Page 60 of You Don’t Kiss Your Brother's Best Friends

“You ever see a little girl cry for three straight hours?” he asked abruptly.

“No.”

“It’s heartbreaking.”

I nodded slowly. “I— I guess, I—”

“Sofuckthis guy,” Andre spat, kicking him again. “This man was a piece of human excrement. I’m glad he’s dead, and my only wish is that he suffered more. He deserved a lot worse death than this.”

He walked a few steps, stooped down, and grabbed what looked to be a small boulder. He did it again, and again after that. Eventually he looked up.

“Better help, because we don’t have much time. It won’t be long before they’ll be looking for one or both of us.”

It was a strange request, but I did as I was told. Only when Andre began dragging the body into the water did I realize what we were actually doing.

“Here,” he said, holding out both hands. “That should be enough.”

We were chest-deep in the lake when Andre finished weighing the body down with stones. Somehow I found the strength to help him push it under, and shove it all the way to the bottom. Surprisingly, I felt nothing. Not even when I was tasked with holding it in place, while he pinned it there with three or four giant rocks.

Together we let go. Jacob Foley stayed exactly where we needed him to be, at least temporarily. Or perhaps even, forever.

We ended up face to face, bobbing silently in the water together, when Andre gave me a nod.

“See?” he said softly, adding a half smile. “This is why you don’t kiss your brother’s best friends.”

~ 35 ~

KAYDEN

Things quieted down as the day progressed. Gone was the casual merriment of last night. Conversations that had been loud and braggadocious were quieter and more removed, or limited to small groups that kept to themselves.

And that’s because the arrival of Roman Wynter was growing imminent.

In the kitchen the stress was palpable, like a living breathing thing. Everything was in shambles, a total chaos, despite our best efforts. Bishop was in way over his head, but somehow still pulling things together. At one point, with a pan in each hand, I told him he could almost be an actual chef.

But I was worried. Jocelyn hadn’t shown up yet, and I’d sent for her a while ago. Maybe she was sleeping the afternoon off. If so, I couldn’t begrudge her. Or maybe it had something to do with the other thing that worried me even more: Andre had suddenly gone missing.

“Chef!”

The call came from a second server, tasked with carrying way too much stuff from the walk-in. Bishop whirled, which sort of amused me, then rushed to her aid. If we somehow managed to get out of this place, I knew he’d make me call him chef for the rest of our lives. And that was fine, so long as Jocelyn remained safe.

Jocelyn. Damn.

I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I needed to know.

“Take over for me,” I shouted to Bishop, dropping the six different things in my hand. “Be right back.”

He looked astonished. “Take over?”

“I won’t be long.”

Bishop swore furiously, and I dashed from the room before he could mount any further protest. It took all of my willpower not to sprint. Twice I was stopped by security. Both times, on the spot, I made something up. As the head chef, people tended to ignore you as a potential threat. They believed you when you mumbled something about a live lobster shipment, then pushed past them hurriedly as if the fate of their next meal depended upon it.

I cleared the steps two at a time and slipped unseen through the upper hallways. Standing before Jocelyn’s door I pulled out my master keycard, held it to the electronic lock, then rushed inside.

Her room was empty.

“Fuck.”

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