Page 22 of Born Sinner
“Whatever,” she mutters. “We’ll get it out of you tonight after a few drinks.”
Wait, what?
“Tonight?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot. Girls night?” When I don’t say anything, she groans out her annoyance. “We planned it weeks ago.”
Which is exactly why I forgot about it.
I’ve never had “girl” friends. I’ve never had many friends, period. Bearing the Carrera name doesn’t lend itself to many sleepovers. This whole sisterhood thing is as foreign as America itself.
“I’ll have to pass.” I’m not in a partying mood after just getting roofied, plus Santi would lose his shit—and then pretty blonde girls become dead ones.
“Come on,” she whines. “You owe it to us after ditching us last night.”
What am I supposed to say to that? It’s not like I can tell her the truth.
So to avoid any more questions and another possible homicide, I relent.
“Fine.” Drawing out the word with a groan, I crane my arm and snag a pen off my nightstand. “Where do I meet you?”Damn it, I need something to write on.I scan my room, but besides my textbook, there’s only one thing in sight.
One taunting piece of discarded yellow paper.
Swinging my legs off the side of the mattress, I clench my teeth as I hook my foot over the rim of the trashcan and then drag it toward me. Begrudgingly, I retrieve the crumbled Post-it Note, smoothing it out and then flipping it over, all while trying not to think about the lethal promise scrawled on the other side.
“The Foxhole, ten o’clock.” she says as an engine revs in the background. “And María...?”
“Yeah?”
“Dress to kill.”
I stiffen as the line goes dead. Slowly, I turn the Post-it Note back over, re-reading my enemy’s words as a graphic warning flares inside my head.
“That’s what I’m worried about,” I whisper softly.
* * *
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, a horrified expression looking back at me. One sliced into a distorted, crude mosaic crafted byhim.
His scent lingers somewhere deep in my subconscious. A vicious haven of leather and barbed wire.
One foot moves in front of the other until I’m pressed up against the counter. Reaching forward, I touch the glass, trailing my finger along the dried stains.
I may be a virgin, but I’m not totally innocent.
I know what the hell is all over my mirror.
And basin.
And faucets.
Cum.
“You son of a bitch,” I hiss, dropping my hand and clenching my fists by my side. Only the words lack conviction. There’s no offense entwined with my insult, only fire.
The wrong kind.
I’m furious he invaded my apartment. I’m fearful of how he did it so easily.
