Page 16 of Malicious Wedding

Chapter8

Ash

Imake it all of an hour before I have another breakdown in the bathroom. This time, it’s Jamila watching over me. “Oh god, you’re cry-hiccupping,” she says, giving me paper towels to dab my face.

“I know, it’s—it’s really pathetic, I’m—I’m sorry, Jams.” I lean against her, sobbing like an idiot.

“It’s fine, really, it’s totally fine. Uh, I don’t know what’s wrong, and you don’t have to tell me—”

“My entire family got murdered.”

“Oh. Well. Shit.” She pauses. “Yeah, I’d cry-hiccup too.”

I sob harder. Iain’s on the edge of life and death, and the people that did this to my family are probably hunting for me. It’s only a matter of time before they end up here at the bar my grandfather used to own.

Meanwhile, I’m still clinging on to the fantasy that I’m safe, per the lovely Boston PD.

“I’m okay,” I say, dabbing at my face, doing a breathing exercise to calm myself down. Four-count in, four-count hold, six-count out, repeat. Four in, four hold, six out, repeat. Eventually, the hiccups stop. “I wasn’t really close to them.”

“I mean, I don’t think you need to be close to your family to have a reaction to all of them getting killed. Sorry if that sounds glib, it’s just—”

“It’s crazy, right?”

“Too crazy.” Jamila hugs me tight. “I think I’d be hitting the alcohol pretty hard in your situation.”

“I considered it, Jams. I really did. But drinking is only going to make it worse and I’m trying to hold it together.”

“Why don’t you go home?” She pulls back, frowning slightly. “Seriously, we can handle the bar. You know that.”

“Honestly? I don’t want to be alone right now.” Despite that lovely reassurance from the eminently competent Officer Hawthorne, the thought of doing nothing butlocking my dooris beyond horrifying.

But what are my options? Carson keeps offering his services, but I keep reminding myself that he’s the reason I’m in this mess to begin with. If I go with him, it’s jumping from frying pan into the fire.

In this case, a really sexy fire. But still, I’ll get burned no matter what I do.

“How about this. Let’s get you cleaned up—” She glances down at my swollen red eyes. “Uh, cleaned up the best we can, anyway.”

“I look hideous,” I wail.

She laughs, shaking me. “You’re fine. You’re gorgeous! We’ll just make you more presentable so you don’t scare away the remaining customers. Lord knows we need them.”

“We’d be nothing without our ten customers!”

“Exactly. Come on, let’s clean you up.” She’s treating me like a toddler, but frankly, I feel like I’m regressing big time, so I go with it. Jamila helps wash my face, dries it off with more paper towels, brings in some cosmetics to touch up my eyes, and bam, I look like a total freak. But at least I look less like I’ve been crying.

Back in the bar, Bernie levels a hard glare. “You’ve been crying.”

“Jams,” I groan.

Jamila gives me a thumbs-up and hurries away to help Keely deal with a table of ten college guys.

Bernie ushers me to the far end of the bar, plops me into a seat, shoves a whiskey in front of me, and leans against the wall. “See those two?” She nods toward a couple men in Carhartt jackets. “Came in a minute after you did and haven’t moved since.”

“So what? They look like any other Boston asshole.”

“Look closer.”

I hesitate, sipping the definitely-bad-idea whiskey, and that’s when I notice the expensive watch the man on the left is wearing. And how clean their pants and shoes are. I groan. “Carson’s guys.”

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