Page 118 of Wicked Intentions (Wicked Games 3)
“All right,” Connor says grudgingly. “I’m not totally convinced that’s food in your mouth and not a live octopus and a barracuda having a fight, but it sounds disgusting enough that I’m gonna let it go for the moment. Moving on.”
I swallow, take a big swig of my champagne, sit back in my chair, and close my eyes. Food doesn’t have much taste anymore—not even the ridiculously expensive meal I’m now eating—but sunshine warming my skin is one thing I can still enjoy.
Every time I close my eyes and lift my face to the sun, she’s there, smiling that angel’s smile, and even though it hurts like fuck, I do it every chance I get.
“Moving on,” I agree.
Connor hesitates for a moment. “Got a call from Karpov today.”
That doesn’t even cause a blip on my radar. “I wondered when that would happen.”
“Yeah, he’s, uh…a little agitated.”
“Just tell him, bro. Tell him his big blue diamond is at the bottom of the fuckin’ Adriatic.”
“No,” he responds sharply. “If I tell him that, you’ll be missing your head within twenty-four hours. I know you don’t use it too often, but still. It’s your head. You need one.”
I don’t agree. Heads are for people with working brains. All I’ve got inside my skull is a big, moldy lump of mozzarella. “I’ll call him. I’ll give him the coordinates where the yacht sank. He can go deep-sea diving.”
“That isn’t funny.”
“It wasn’t a joke.”
The phone emits a growl that would do a grizzly proud. “You have a death wish now, is that it?”
When I take a beat too long to reply, Connor curses. “Do I need to be worried about this? I mean more than I already am? Do you need me to come out there? Because I’m on a plane as soon as you give me the word—”
“Like I told you when I took a leave of absence, I just need some time to get my head straight,” I say quietly.
I’m pretty sure Connor’s about as convinced as I am that getting my head straight isn’t going to happen, but for now, we’re pretending. We’re pretending I’m not completely mind-fucked and useless, that I might one day be able to go back to work.
I can’t see myself ever doing anything but sitting here at a table on the quaint outside patio of L’Ami Louis under the dappled shade of the trees, eating the meal Mariana and I should have been eating together. I’ve been in Paris for a month and I’m here every night, wasting my savings, wasting what’s left of my sanity, wasting my time.
I don’t have anything better to do.
Even if I did, I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Part of me keeps hoping she’ll show up one night, sit down beside me, and we’ll pick up right where we left off, as if the past two months never happened.
As if I’m not a ruin of a man. The zombies on The Walking Dead have more life in them than I do. I’ve seen mummies in better shape.
If only I’d landed on the right yacht.
“If only” is my best friend now. We spend a lot of quality time together, beating each other up.
Connor sighs. I picture him sitting behind his big black desk, running a hand over his big square head. “Okay. Take all the time you need. But don’t take forever, brother. I need you back here at some point. For comic relief, if nothing else.”
I try out my fake smile again. It doesn’t feel right on my face, so I drop it.
“Did you see the final police report on what caused the explosion?” I ask, pouring myself more booze.
“Yeah,” Connor says. “Fuel leak in the bilge ignited by the engines.”
“And the secondary explosion that caused most of the damage was the missiles blowing up from the heat of the fire.”
“Fucking antiaircraft missiles on a yacht,” Connor mutters.
“Apparently it’s not that uncommon on those megayachts. Armin’s has ’em, too.”
“Your buddy, the Instagram star? Why the fuck would he have them?”
