I can’t wrap my head around it, even after a twenty-minute walk through the busiest part of Las Vegas over bridges, up and down escalators, and shortcutting across as many air-conditioned hotel casino lobbies as I can find on the way to his condo.
The building’s doorman smiles when I give him my name.
“Yes, he’s expecting you. Go right on up.”
I try and fail to smile back. That’s the exact same thing his doorman in Nashville said that New Year’s Eve.
The doorman tells me that the code for his penthouse is 1219. It’s a familiar number that’s been emblazoned on my mind since O2’s conception.
12-19…December 19th… that was the day we met—the fateful day he asked me to stay…stay for Christmas.
Coincidence? It has to be. Doesn’t it? I’m not sure of anything anymore.
My mind is a tightrope, with both the future and the past balancing on it as I punch in the code and go up in the elevator.
This elevator stops at the end of a single hallway leading to a pair of double doors. And I can already hear loud country music blasting on the other side of them.
The urge to run rears up inside of me as memories of that night explode like buried mines in my head.
But I don’t run. I need answers. I deserve answers…even if that’s the same thing I told myself that New Year’s Eve.
I ring the doorbell anyway.
And I let out a small sigh of relief when a tall man answers the door—one I recognize. “Hi, Waylon.”
Waylon grins. “Hey, Red—thought you were the pizza. C’mon back.”
Waylon’s here. Actually smiling. He never smiles.
I follow him in a daze. But my legs wobble when I see that the front room is filled with Reapers. Just like that night. My throat constricts with fear.
“How’s Olivia doing?” Waylon shouts over the music. “What did Rockstar say you called her? O2?”
“Yeah,” I barely manage to answer. It feels like the whole room is closing in on me. “She’s good.”
I concentrate on not panicking as I scan all the Reapers. So many, and country music is blasting, the same as that night. But it’s not New Year’s Eve, I tell myself. It’s less chaotic. All the lights are turned on overhead, and the place isn’t packed with scantily clad girls.
Maybe everything will be okay. Maybe Griff and I can talk this out. I scan the room. All I have to do is find him, so I can ask him about—
My blood freezes when I finally catch sight of Griff.
He’s not in the bedroom, like last time. He’s sitting on one of the front room couches with a Reaper I recognize—the same Reaper who answered the door that night. They’re deep in conversation.
But they both suddenly stop talking and look up at me.
And that’s when I realized I’ve been duped, yet again. Our agreement to go forward in trust…to try to make it work and start a family…
It was all a lie. Part of some sick revenge plan. He has no interest in being my Dream Husband.
I think about how he lulled me into forgiving him and even agreeing to cancel my own New Year’s Eve plans at the lake cabin…how he told me we’d talk in the morning just a few hours before kidnapping O2.
How many times had he proven himself a monster? How many times had I ignored the signs and bared my neck to him again?
These last few weeks, all the talking things through, and reconciliation—it was all just a game. The biggest monster game he’s played on me so far.
And I fell for it.
CHAPTER 37
GRIFFIN
“Are you serious?” Rowdy asks when I turn down his offer. “Man, Rockstar, what happened to you?”
Can’t say I blame Rowdy for asking. The Reapers showed up in town over two hours ago for my surprise bachelor party. And all I’ve drunk is a beer.
A single beer. No weed. And I waved Rowdy away with a “Nah, I’m good, man” when he dropped down beside me on the couch with a mirror lined up with blow.
I doubt Rowdy would understand or appreciate my holes explanation, so I tell him, “My woman’s about to come through, and I don’t want to be messed up when she gets here.”
Rowdy’s around the same age now as I was when I made the switch from celebrity party boy to kick-ass executive. But I guess that 30-something existential crisis stuff passed him right on up.
“So you’re serious about this marriage shit?” he asks with a confused look. “It’s not just to get out of paying child support?”
Irritation statics over my good-times vibe. What’s up with everybody holding stuff I said nearly six years ago against me? Also…
“My kid’s not something I need to get out of. She’s mine. My responsibility. And I’m happy—happier than I’ve ever been because I get to step up and be her dad.”