Page 29 of Fool's Gold

I’m pooped. Every part of me hurts, and honestly, the leather seats look comfortable enough to sleep on. Instead of arguing, because I know exactly who sent the driver, I let him hustle me inside.

“For now,” I clarify.

The driver nods, shutting the door, and soon we’re peeling out of the lot. I’ve got my phone out in an instant, but there isn’t a single damn text from Marcus telling me to expect a chauffeur.

I throw the cell back in my purse with a growl, my stomach taking up the thread and adding its voice too.

My knee bobs the entire drive back to the apartment. Not home. It will never be home, but the sight of the doorman is a welcome comfort. I pause at the door with the man at my front and the driver at my back, both of them stuck in place and their smiles pinned like they’re nothing but marionettes with someone else pulling the strings.

My stomach grumbles again.

Okay, it’s not that I’m unappreciative of what Marcus did, I realize.

Greg was getting handsy when he didn’t need to be, and he took advantage of a situation. Which is unlike him, but I’m getting off topic. Marcus defended me when I deserved to have someone defend me.

Great, thanks.

I nibble my lower lip, my gut twisting. Defending me is one thing, but he had no right to get violent about it and go way beyond what he needed to do. A heated talk would have probably done the trick. Instead, he beat the shit out of Greg and jeopardized the entire picture and my reputation along with it.

“Miss Stone?” The driver politely says my name to get me to move, but I’m not budging. “We’ve arrived.”

Marcus is no stranger to violence. I’ve known it for a long time, even before I had the words to put to him. He’s always kinda been the dangerous type, and after a while, the fascination with that side of him shifted from curiosity to arousal.

It stayed there for the longest time.

I’m still aroused by his nature, the black cloud of him, how easily he maneuvers in what other people classify as the dark side of things. It’s like watching all those serial killer documentaries. You find it interesting, and you can’t stop watching, but you don’t want to be a part of the story.

Except I’m a part of the story now.

I watched Marcus shoot a man to death right in front of me, without hesitation.

Finally, the protests in my stomach are too loud for me to ignore, and I allow the two men to escort me to the elevator. The doorman presses the button to the apartment and tips his head again.

“I really didn’t need an escort,” I murmur to the driver.

Stoic, dark eyed and dark skinned, he stares straight ahead like he’s carved from onyx. “Mr. Ortega gave strict instructions not to leave you alone.”

“Do you always do what your employers tell you to?” And do I not count?

He glances down at me with a single swoop of his eyes before returning to the stoic visage of the perfect employee.

Great. I’ll never be able to do anything on my own again. There’s always going to be someone sniffing around my ass on his orders.

Once the doors ding open, I thank the driver, but he escorts me to the front door. Shit, I don’t have a key.

I’m still feet away when the door flies open and a ruddy-faced Marcus stares the two of us down.

“Thank you,” I call back to the driver.

Silently, the two of them wait for me to cross the threshold before Marcus slams the door shut. The air crackles with tension, going hot and then cold. The same chill lodges itself at the base of my spine and turns my tongue numb. My fingers flex at my side.

“I hope you ordered food.” Crap, of course I’m the first one to break the silence on my way to the kitchen. “I’m starving.”

“They didn’t feed you on set?”

I wince at the sharpness of those tones and the barbs in every syllable. Okay. He’s still furious.

“Don’t take your shitty mood out on me.” I let my bag drop to the floor and lift a hand to rub the ache in my shoulder. I’m still in full hair and makeup, although I’m wearing my own clothes. “There wasn’t enough time to eat even though there were snacks.”

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