Covet (Sinful Secrets 3)

I reach into my pocket and pull out a square of paper. The paper’s folded around the stolen syringe, which is still full of Fentanyl. I step closer to the porch. I don’t know where to leave it. The note doesn’t say much.

I’m sorry I took this. I kept it cold, so it should still be good.

Thank You.

I underlined the “Thank You” twice with slash-looking lines, like maybe I’m just someone who likes underlining things.

I thought hard about leaving the syringe at her Gammy’s place, but I thought of a few ways that could go wrong. Someone might think Finley gave it to me, for one.

I go around for a few minutes about where to leave the note and syringe. I rub my sore chest. It feels weird to hold the note, knowing that the Fent’s inside it. I’ve had it on me for so many hours now, it doesn’t tempt me quite as much.

There’s no flower pot or anything on the clinic’s stoop. And it’s a little windy. I decide to walk back to the other porch. The one by their door.

I gulp down some cold air. Walk around the building’s back corner. I think she’ll find it here. There’s an empty pot with just dirt. I set it in there. If he finds it—the doctor—it’s not like it tells him anything. It shouldn’t put her at risk.

I suck in some more cold air. Stuff my hands deep into my jeans pockets.

My eyes sting. I squeeze them shut. Christ.

Is he good to her? He looked older—maybe fifties—and I couldn’t tell if he was a dick. As far as dicks go, I guess maybe he’s not into using his, because…she was a virgin. I know that for sure.

I think of all those times she said things like “no strings attached,” and tell myself she knew this all along. She knew he was coming back and I was going. She’s okay with it.

I can’t think much on how I was a fling for her. Because that was basically it. Finley’s got the biggest heart on earth, so a fling for her is worth more than a lot of people’s marriages. Thinking that makes me think of how she ran to him. My throat closes off.

I pant in white puffs.

Fuck.

I gotta go now.

I’ve got my eyes half shut, and I’m striding toward the clinic part of the building when I hear yelling.

That’s a man’s voice.

What the fuck?

I move closer to the clinic’s white-washed, cinderblock wall. The voice is low and hard—not yelling now, but kind of clipped and…yeah, that’s definitely angry. I listen, but I can’t tell what he’s saying. Then he’s quiet. I can’t move as adrenaline floods my system.

What the fuck was that?

Say more.

Give me a sign if I should stay.

The ever-present Tristan wind whips over the roof. I pace back to the house door. Nothing. Fucking hell.

I sit on the stoop and run my hand back through my hair. I need some kind of fucking sign. That she’s all good with this guy. Even thinking of that—of her with that old fucker—gives my chest this burning feeling.

I get the letter and the syringe out of the pot. Walk toward the clinic door. Maybe I’ll knock. It’s probably a bad idea, but I don’t know…I’ve got a weird feeling. I clear the stairs with one big step and stand there with my eyes shut. Please.

Maybe I’m going crazy: I just want it to be bad for her, so I can swoop in.

I try the knob. It works. The fuck? The door is open at 5:35 a.m.? That’s sort of weird, right?

I can step inside and…if they’re in there—if he’s in there—I’ll…what?

If it’s him, not her, I’ll ask for Benadryl. If it’s both of them…I don’t know. Why would it be both of them, though? Motherfucker was just yelling at her in the house part of the building. I don’t dare to think of what I’ll do if I walk in and it’s just Finley. But if no one’s in there, I’ll walk over to the door that divides house from clinic, and I’ll listen just a little more.