Page 4 of Pray for Scars
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Of course,I don’t get out of here.
Instead, I shoot a text to one of the few numbers I have memorized, skip the rest of Alexandria History 101, and head back to my hotel.
Getting loaded with nearly an entire bottle of vodka before my client comes over is, to be quite honest, the last thing I should do.
But I don’t fucking care.
I had briefly thought about following Ria, but if she really did have to sign an NDA, and if she really believes Mayhem would kill her for speaking to me—and I wouldn’t put anything past him—I know it’s best if I leave her alone.
For now.
But the brief conversation we had just left me with more questions than answers and getting fucked up seems like the best thing for me to do right now. Or the worst, depending on who you ask. But I’m only asking myself, and I’ve always got my worst interests at heart.
So when there’s a knock on my hotel room door—3-star to keep the rich pricks away—and I undo the latch, pull down the handle, and stare at the guy who is supposed to be one of my more loyal clients from my escort days, I blame the vodka for what I’m seeing.
Because I know for damn sure my goddamn brother wouldn’t be standing in front of me like this, arms folded over his chest, a wool coat on over his dress shirt.
This isn’t actually him. I’m just too far gone to see who I should be seeing. Jeremiah haunts my nightmares. Why not my waking hours, too?
“Michael?” I whisper, because I’m seeing two Jeremiahs now and the world is fucking spinning around me.
I can’t be seeing him. He said he needed space. He ran. He’s gone. I never wanted to see him again.
Did I?
But when my brother’s hand shoots out to my throat and he backs me into my room, slamming the door closed behind him, I know, in fact, it is my brother.
Michael was nice.
Jeremiah never is.
He backs me up against the wall, and I glance behind him, barely breathing under his grip. There’s just the queen-sized bed, and my backpack, the bathroom across from the wall Jeremiah currently has me pinned against.
My knives are in my backpack. One under the mattress. Another in the bathroom drawer.
But I don’t have a single fucking one on me.
So I go for Jeremiah’s livid green eyes instead.
But he dodges me, and his fingers tighten. I wheeze, hands going to his around my throat. I know better. I know this never works. But I can’t breathe.
“Who the fuck is Michael?” he asks me.
I scratch at his hand, my heart beating so hard it might fucking explode in my chest. Spots pop in front of my eyes. Pressure is building in my head.
But then he releases me and steps back. I double over, hands on my knees, my eyes closed as I concentrate on taking in great gulps of air. On filling my lungs. But when I open my eyes again, the ugly grey carpet starts to spin and I sink down onto it, my back against the wall, one hand going to my throat.
I’m still panting. And as Jeremiah glares down at me, I realize I’m wearing a tight, silk tank and matching shorts. In black.
The outfit I’d put on when I thought Jeremiah would be Michael.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” Jeremiah hisses. He crouches down so we’re eye level, his gaze trailing over my chest, to my thighs, back up to meet my eyes.
I lean my head back against the wall, tipping my chin up. I shouldn’t have drunk so much. But too late for regrets now. I’ll have to ride this wave out; the vodka, and Jeremiah. I can handle it. I’ve done it before. Jeremiah’s moods rise and fall like the tide in a hurricane, but if I swim out far enough, I can find the calm in the storm.
“Work clothes,” I finally answer his question.
