Page 8 of Moth to a Flame

The closer I get to Marshall’s apartment building, the less amused I am by this back-and-forth. My heart beats faster. I’m more furious as I recall his conversation with Regan.

She handed him a piece of herself, and he chose to talk about the weather.

He insulted her.

He looked at her.

He’s a dead man.

The knife I jammed into my hoodie’s pocket is a temptation I can no longer ignore. I still stop to reply to Beverly.

Me:I’m okay. Again, if growing a conscience is a punishable offense, sue me.

Beverly:Fine, as long as you don’t forget this. One scandal and Moth to a Flame is dead. No stock market. No jobs. No future. Nothing.

The stock market. It’s the second time she’s brought it up, and I should care. I don’t. Not anymore.

Being subjected to constant scrutiny seemed like the best route to fuck myself over and make me hate my company for good. I’m the one who started the whole process.

I didn’t obsess over Regan back then. Didn’t let myself want to possess…things.

A burning awareness catches inside me.

My company is mine.

So is Regan.

Me:Nothing will happen. Good night.

The dots blink, and before I know it, she replies with:Go home, Landon. Faith says she has someone to hook you up with who isn’t one of our subscribers. She’ll send you the details tomorrow.

Hard pass. There’s no one and there will be no one for me.

Other than Regan. The woman I’m here for.

I pocket my phone, slip on my gloves, and head into Marshall’s building as if I own the place. The lock on the door to the building is broken, and after climbing one flight of stairs and picking the lock on his door, I’m inside.

He’s sleeping. Fucking sleeping on the couch while I’m burning up on the inside. The white glow from the television illuminates his face, and I snarl as I watch him.

The man who dared tell Regan the meaning of her name didn’t matter is snoring in his boxers, a bag of nuts dangling from his fingers.

He’s drooling, on top of everything else.

Such a busy man. He’s had far more important things to take care of than listening to Regan.

He can keep doing them in hell.

My first impulse is to launch at him. Jab the knife down his throat. Get the job done, deliver the evidence of my devotion to Regan. Anonymously, of course.

For now, I won’t.

I’m not that reckless. I might not have killed a man before, yet I do know this. He might not be alone here. He might be married. Might have kids. A lot of our subscribers are cheaters. We’ve received complaints about that in the past.

As the owner of Moth to a Flame, I could give a fuck less. Unless they’re physically hurting other subscribers, I don’tcondemn them for being unfaithful. I run a website, not childcare.

But, as a man who’s about to commit a felony, I care. I care a whole fucking lot. Last thing I need is someone walking into thepatriarch—ha—of the family getting slaughtered.

I’d have to kill them too. That’d be messy, and I’m not here for it.

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