Page 63 of Dust Storm

Oh, he was asking for it today.

“Mike is my boss now.”

Tripp scoffed. “And here I was, thinking you’d be happy to talk to me.”

I clawed the lacquered wood desk. “Why do you think I would be happy with you right now? You left me here because you couldn’t be uncomfortable for a few hours.”

He barely held back an eye roll. “It’s not my fault you are where you are.”

“No, it’s hers.”

As if on cue, Lillian Monroe—with the teased blonde hair she fried every month to hide her gray and brunette roots—appeared behind him like a bad omen.

“Ca-ssand-ra,” Tripp hissed, enunciating every fucking syllable. “That is a client you’re speaking about.”

Lillian’s pixelated smile was patronizing and malefic. “Hello, Cassandra. You look… unwell. Been skipping the med spa, have you?”

I was a month overdue for a facial and it was all her fault.

I took a deep breath and tamped down my vitriol. “Lillian, if you could give Tripp and me a few minutes of privacy, that would be lovely.”

But Lillian wasn’t paying attention to me. She sat beside Tripp and snuggled up to him. “I thought you said she left the Carrington Group,” she murmured as she fingered the point of his pressed collar. The corner of her mouth curved in a sickled smile. “You’ve got a little something?—”

Red.

All I saw was red.

Red like the empty bottle of merlot between them.

Red like the scarlet lipstick on his collar.

Red like the crimson bite mark on his neck.

Red like the flames of rage that consumed me like a wildfire.

Red like the flags I should have seen.

Red like the blood I was out for.

14

CHRISTIAN

“Go up and get ready for bed,” I said when I parked the truck in front of the house.

Gracie and Bree, with bellies full from a legendary meal at my momma’s house, lumbered out of the backseat.

I followed them up, pausing when I heard an extra creak in the wood slats. The porch light was on, but that wasn’t unusual.

The trail of melted ice cream was.

I told them I’d be up in a minute, then waited until the girls were out of earshot before rounding the corner.

Cassandra sat on the porch swing, staring out into the pasture. Mint chocolate chip ice cream had melted out of the bottom seam of the carton and ran in a rivulet down the wood planks.

I’d have to hose it off or we’d have a hoard of fire ants taking up residence on the porch.

Lucky for me, Mickey seemed to be taking care of it just fine. He was lying against the house, lapping at the ice cream.

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