Page 43 of Slay Ride

I stop at the top of the landing and turn to face him. My right fist balls at my side, but I won’t punch him. Despite the venom he’s hurling my way, he’s still my brother. “I’m not an addict or a drowning victim, Ezra. I don’t need to reach out forhelp. Ifucked up, and I’ll apologize to Kindra, but as for the rest of it, it will all sort itself out.”

“You’ve been iced out. I received word yesterday morning, but I wanted to wait to tell you once we were back in New York.”

“Yeah, okay.” I scoff. “There’s no cell signal or internet access here, but you magically got word?”

“We have a contact in town who works much like the pilot on the island. Emergent news is delivered when necessary, and your former agency has been busy in the last twenty-four hours.”

As I study his face, I find no pleasure there. He isn’t enjoying this, which means this isn’t some phony wake-up call or prank. This is real.

If I’ve been iced out, that means I’m no longer a contract killer. I’m just a killer. The contract is the important part, though, because it pays. Killing just satisfies an urge.

“I’ll just find a job when I get back from this shit-ass trip,” I say.

“Doing what? You have no experience in any field that would pay enough to support your mother’s care. Nothing legal, anyway.”

“Then I’ll do something illegal. Problem solved. Can I go shower now?”

Ezra sighs and shakes his head. “Yeah, go shower and get some sleep.”

When I start to walk away, he clears his throat. I grit my teeth and turn to face him.

“Bennett . . . just . . .” He shakes his head again. “Never mind.”

“No more bad-news bombs to drop on my head?”

“Just be kinder to Cat, okay? She’s going through some stuff too.”

I was kind enough to give her an orgasm last night, I think as I roll my eyes and head for my room. Ezra can clear his throat again if he wants, but I won’t turn around. I’m done talking.

The door creaks open on hinges that shouldn’t be squeaky but are. I’ll have to ask Kindra for some WD40. I click on the light and begin undressing. A hot shower will put everything right. I can wash off the memory of what I did with Cat, and I can start formulating a plan to get back in my agency’s good graces. This isn’t the first time they’ve blacklisted me in the industry.

Unfortunately, unlike last time, I have obligations to consider now. Scraping by is well and good for me, but it won’t do for my mother. She spent years without basic necessities so that I could have what I needed, and I’ll be damned if I have to take her away from the luxury accommodations she deserves.

I toss my sticky clothes onto the floor and head for the bathroom. A dull headache looms behind my forehead. That’s what I get for drinking booze without adequately hydrating.

Thinking about the whiskey brings my mind around to Cat again. We were interrupted before carrying out our plan, so does that mean we still need to do it? It would be easier to forget the entire thing ever happened. Going back to hating each other is probably for the best. I don’t even know what she wants. We didn’t exactly have time to discuss what happens next.

Instead of embarrassing myself, I should just let it go. She’d probably laugh in my face if I suggested we go through with it.

But my dick can’t seem to let it go. The honey releases its hold on my skin as I scrub away the remnants of Cat, but my brain clings to the memory of her body pressed against mine. When I close my eyes, I can almost hear her soft moans.

As I wrap my hand around my stiffening cock, the moans become a gag. That definitely wasn’t part of my fantasy. With a retreating boner, I press my ear to the shower wall, and there it is again. A low moan, followed by a gag.

My bathroom must be up against Cat’s. Since our rooms are side by side, it would make sense. What doesn’t make sense is that god-awful sound she keeps making. It sounds like she’s in the throes of anguish instead of pleasure.

I hurry and rinse away the soap, then dry myself with a towel. Everyone in the mansion is probably fast asleep by now, so it should be safe to check on her. If she greets me with a sour attitude, I’ll know where we stand.

After shoving my legs into some sport shorts, I free-ball over to Cat’s door. The hall is dark, quiet, and empty. From here, I can’t even hear her in her bathroom anymore. I raise my fist and tap my knuckles against the door.

A few seconds of silence pass before the door opens just enough for Cat to poke her head through. Her hair is a mess, and red rings rim her puffy eyes. Tears cling to her long lashes, binding them together in clumps.

“Now isn’t a good time,” she whispers, then sniffles. “Allergies.”

She didn’t bite my head off, but she didn’t welcome me in. Providing comfort isn’t exactly my bailiwick, however. Maybe she knows how uncomfortable I’d be if she started wailing and rending her clothes in front of me.

So why do I feel the disgusting urge to pull her into me and ask who hurt her?

“Who is it, Cat?” someone says behind her.

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