Shane (Damage Control 4)

Nothing will matter then, a seductive little voice says at the back of my mind. You’ll be free of your troubles. You’ll forget about Cassie and Seth, about going crazy and about losing your job.

Forget about needing help. Stop hoping and let yourself go. It’s easy.

I stop so suddenly I almost trip over my feet. Seth’s words echo in my ears. “You were always a fighter, you never stopped fighting.”

Dammit.

Taking another swig, I walk by the groups chatting here and there, letting the hair fall in my face, scowling just enough to keep anyone from talking to me—falling back into old habits as I check faces.

No Cassie. No Seth.

Where the fuck did they go? Why can’t I find them? Slowly the house closes in around me. The itch to get out is eating at me.

What should I tell them if I found them?

Seth, I need your help.

Fuck you. You said you don’t need a fucking nanny.

Cass, are you okay?

What do you care? You can’t even fix yourself.

Son of a bitch.

I come to a halt and seriously consider hiding in the garden or hitching a ride back to my apartment, when someone calls my name.

A girl’s voice, and as I turn, I see blond hair and a smile lifts my mouth. Cassie?

But it’s not her, and the crushing disappointment is just stupid.

“I don’t know you,” I say and am already turning away, searching the room one last time.

“But I know you,” the girl insists, sauntering over to me and tugging on the hem of my shirt.

Dammit.

“What do you want?” One of Dakota’s relatives, I decide, turning around and taking in the colorful outfit—black boots, striped leggings and a red mini dress, a rainbow necklace that seems to be made of wool wrapped around her neck.

“You like?” she asks, following my gaze and winking at me. “My roommate Amber made it. You know Amber. Jesse’s girl.”

I squint at her. Okay…

“Anyway, come on. Your reading is up next.”

“My what?” The brandy isn’t helping with the headache, and I really want out of here. Still wish I could find Cassie and Seth first, though.

“Reading. So come on.” She’s speaking slowly, as if to a two-year-old. “It’s time.”

She’s tugging on my arm, and I really don’t wanna punch her. I can’t be sure, but I don’t think it’d be acceptable at a wedding reception.

So instead I try to jerk my arm free.

Blondie turns out to be surprisingly strong. She doesn’t miss a beat when I twist my arm in my attempt to get out of this reading, whatever it means.

“It won’t be a minute,” she chirps, and continues her determined way toward a small table with two chairs. “Have a seat.”

Resigned, I sit and take a long swallow from the brandy. “Fine.”