made me forget our bond?
The third message—sent a minute ago—hit while I reeled over misjudging her first text.
NATASHA: Going to sleep now. And yes, I sent her an embarrassing picture of me toeing my first birthday cake. Wish I didn’t feel so guilty. But whatever it is, I love you, Lach.
My breath caught.
I wanted to tell her.
Had already planned to.
But not with some half-sarcastic Did yer da try to off me? layered with my thickest brogue to soften the blow.
No. Not that.
Forget pointing fingers. I’d state the facts.
Three men came for me. Two were dead. A third, trained. Efficient. Silent.
I picked up the phone, ready to type out something—something real, something tender. But my fingers didn’t move because I felt awful deep down for killing a man, killing in frustration. That wasn’t me. That was Little Brody. Camdyn. Jamie … in some instances, before he became a Marine.
Not me.
I was Lachlan MacKenzie. Boy Five. Not particularly funny—unless I had to go toe-to-toe with my mate, Montana, but I charmed millions. Made others crush empty beer cans to their heads as they slapped their hands to make their Dodger-painted bellies quiver like Jello shots.
Boy Five was cool. Loved by kids and adults. I just needed to move my fingers and assure her of my love and that we’d hash out this situation.
Later.
Montana leaned forward, watching me. “Brah … looks like you’ve seen a ghost. You honestly think her dad—”
Ding-Dong.
The doorbell sliced through the moment. We both turned to the sound. This was the part that scared grown men. Even Serial killers. Someone … finding out.
My eyes flicked to the iron wall clock. 1:47 a.m.
I groaned and pushed off the stool. “Who the hell is that?”
Montana raised both hands. “No clue, man.”
I rushed toward the door in my flannel pajama pants. The sharp banging caused me to skip the hoodie. Whoever it was, they wanted attention. Noise, chaos. Didn’t need the cops around here tonight.
I yanked open the door.
And that was when a woman launched herself into my arms.
The brunette reeked of perfume and desperation. Her arms looped around my neck, and her mouth crashed.
I caught a flash of light.
Click.
A camera.
Somewhere in the shadows.
Crap.
I’d been set up.
Again.
By Vassili.
23
NATASHA
I’d watch the funniest spoofs on gangster movies where the mafia dad wanted to protect their daughter from the bad boy. But when the laughter ended, I still lived in this life.
In my world, if Pop asked, Hey, should I pop this guy for you?, it wouldn’t be a joke. It wouldn’t be cute. It would be deadly.
And this? This was a catch-22. Lachlan owned my heart before he knew my name. The moment his eyes caught mine at Jamie and Jordyn’s wedding, I knew I’d never be the same.
But more frightening than this dilemma? Pop hadn’t mentioned the short video clip. The photos of Lachlan and some random Latina, embracing at his front door in the dead of night.
A booty call.
A hook up.
A betrayal.
And me?
I was the punchline.
Because the paparazzi didn’t stop at one clip. No. They stitched the images of his late-night visitor beside every soft, romantic photo Lachlan and I had taken in Greece. Every kiss. Every smile. Every moment that once made me feel safe, treasured … loved.
How had they gotten those pictures?
The screen flashed as my alarm blared, a reminder of my therapy appointment in an hour. Didn’t need the alarm. A pitiful laugh clawed my throat. I glanced around the peaceful, nature-themed waiting room. Light green walls. A stone facade with water trickling down. I’d arrived over an hour early.
But the ambiance didn’t touch the grief scraping in my chest. Not the green walls. Not the gentle bubbling of the water feature. Not the scent of lemongrass and eucalyptus pulsing from the corner diffuser.
Grief didn’t care how peaceful the room appeared. Sorrow wrapped around my ribcage like a wire, digging deeper with every breath. My limbs were heavy. My face, hot. I drowned in my own body while Beverly Hills moved on outside this stupid room with its fake river and throw pillows.
I blinked. A tear escaped.
Then another.
Some life moments caused a heart to crack.
This wasn’t that.
Someone reached into my chest with a fist, ripping out my heart, and showing it to me still beating—before throwing it onto the dirt and stepping on it.
I clutched the phone without meaning to. Like I needed answers from the man I loved. He was everywhere. In my hands. My memories. My blood.