Page 68 of It's Not All Fake

“I’m sure your debt collectors would love to know where you are,” I threaten, knowing full well I’ve upped the stakes.

He’s screwed over a lot of people who trusted him, and eventually, the shitstorm he created will catch up with him. But maybe I can speed up the process with a helpful tip. Lucas knows they were reaching out to me constantly, questioning me for his whereabouts, and I could easily reach back out to them.

His eyes turn black with rage as he glares at me.

“You’d really sell me out?” he says in disbelief.

“What do you think you’re doing to me?” I retort, exasperated. He’s about to expose all my client information for fuck’s sake. I know it’s him.

Lucas glares at me with hatred.

“Give my files back by tomorrow and walk away,” I demand.

He clenches his jaw as he dusts the salt off his hands. The way he is looking at me is murderous. I’ve never seen him like this. He stands up straight and something flips. I’ve lost the advantage somehow and my heart begins to race with fear.

“Chloe, you ungrateful bitch,” he seethes as he slowly approaches me. Instinctively, I recoil, pressing my back up against the door.

Oh fuck. I never should have let him in. I slide closer to the doorknob, ready to escape.

“You’re not in control here,” he hisses. “Those contacts are on your phone, right? Let me see,” he demands, extending his hand as he moves closer.

“Stop. I’ll call the police,” I warn, fear making my voice quiver.

“Police?” He scoffs, irate now. He gets in my face, and the smell of alcohol on his breath overwhelms me.

He leans over me. “You’re fucking some billionaire, and you still won’t pay what you owe me?” He’s incredulous and only escalating.

Panic sets in as I press myself against the door, searching for a way out. My hand finally finds the doorknob, but as I try to throw it open Lucas slams his palm against the door, holding it closed.

“Stop!" I scream and duck under his arm to get away from him. I flee towards the living room, frantically pulling out my phone and dialing 911. I try to make it further, to the bathroom with a locked door.

But Lucas is faster than me, grabbing at the phone in my hand. I clutch onto it for dear life as I hear it ring, then connect.

“911, what’s your?—”

I start shouting my address, but Lucas rips the phone from my grip and shoves me—hard.

I stumble backward—the coffee table intercepts me, the edge hitting my face.

Pain blossoms.

And it’s all I feel.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

LIAM

The bonfire roars, flames leaping even higher than my head.

Marshmallows are already being passed around, skewered on long sticks. Groovy indie-fusion music plays in the background, some playlist that evokes summertime vibes.

As I approach the beach party, feeling the cool sand between my toes with my loafers in hand, my eyes scan the crowd for her.

A dozen people gather around the bonfire near lifeguard tower 56 at Dockweiler Beach, but Chloe is nowhere in sight.

“You lost?” a husky voice asks. I turn to see a stocky guy beside the fire, his gaze curious.

I probably look too formal in my button-down shirt when everyone else is in bathing suits and t-shirts.

---