Page 52 of Moth to a Flame

Landon

The Friday after Ileft Regan at the store, all I did was work, squeezing in the meetings I’d rescheduled that Friday night and the following Saturday morning.

No one could tell me they don’t work late Friday night or over the weekend. I’m their fucking boss.

Now, on a late Saturday afternoon, everything is settled. My VPs think I’m back to being my old self. Responsible. Detached. Professional. They’ve been led to believe that Moth to a Flame is at the forefront of my mind. In a way, it is.

I’m going to keep it. Going to improve it.

Not going to list it in the stock market.

Everyone will understand. Or they won’t. Doesn’t matter either way because…

Yes.

This again. I’m the motherfucking boss.

I’ll throw bonuses and raises at my employees and that should do it.

Later. I’ll deal with all that shit later.

When I’m done making the world a better place for Regan.

And Tripp Cantrell is going to help me do it.

The sun is setting over the pink and blue Manhattan skies as I navigate through traffic in an old silver Chevy I bought from a slimy car dealer before I left for the city. It’s untraceable, just like the cash I used to pay for it.

Vince and Beverly can’t track me down here.

I’m out of the car, pulling the hood of my hoodie over my head. Just another person, my platinum-blond hair tucked away as I stroll out of the parking garage gripping my duffel bag.

Tripp’s lobby is one of many in this city. Luxurious and filled with light. Two chandeliers hang off the high ceilings, the black and white marble floors probably cost more than what the average person makes in a year.

Boring as fuck.

What’s less boring is the security at the front desk who jerks his chin at me, a smirk curling his lips up. He’s pleased with himself and with good reason. Fifty percent of the five-figure bonus I’d transferred to the company he works in was wired to his bank account yesterday.

Hush money so he’d pretend that he’s not giving me the key to Tripp’s apartment. So he won’t let anyone inside the elevator in case Tripp has visitors.

Since Tripp is sick and all. And yes, it’s very contagious. He’ll call once he’s better.

I head up to the second floor of this Upper West Side building.

Rage bubbles inside me as I remember his message. I’d bet everything I own that even if Regan would’ve replied and would’ve told him no bleach, he still would’ve broken her boundary. What he wrote to her wasn’t just another suggestion. It was violent.

It had abuse written all over the goddamn thing.

The key to his apartment drills holes into my palm. I’m gripping it so tight, my rage so powerful, that it might break my skin.

Which will be bad. If I leave even a drop of blood here, there’s only so much the security company can do to save my ass. DNA is motherfucking DNA.

Ding.

It’s a soft, pleasing sound to welcome me into an equally pleasing hallway. That’s me who’s disturbing the peace. Who breaks into his home.

The lights are on in Tripp’s apartment. An old Frank Sinatra song plays in the background, and sings along.

Tries to.

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