Page 35 of White Rabbit

There’s a small cough, and a male voice calls, “Officer Bishop?”

“Yes, Officer Fox?” I lean back through the door to find him standing there with concern written all over his face. There’s a pink tinge to his cheeks as watches me cautiously.

He frowns as his gaze lands on my neck. “Is everything okay in there?”

I offer him a small smile, feeling Creed's fingers moving up my spine. “Yes, we’re just looking for a palette, but the inmate seems to have found it.”

After a few moments, he nods and returns to his place at the front of the room. Foxx had been less flirty recently, but he still watched me like a hawk.

Turning back to the man staring at me with a wolfish grin, like some neanderthal who’s staked his claim on a mammoth, I roll my eyes.

“There’s a diner called SixTen downtown in Newtown. Go in and ask for Rosie.” He kisses the tip of my nose as he squeezes past me. “If she’s not there, she’ll be in the Eat Me diner in Port Ellesmere.”

“If you’re sending me out for your lunch order, I am going to be seriously pissed,” I warn, as he strokes my cheek.

He surprises me by throwing his head back and laughing. Creed looks almost beautiful when he laughs, his ink flexing and moving with his body as his face relaxes. It’s not a typical beauty, it’s more raw than that. It’s like looking out at jagged mountain ranges, seeing the danger, with the deep ravines and wild animals, and still appreciating the breathlessness of it all.

“She’ll have something for you. Whatever you do, don’t look inside, just bring it to me.” His face is serious now as he tucks a strand of hair back behind my ear. Honesty is a strange value for someone in the mafia to have, but Elijah is a paradox wrapped in sin. “Can you do that?”

I nod without even thinking. Reaching behind him, I grab the supplies he stashed there earlier and thrust them at his chest. It would be suspicious if he left the closet without the items he’d come in here for.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Creed promises with a wink as he leaves alone to consider what I’ve just agreed to. How the heck was I going to smuggle whatever it was into prison?

Taking a few moments to calm my racing heart and straighten out my clothes, I realize I can’t find my underwear anywhere. Where the hell were they? After getting down on my knees to look under the shelves, I finally gave up. With a sigh, I re-entered the classroom and walk around, checking on the other inmates’ progress.

Elijah doesn’t even look at me, focused intently on his painting with such concentration that I almost don’t want him to notice me. Watching him lose himself in whatever it is he’s working on unlocks something in me.

It isn’t until he moves to wipe his forehead that I notice something black wrapped around his wrist. His dark gaze locks with mine, and he smirks. That fucker.

Laying in bed later that evening, I try to process the rabbit hole I’ve gone down. What was it about Elijah Creed? Why was I willing to throw away everything for him? Lust? It must be something more than that. I can’t be that shallow…can I?

Okay, so he gave me the best orgasm I’ve had in a long time, but I’m not an idiot. He was sinking his claws into me, luring me with pleasure. How he took what he wanted, biting and marking me while driving me wild. That wasn't like anything I’d ever experienced before. He’d been staking his claim on me, letting me know who was the boss, but he was sorely mistaken if he thought I was going to be a passive player in this game.

Why did everyone try to push me into that role? First my father, then my brother, and now Creed? No. It wasn’t going to work like that.

I’d been forced to keep my mouth shut tonight at Thursday night dinner. Andrew had graced us with his presence, but he barely glanced my way all night and my father was in a foul mood once again. Keeping a close eye on the clock, I’d spent most of the night wishing time would move faster. I wanted to be anywhere else, while my father chastised me for drinking too much at the charity auction and made snide comments about how I’d been seen ‘cavorting’ out by the pool. Taking his harsh words, I’d simply nodded and bitten my tongue until it was time to leave. I wasn’t going to keep tasting blood and holding back my words.

My phone lights up, letting me know I’ve got a message. Another of my paintings had sold for an obscene price. Since the night of the charity auction, my pieces were being snapped up by silly socialites trying to jump on the next best thing.

The email from Camille, the gallery curator, says that this buyer had already purchased two of my canvases and instructed Camille to let them know when anything new comes in. It was strange to think there was a demand for my art right now. My mother should have been here to witness this.

On the off chance, I try calling Chad, but it rings once and goes dead. It had been the same when I tried this morning, which means he really was ghosting me. He must have listened to my voicemail if he had now blocked my number. I’d sent his three sad little boxes over via courier yesterday, and security had signed for them, so they were no longer my problem. There was still a strange hollowness in my chest when I thought about him, about how everything ended. It was so strange, and easier than I expected the end of our relationship to be. Turning the lights out, I try to sleep and stop picking at the scab of my failed relationship.

After work the next day, it takes me a while to find the diner, as it’s tucked away down a side street. SixTen is like walking in some strange 1950s fever dream. The staff are wearing swing dresses or shirts with bow ties, and the decor is like something from a movie set. Red pleather booths line one wall, while the counter has retro stools. The black and white tile floor contrasts with the fire engine red walls, decorated with pictures of famous actors and actresses of the era. One wall is covered completely in vinyl records. I recognize some names, but not many, which makes me think they’re authentic.

Finishing my shift, I’d changed out of my uniform into a pair of jeans, converse and a black jumper. Something comfortable and unlikely to get me singled out. If I thought it would make me look less conspicuous, I might have even added a hat and some sun glasses…except, it was dark. And wearing a hat indoors was strange.

Walking up to the counter with courage I don’t really feel, I ask the man behind the counter for Rosie. What I don’t expect is for Rosie to be a familiar beautiful, buxom blonde with big blue eyes and a wide smile.

Was this a trick? What was her relationship with Creed?

“Bishop!” she cries as she throws back the counter and pulls me into a hug. The scent of sugar and cherries cling to her, as if she’s been elbow deep in a pie.

“I told you I’d see you soon,” she teases, standing back with her hands firmly on her hips. She’s wearing a little red dress, with a white frilly apron and a heart-shaped pocket. Red six-inch heels complete the look. There’s no way she stood behind a bakery counter all day in those shoes.

“Ro? I thought…I thought that stood for Rosalyn?” After the auction, I’d searched online for Rosalyn and the Lutwidge Trust, learning that Rosalyn Gambino and her husband, lawyer and billionaire Julian Asaro, were on the board of trustees.

They were a picture-perfect couple, owning businesses in Newtown, Port Ellesmere and were planning to expand into Silvercrest and East Point. They donated to charities across the city and had even recently given a donation to Ogmore Grange for new furniture.

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