Page 42 of Sunshine & Sinful

“I’m not doin’ this to you, Sweets. This is on Dark.”

“Does anyone care to let me fuckin’ talk here?” Anthony pipes up.

“No!” Sunshine and I declare in unison.

Grumbling under his breath, Anthony rolls his eyes and shoulders as if priming for a fight. The idiot can try. I’d like to see it. But unless he has some magical karate skills I don’t know about, he won’t stand a chance against a man who carries literal dead bodies over his shoulder and tosses them into the back of his van as if they’re nothing more than a sack of rice. Sunshine’s as strong as an ox, and before you say something about strength and fighting not being the same thing, I’ve seen him bounce plenty of men from the bar over the years. If you think they all go quietly, they don’t.

Nostrils flaring in agitation, Sunshine cracks his knuckles. “If you wanna admit what we already fuckin’ know, dumbass, then you can talk,” he growls at Anthony. “But we both know you’re gonna lie. You’ve been lyin’. That’s what ya do. You fuck her.” His head tilts my way. “Andyou lie.”

Anthony fists both hands on top of his knees. “I actually like her.”

“Sure.” Sunshine scoffs.

“Fuck you, old man. You don’t know shit.”

“I don’t? Really? You. Fucked. With. The. Wrong. Woman. You should’ve stopped sending those weak-ass stalkers years ago, but you didn’t. Did ya jack off to thephotos they sent ya, Anthony? Dreamin’ of the day she’d be in your bed?”

“Fuck you.” He spits at Sunshine’s feet, varnishing the top of his boots in specks of saliva.

“That’s what I thought.” The biker chuckles without humor and tucks his arms across his chest. “She wanted her gone, didn’t she? But you couldn’t do it. That’s why you hired who ya did. Disposable men, nobody’d miss. Right? That was the plan. Get her scared, and one of these days, you’d come into the bar, and she’d finally notice you. You’d be her savior. Does Penelope know you fell in love with her mark?”

I gasp. “Colton.”

“What?” He shrugs, not giving a shit. “It’s true.”

“Who’s Penelope?” I ask. Why does he keep saying her name? What does she have to do with this? With me? I’ve never met anyone by that name before.

Mashing his lips together, Sunshine shakes his head and rocks back on his heels, which pisses me off. You don’t get to dangle the carrot and pull it away. This is my life we’re talking about. If what he’s saying is true, then I’ve been a target for years, and Anthony’s behind it.

“While we wait on my son, why don’t you snoop, Sweets? Check under the bed. Trash the place for all I care.”

“Kali. Don’t,” the man from the couch begs with not only his lips but round eyes bursting with remorse or fear. I don’t know which. Perhaps a little of both.

My jaw clenches, and I kick the baseboard with the toe of my pointed flat. Fuck these men. Fuck all this shit.

Huffing, I spin on my heel and march straight toAnthony’s bedroom. It’s as it always is—queen bed, blue comforter, dresser, nightstands. It’s devoid of any personal touch apart from a photo of me beside the lamp on his side of the bed. Ignoring the pang of unease that tugs at my heart for crossing a line I can never uncross, I get to work and start at his nightstand. The drawers hold nothing more than condoms and lube. Boring. His dresser is full of neatly folded clothes. Knowing he’d hide shit in the bottom, I dump them onto the floor, making a mess that I have no intention of cleaning up. I kick the contents around, waiting to see if anything sticks out. It doesn’t.

In the closet, I raid his shoe boxes, which are full of shoes. Boring. Do people still store their shoes in their original boxes? I don’t.

Once I’ve torn his bedroom apart, I flip the mattress off the box spring, and when that is just as disappointing, I move the box spring. Again. Nothing. There’s not even a single loose sock or dust bunny hanging out under the bed.

In his only bathroom, I raid the vanity and medicine cabinet. There’s nothing out of the ordinary—rubbing alcohol, pills for a headache, allergy meds, Band-Aids, aloe, your run-of-the-mill contents.

Sweat beads on my brow, and my adrenaline spikes as I turn my mission toward the office down the hall. I search through the drawers of his oversized desk and the boxes of files from his dental practice. It’s all clean. Too clean.

From there, I move to the kitchen, leaving a trail of chaos in my wake. It’s cathartic. The more mess I make, the better I feel. My anxiety bleeds into excitement as I leave a floor covered in pots and pans and turn my attentionto the one curious place nobody would think to visit unless they saw it on an episode of true crime—the attic. Like most houses this age, there’s a hatch in the hallway inside the door leading to the garage. It’s a white rectangle meant to blend in with the popcorn ceiling with a small string attached. I carry a stool from the kitchen to the hall, twist its wooden legs into the carpet for stability, and carefully climb onto the top. It wobbles for a second. I put my arms out at my sides to keep it steady. Sunshine’s searing gaze slides up my spine as he watches me from the living room.

Like something out of Tarzan. Okay. Nothing that smooth or elegant. With the string in hand, I jump down and out pops the attic door on creaky hinges. It hangs midway down from the ceiling, and attached is a folding ladder that I unfold and extend. It rests against the carpet, providing ample support. Bracing my hands on the higher rungs, I ascend the old steps slowly.

“Be careful,” Sunshine calls as I’m halfway up the narrow, surprisingly sturdy ladder.

“Don’t worry about me,” I call over my shoulder.

“I always worry about you.”

That’s true, or he wouldn’t be here.

Air, not from the outside, but from a fan, wafts in my face as I plant my palms on the attic floor to help pull me into the space. At first, it appears to be your typical stuffy room with a fan, which you’d assume was to cool the house. But everything comes to light once I tug on the string to a singular bulb in the center of the ample space.

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