Page 75 of The Devils of Saint City

It takes her a moment to fetch her phone out of her never ending purse, but once she has the thread open she hands it over without hesitation.

Asher:Is she awake?

Manson:answer the fucking phone

Asher:This wasn’t part of the deal. Say fucking something!

Blair:deal?! Get over yourselves

Manson:the fuck does that mean?

Blair:It means I don’t work for either of you and quite frankly I’m not doing this for you. It’s for her. She’s awake, pissed and soon will be on her way to healing. She doesn’t need you two poking your dumb heads around. I’ll answer your messages and calls when I fucking feel like it. Our deal was for me to make sure she’s safe, and apparently that means safe from you two. Did you have to mark her that much?

I see there’s a gap in their messages before Asher responds in a way that catches me off guard.

Asher:you’re right. Guess that’s why we came to you

Blair:exactly. I got this. Let her live or come show her you love her. Pick a side, boys.

Since that was the last message, I guess they made up their minds.

I’m surprised at how much it hurts.

Handing her phone back, I force a smile and silently thank the waitress for choosing then to bring our bread. “Thank you,” I tell her quickly. “Thank you so much.”

“No problem.” Based on her expression, I don’t hide my sadness well — but she walks away anyway.

“So stupid,” Blair sighs. “You want them, they want you, why are we here, Rhea?”

“They don’t want me. Not really,” I mumble. “They want the me who fights. The me who bleeds, hurts, cries for them. I can’t be that girl anymore. I won’t.”

“Yikes,” she says before a sigh. “I don’t know much about that, but I guess I’m glad you’re free then.”

It comes out like vomit. The whole thing, the whole fucking sordid story — from my dad’s murder, meeting Asher for the first time, my stepfather’s murder. The night he lit my bed on fire. The terrible things he said to me, did to my car, my psyche. My disorder. The locks, the shock bracelet. The alarms and evictions. Reaching out to Asher for help, for a lifeline.

The way he tricked me.

The torture that followed. The bullet wounds, the murders.

And then... the good. The moments of peace after a lifetime of war. The comfort, the butterflies. I don’t stop talking until my throat is hoarse and the entire restaurant around us is silent, staring.

Fuck. I just admitted to... so, so many fucking crimes. Clearing my throat, I add, “Oh, sorry! I didn’t know you were listening. She’s a literary agent, I’m here pitching a book to her. Afictionbook.”

Blair’s eyes are wide as a woman at the table next to us tells me I should definitely write it, and she doesn’t speak again until people have moved on and the restaurant is buzzing again. “Holy shit, girl. Are you sure Ireland is off the table? I knew they were crazy, but Je-sus. How are you okay?”

I glance around to make sure no one is paying attention, and even then, I keep my voice low. “I’ve never been okay, Blair. This is... normal.”

She reaches out to take my hand abruptly, making me flinch so hard she lets it go. “Sorry. Shit, I’m so sorry, Rhea. You’re stronger than me, that’s for sure. You will be okay. I can see it in your eyes, you’re resilient.”

That’s always meant to be a compliment, but I’ve never taken it as one. Being resilient is bullshit. What choice do people have? Lay down and die? Maybe, but that’s not really a choice at all. “Anyway, so that’s how I ended up here. Figures the little shitsonly gave you the bare minimum. They could’ve at least warned you to lock your door at night.”

Her eyes narrow curiously. “Because of the sexsomnia?”

“Yeah. You’re fucking gorgeous and when I’m in an episode, I have no reasoning skills. Sex is sex. All I’m saying is l—”

No.

A man walking by catches my eye. Not just any man, either. Face tats, freakishly tall, muscular. It’s the one they didn’t kill. In the woods, the cabin. They killed his friends and now he’s here.

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