Page 61 of A Very Happy Thanksgiving
“The true man wants two things: danger and play.”
Marc tilted Phae’s chin and brushed his lips over hers, then waited for the punch to the gut. Real or metaphorical; he wasn’t sure which.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, she turned and walked away, and that hurt more than any fist ever could.
CHAPTER 23
Phae
I hadn’t expected to see Marc tonight. I’d expected even less to be hurling Nietzsche aphorisms like a torturous kind of foreplay. Booker had been the Nietzsche fan. When I was twelve, he’d bought me a “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” poster to hang beside my bed, and I’d embraced that philosophy for my entire life. Until now, maybe. I’d managed to hide my tears in the forest, but when Marc touched his lips to mine, my eyes prickled again.
Motherfucker.
I’d been living the wrong Nietzsche quote.
When you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.
For years, I’d tried to convince myself that work was all I needed, but the chink of darkness had been growing ever wider. And I missed the light.
But that light would blind me if I let it.
Better to walk back into the night.
Except this time, the damn light followed me.
“Don’t walk away. Not again.”
I spun, knocking Marc’s hand off my arm. I’d figured that after he saw the real me, the side I’d kept hidden for so long, he’d be the one walking away. No, running. This was actually harder when he was nice about it.
“Don’t do this, Marc.”
“You’ll fight for the masses, but you won’t fight for us?”
“Us? There is no ‘us,’ not anymore. We live in two different worlds, and they’re not compatible.”
“Edie and Heath manage just fine.”
I snorted. “Edie? You’re comparing me to Edie?”
“She’s in the public eye.”
“Oh, please. She runs a charity.” Emmy had briefed me. She was still here in Indonesia supporting Heath and Serena, but the rest of my team had flown home this morning. Places to go, people to kill. “You’re an A-list movie star. You post pictures of your feet on BuzzHub every morning.”
“My publicist makes the posts, and they’re not even my feet.”
Huh? “Then whose feet are they?”
“My ex-assistant’s ex-boyfriend’s.”
“Sounds awkward.”
“It is, but he does have excellent toes.”
“Okay, I’ll rephrase. Your legions of female admirers, the paparazzi, and probably a few weirdos think you post pictures of your feet on BuzzHub every morning.”
I’d had to eliminate a man with a foot fetish once. That kink sure made my job easier—all I’d had to do was wear peep-toe shoes and wait until he looked down before I pulled out the knife.
