Page 24 of Demise

Finally.

Tomorrow she may wake up and be horrified, but tonight she will lie beside me, and I’ll enjoy every moment of it.

Chapter Eighteen

Sweep

In front of the bar, I sprinkle salt onto the sidewalk, cold smoke releasing from my nose like dragon’s breath. A garbage truck groans down the road and kids play skate hockey in the street. I stop with the salt, pull a smoke from my coat, and light it. Nicotine swirls in my lungs along with the chilled air.

“Morning,” a man says to me.

I nod, hitting my smoke again, stuffing my Zippo back into my pocket.

“Sweep, is it?” he asks. I slant my eyes. “Johnny Dolffi?”

“Do I know you?” I say.

He opens his jacket, revealing a badge around his neck. “Zachery Crossen. FBI. You’re under arrest for the murders of Bo Williams and Chris Jackson.”

I scoff. Look atthisidiot.

“You have the right to remain silent…” he continues reading me my rights.

I look toward the car parked on the curb and huff. “Goddamn.”

“Good to see you, too,” Tony says.

I exhale, tossing my smoke and the salt, putting my hands behind my back.

Fucking hell.

Chapter Nineteen

Bexley

I inhale, snuggling deeper into the body I’m next to, and then I hear buzzing. It’s faint at first, but then it grows louder, and I feel it against my leg.

Samuel moves.

Wait.

My heart rate accelerates.

That’s not right.

I blink my eyes open and turn to see who’s sleeping beside me. Light comes in through the window, but not golden. He sleeps soundlessly. Black ink paints his skin, his eyes are shut, and his arm is around me.

Exhaling, I move, lying on my back. He stirs and I tap his shoulder. “Your phone is ringing.”

He groans, but reaches into his pocket, squinting his eyes at the screen. “Hello?” he grumbles. His voice sounds like gravel. He rests his hand over his forehead.

“Fuck,” he says, sitting up, holding his stomach. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there.” He hangs up, tossing the phone onto the nightstand. He scrubs down his face. My eyes scan over his back. So many tattoos mingling with one another. He turns to look back at me. “I gotta go,” he says.

“How exactly did we end up like this?” I ask.

And I wish I had a camera. The way he smirks at me… God.

Breathe, Bexley.

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