Wrong Kind of Love

“Who is Tom Campbell?” And if there were any doubt in my mind that she knew who Tom was, the lost, hushed tone of her voice snuffs it out.

I trace a pattern over the bedspread, debating on what I need to tell her. He was my mother’s first husband, the hitman of my father, and I’m their bastard son that sent Tom over the edge. He wants to blot out everything that reminds him of her. But what good would telling her that do? As much as Tom’s my enemy, he is now hers. So I settle with: “Euan’s uncle. And the second I let you go, Tom will most likely kill you.”

I wait for more questions, but instead, I’m enveloped by silence. Her shoulders shake on a stuttered breath. There’s only so much one person can take before they break, and she’s about to break like an overflowing dam. Hesitating, I place a hand on her shoulder, and she jerks away.

“Please leave,” she whispers.

On a heavy exhale, I push off the bed and cross the room. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” I say, then softly close the door behind me. This is one hell of a messed-up situation. One I see no way out of. And with each step I descend, my frustration at the situation billows.

A fresh haze of cigarette smoke lingers in the hallway outside my office, and when I push open the door, I find Marney’s waiting for me. He flicks the cinders into the ashtray, watching me as I round my desk.

“Have you had any luck digging up why the hell Tom put her here yet?”

“No. But her boyfriend’s been calling Tom. Seems to be shitting his britches over it. Said he feels guilty.”

Guilty, the little shit should feel more than guilty…

Marney leans back, taking a drag of his cigarette as I sink into my chair. “And I can’t find hide nor hair of Bob’s bastard ass. Hell, I’m starting to think he bled out from where Caleb shot him. Ran his truck off into the river or something.”

I drum my fingers over the legal pad as I try to work through the building clusterfuck in my head. Bob wanted to kill her and leave her for Tom, but what I can’t wrap my head around is why in the hell he thought I’d let him get away with it when I specifically told him not to. My guys didn’t fuck with me. “What the hell was he thinking?”

“Bob don’t think. That’s half his problem. I’ll keep looking for him, but in the meantime…” Marney stubs out his cigarette then lifts a brow, and I know what he’s thinking—I need to get rid of Tor.

“I’m not killing her, Marney,” I say.

Huffing, he pushes up from his chair. “Boy, if this is how you wanna go out, I’ll be sure to say a few nice words at your funeral.”

I glance at the wilted magnolia tucked underneath the paperwork on my desk. The one I haven’t mentioned to Marney. Regardless of whether I kill her or not, he’s probably still going to need to say a few nice words at my funeral.

10

Victoria

Fog from the shower hangs heavy in the air as I stare at my reflection. Ten black stitches. Yesterday, I tried to kill myself to keep a man from raping me. I sweep a finger over the thick thread before I glance away and grab a towel from the cabinet. The soft material catches on the wounds on my stomach, and I flinch. Even in the darkest situations, I like to think I can find a glimmer of light. This time I can’t.

Hope is a long-forgotten memory, and in its absence, I feel like an imposter, like I’m watching myself go through the motions on a TV screen. I dry myself off and wrap up in the towel before stepping into the bedroom. The second I clear the chest of drawers, I pause.

Jude sits on the edge of the bed next to a bag from a department store—an expensive department store. He nudges it. “I got you some clothes.”

Clothes mean this is no longer a temporary situation, and I’m not sure whether I should be pleased that it seems my death is no longer imminent or dejected that I’m obviously not leaving anytime soon. I glance at the bag again, imagining a retail assistant serving Jude. Probably swooning because this tattooed Goliath of a man was buying clothes for a woman. She likely thought they were for his girlfriend. I imagine picking up the bag and throwing it at him, but it won’t change a single thing. So instead, I take it and pull out a shirt and jeans, then cringe when I find several pairs of lace underwear nestled in the corner of the bag.