Page 147 of Unorthodox
I call him again.
The line rings and rings.
Clenching my phone in my fist, I pace the length of my bed, my stomach twisted into knots.
Fucking Jameson.
I take a deep breath, set my phone on the nightstand.
I grab my gun, the remote, and I make my way over to Addison.
I force Evora from my mind.
I left her last night, and I should have known better. I should have known but...I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I lost Dante. Evora was worth less than he was.
It doesn’t fucking matter.
The only thing that matters is Oliver, and when I have him, this will all be over.
Even still, even pushing everything aside, I can’t stop the anger and disgust that coils in my gut, the image of Evora’s head flashing back into my mind.
Addison shuffles over to the very corner of the couch as I approach, grabbing a soft grey blanket thrown along the back of it and wrapping it around her shoulders, almost like a cape. I see her eye the gun warily.
I set the remote and the gun on the marble table, then pour us both a drink, capping the decanter before I offer her a glass.
She doesn’t take it. “What’s wrong?” she asks me quietly.
Evora’s head morphs into Addison’s.
Then Oliver’s.
My stomach churns.
I force myself not to think about it.Don’t fucking think about it.
“Nothing. Take the drink.”
She angles her head to me, brow furrowed as she looks between the drink and my face. “It’s like, eight in the morning.” Her voice is soft. Wary, as if she thinks I might have poisoned it. She should know that if I ever intend to kill her, her death will be far more violent than poison.
Again, I see Evora’s head. Oliver’s. Addison’s. Again, I push it back.
And to prove to Addison that the drink isn’t poisoned, because she’s fucking stubborn, I down my own drink, set my glass on the table.
Her eyes go from the drink still in my hand, to me, then back again.
Slowly, she reaches for it, her fingers brushing against mine as they curl around the glass.
She brings it to her lap, the blanket covering her crossed legs.
“Drink it, don’t use it as a prop.”
She looks down at the rum. “I never really drank much before.”
“The way you were with Zeke, you could’ve fucking fooled me.”
She flinches with his name, and I wonder which part about that night bothers her the most.
I hook one arm around the back of the couch and watch her eyes shift to my torso. For a moment, her gaze turns heavy, her lips parted.
