Page 204 of Bona Fide

? When the Party’s Over — Our Last Night ?

He’s gone.I don’t know what time he left, but the cold was the first thing I noticed when my eyes fluttered open and I reached for him. My hand hit suede, and my whole mood took a shit for the rest of the day. And it didn’t get any better.

Marty: Can’t talk now, Tsarina.

Mila: Business is fine, stop worrying.

Sadie: New York is alright but we got everything handled. Some man was looking for you though.

That gets my full attention.

Me: Who?

Sadie: Didn’t say. Two other guys showed up in suits and kinda ran him off.

I don’t respond to her, going into my settings and unblocking Wade’s number to text him. I have a gut-wrenching feeling that it has something to do with Demi, and I don’t feel safe here anymore.

Me: Wade, someone was at my office in New York.

Wade: I know. I got it handled.

My jaw locks at his nonchalant attitude. This is the problem with texting, no emotion behind it, so I don’t know how he’s saying it in his head or how he’s feeling about it.

Me: Were those your men who drove him off?

Wade: Yes.

I want to ask him if he’s at the White House, but I know the answer to that already. I want to chastise him for leaving without waking me up and not saying goodbye, but it’s not in my nature to feel so needy, and I don’t like how it muddles my every emotion.

Tossing the phone along the seat cushions of the couch, I rise, about to walk into the kitchen for a glass of water when a cold voice commands me to halt.

“Sit down.” I whip around and stagger backward.

My calves hit the small coffee table behind me and everything shuts down. I can’t breathe, blink, swallow—all I can do is just stare down the barrel of a gun that’s pointed straight at me.

“Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument as he motions with his weapon for me to hurry up.

Yeah, no.

Mentally, I measure out the distance from here to the sliding door that leads to the backyard.

It’s too far away, where the fuck is everyone?

Oh, shit, Mama.

I haven’t heard her moving around yet, didn’t bother to look at the time on my phone.

The man lifts his gun and shoots over my head, stunning me to react and sit at his demand. He’s warning me to not fuck around—point made.

I try not to study his features, but I do, it’s morbid, examining the last thing you’re going to see before you’re shot to death. He can’t be older than twenty-five, short dirty blonde hair, and his eyes are dark, filled with anger as though I just pissed in his Cheerios this morning.

His fingers flex around the handle of the gun as he aims it back at my body; pondering, hesitating—I don’t know because his face expresses nothing but narrowed eyes and a deep frown.

Mama.

I don’t want her to find my dead body in a pool of blood. I don’t want this dude to search the house for other people because she won’t stand a chance.

I don’t stand one either sitting on this detailed table.

---