Buy My Soul (Sixty Days 2)

“Because I wanted to…” I told him. “I may be crazy as hell, and maybe more crazy now, but I wanted to.”

I flinched when he cast the breakfast tray to the side from between us.

“You wanted to? Why? To save your sister? To trust you had the highest likely pay day in a thousand mile radius, screw what little Mr Wharton had to offer?”

“Yes,” I said. “Maybe, yes. For all of those reasons. But not just those reasons. And you know it. I know you know it.” I could barely spit out my next words, wondering what the hell was going wrong with me. “I know you feel it. I know you feel me.”

“Oh, I feel you alright,” he told me, and his cutting tone was back strong. “I feel a girl who is seeing good in a man where there is none. Who’s seeing a saviour in a man who wants nothing more than to tear her soul apart for a decent pay day. Who wants to feel safe with a man who will sell her out to a string of cunts and watch her suffer for weeks on end.”

I should have believed him.

Should have believed his words.

Should have believed every scrap of venom in his voice when he spoke about himself and his shitty ways in this world.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t because there was that rawness again, burning bright under the surface. There was that hurt in his eyes I couldn’t ignore, because I felt it deep down in mine staring right back at him.

My optimism clashing with his cynicism and falling in love. Falling in love with the heart underneath the hate.

“It’s Stockholm syndrome,” he continued. “Worth nothing. Not real. Not able to stand up to anything.” I shook my head as he spoke. “This stuff you feel about me, this stuff you feel I feel… this bullshit… it’s not real, little girl. None of it is real… it never is.”

“Never is?” I pushed. “How do you know it never is? What happened to you?”

And I swear he would have answered me.

I swear it was all right there. Straining to break loose. Straining for honesty.

If only his phone hadn’t rang out loud between us.

“I’ve got to take this,” he said as he checked out the caller ID.

And once again, he was gone.Chapter Twenty-SixBrandonIt was a lucky escape.

I picked up the call as soon as I was out of earshot on the landing with the bedroom door locked tight. Lance’s voice was flat as a pancake as he delivered the news of Jake Wharton’s mobile number.

“Text it through,” I said as he attempted to speak it out loud to me.

“Sure thing,” he replied. “Kid looks worried sick if it means anything. I got his mobile number from the haulier business, called up pretending to be a college associate. Checked him out on his way back to his dorm before that though, was close enough to see him heading back from football practice. He looked pretty fucking stressed out.”

I tried to imagine the boy’s worried face. Seriously worried. Worried about the girl upstairs. Concerned enough for her wellbeing that he’d put her above all else in this world, including vast chunks of his personal fortune.

Because that was the brunt of the situation. If he was genuine — seriously genuine — he was above the moral judgement of virtually everyone else in this world I’d come to associate with in any capacity whatsoever. Above the moral judgement of virtually everyone else in this world I’d counted on existing full stop.

And exactly the kind of saviour an optimistic little sweetheart like Paige Emmerson deserved in this life.

“Want me to go back to tracking down Rebecca Lane?” Lance asked, and I grunted an affirmative, even though I knew there would be sweet fuck all for him to find now she was in Henry Drake’s cuntish grip.

That was the other zip of disgust up my spine. The shit storm of a situation with Rebecca Lane, despite her big fucking mouth. Not just for the idiot girl herself, but the implication of what it could mean for other girls on the payroll.

What it could mean for Paige should she ever come back to Drake’s attention.

Maybe he’d get a taste for revisiting the girls on our payroll.

Maybe this one would mean too fucking much for me to ever keep a clear head on Drake’s never-ending bullshit if he did.

My next cigarette was in the rain. Pacing across the gardens and psyching myself up to facing the asshole’s messages on the encrypted portal. I needed to face those encrypted fucking messages and sort out this lock of horns before I jumped in far deeper than I could manage.

But no. I didn’t face them.

Didn’t call up his pings and read them in the cold light of the afternoon.