Page 74 of The Contract

Dante shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it, but his eyes are still glazed with confusion as he asks, “But how did you end up at Lush?”

“I was looking for Evan, or at least trying to find out what had happened to him. My only lead was Capelli. Evan had mentioned him. I couldn’t get close to Capelli, but I knew that he sometimes went to Lush, so I got a job there. I knew it was just the kind of place that rich, dirty-as-fuck assholes like him would go—why are you smiling?”

Dante’s smile dies, but he still looks a little awestruck. “It’s just … yeah. You’re right. That’s exactly what Lush is. A honeypot. That’s why Rafael—never mind. So you were working at Lush to, what? Spy? On Rafael?”

“What the fuck does Rafael have to do with this? I was afterCapelli. Then I saw him talking to you—”

“Oh, I see.” Dante’s lips curls back from his teeth. “And when I offered you the contract, you thought it was your lucky fucking day.”

Dante’s anger startles me. He’s been reserved, almost subdued, since he first set foot in here. “That’s why you were with me, isn’t it?” he demands. “You werespyingon me. Everything was just a goddamn lie.”

Abruptly, my focus shifts as the agony of the past two days floods in, takes over. “What the fuck areyouso indignant about? I’m just your whore, aren’t I? Available to fuck until you change your mind?”

Dante recoils. “Tristan—”

“Then when you decide you don’t want me there, I’m as disposable as anything else.”

“Goddamn it, Tristan!”

He comes at me so fast that I only manage to scramble back and hit the wall before he reaches me. His hands slam onto the wall on either side of me. His face, lit with fury, is inches from my own.

“It wasn’t like that!”

My throat constricts because I want to believe him. In spite of everything that happened, in spite of everything I’ve stumbled upon here, I want to believe him.

But I can’t let myself forget: “You threw me out.”

His anger dissolves into something I can’t read, something complicated. “I couldn’t … I wasn’t safe to be around.”

Those words make me acutely aware of where we are. His secret torture chamber. And yet, I find myself saying, “You said you didn’t want this. Didn’t wantme. After I said …”

I can’t finish the sentence, but I can see in his eyes that he’s remembering the same thing I am: how I told him that I loved him.

“Fuck, Tristan, I wasn’t … I don’t even remember saying anything like that. I wasn’t thinking straight. Tristan, I …” For half a second, I think he’s going to sayI love you, but he doesn’t. Thank god he doesn’t. But he does say, “I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

I can’t accept that. I can’t tolerate it. Not here. Not now. He has a folder stuffed with pictures ofkids. He has a picture of Evan, and I don’t know if I can believe him that he didn’t put that bullet in Evan’s head.

I say, “You asked me if everything was a lie, and, no, it wasn’t—but I fucking wish it had been. I wish I could say that Evan was the reason I signed your contract. I wish I could say that I was never attracted to you, that I never wanted you, that I didn’t love every fucking second that I had with you. And you know why? Because then maybe I wouldn’t feel so fucking sick to my stomach at the memory.”

Dante’s eyes are darting back and forth over my face. His breathing is short and sharp, his chest heaving. He’s panicking. “Tristan—”

“Get the fuck away from me, you sick fuck.”

He doesn’t. He just lets out a sound like I punched him in the chest. I don’t know if anything will make him let me go. He’s a murderer—no, he’s worse than that. He’s the worst kind of predator.

But there’s one last thing I can try, and even if it doesn’t work, I need to say it. I need it to have left my tongue. So I look him dead in the eye and say, “Red.”

Dante’s face drains of color. He looks absolutely gutted. He looks like he can’t breathe.

But he steps back.

I bolt for the door. I half expect him to chase me, but there’s no thud of footsteps, no shout. There’s nothing to stop me from racing out of the warehouse and running away as fast as I can.

I don’t know how far I’ve run before I realize there’s a car behind me. My first thought is Dante, but he was on his motorcycle. There was no car at the warehouse.

Maybe I’m paranoid. I turn down another street to see if the car follows. Shit!

I dart into an alley. Tires screech. A car door opens. Footsteps hammer the pavement behind me.

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