A thousand knives slash through my sanity, tearing at it, demolishing it.
Men. Men will respond to Regan’s innocent, beautiful face. They’ll drown her with messages, begging to be the one to take her for a wild ride.
To help her cope with her rape trauma.
That’s my job.
“The fuck you did.”
He shoves my chest, indignant, as if he has a right to. I shove him back to the wall. He doesn’t even blink.
“I’m doing it for you,” he hisses.
Like hell he is.
In my head, I see her inbox blowing up.
I have my phone in my hand, fingers flying over the screen.
“I hope you’re not going to her profile.”
I’m most definitely in her profile. “I’m not.”
“Landon.”
She hasn’t unsubscribed from the website. She hasn’t been online either.
Ever since the evening Marshall talked to her, Regan hasn’t logged in to Moth to a Flame.
Mine.
Dozens of messages are already flooding her inbox, just like I expected. Emails were sent to notify her about her possible matches.
And she’s not online. Not interacting with any of them.
“You got what you wanted. Great. Time to leave.” I level a gaze with him. “I have business to take care of.”
He hesitates. “Fine. We’ll discuss this in the morning.”
I pocket my phone. “We’ll discuss what a compassionate CEO I am for not firing either you or Beverly on the spot.”
“You love us too much to let either of us go.” With one final push to the bridge of his glasses, he retreats.
“I don’t love you.”
“Sure thing, man. We don’t love you, either.”
Without waiting for my response, Vince disappears into the night, leaving me alone here.
I’m mad. I’m elated. I’m confused down to my core.
I can’t handle these feelings.
But I can act.
Rolling Clayton in the tarp soothes the pounding in my temples. Dousing him in gasoline and setting fire to his body and my clothes in the barrel in the dead of night does wonders to my head.
Once I’m back behind the wheel, I’m still not what you’d callokay. I’m more levelheaded. Ready to tackle my new problem. The men who keep messaging Regan.