Page 92 of Vicious Little Games

“Y-yes.”

“And your little bitty dick and Lowell’s couldn’t handle being taken down by a woman, so you went after her together, while she was alone?”

“She was always rubbing up on us, acting like a slutty cocktease. We didn’t know it was the first time, I swear! Cass loves sucking cock. She gets off on it–”

I don’t bother looking away this time, even knowing the mess that killing him at such close range will make.

It takes longer than the first time for my ears to stop ringing, for sound to return.

“You good?” August asks me. “Cole, are you good?”

“I’m just fucking great,” I lie.

I’m no better than these men who took what they wanted from Cass. They used her, like I did when I blackmailed her in the goddamn pantry.

This dead asshole called her a cocktease, like I’ve done so many times.

Just because she rolled around on a mat with them, kicking their asses and taunting them, doesn’t mean she wanted what they did to her.

I hope…no, I pray that I’m wrong. Because if Cass didn’t want to give me that blowjob and I manipulated her into doing it, I’ll probably put this gun to my own head.

“Cole?” Mike says, snapping me out of those dark thoughts. “We should start cleaning up.”

“Yeah, we should,” I agree as I climb off the dead man, wearing his blood and brains. “But I don’t have a fucking clue where to start.”

29

Cass

Pizza and three hours of laughs at a comedy show with five headliners was exactly what I needed.

Alistair’s company was nice too, even if all we’ll ever be is friends.

I wonder if he would marry me if I told him he could have all the mistresses he wanted.

That wouldn’t be fair to him, though.

The PI is a nice guy who deserves to find a nice woman to worship.

Even though I’ve made it clear there’s nothing but friendship between us, I can’t help but wonder if I’m still somehow leading him on.

I need to stop seeing him and move on. The clock is ticking after all.

It’s nearly one a.m. by the time I get home.

Daddy wasn’t even waiting up for me this time. He just sent a message saying that security had told him I was back home and asking if I had fun. I sent him a quick yes and goodnight message on the way up the stairs.

I stop momentarily at the second floor. But trying to make Cole jealous by busting into his room and waking him up would be silly and immature.

It’s best if he starts seeing someone else, even if it is that Russian bitch and I want to claw the eyeballs out of her skull.

Heading up to my bedroom, I walk in and flip on the lights, then barely hold in my scream of surprise.

Cole isn’t asleep downstairs in his bed. No, he’s sitting on the edge of my bed in jeans and a stained tee with ketchup or wine splattered all over it. He’s facing me, waiting for me, and his eyes are all…wrong.

There’s no jealousy, lust, or humor in them when they lift to mine, which is unusual. It’s usually one of those three things.

Tonight, though, I have no idea what is going on in his head. All I know is that I don’t like it, and I want him to go back to one of the other three emotions instead.

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