Filthy Lies (Blackstone Dynasty 2)

I didn't know why the thought came to mind, but probably because we were both at home on a night when the others were gone. Caleb wasn't here. He was on the island with Brooke already. He'd called me earlier from her place to say they'd see me at Lucas's on Friday and to get myself to the helipad on Friday morning for my ride. By helicopter, the trip to Blackstone Island was fast. Fifteen minutes total from the top of the BGE building to Lucas's private helipad at his beach house. I'd also noticed Victoria's car wasn't in her parking spot when I'd come home, so I guessed she was away for the night. If for some reason James did drop by, I didn't want to be free-floatin' underneath my shorty robe.

Well, I might want to, but it definitely wouldn't be a good idea.

I spied my dead phone on the bedside table and plugged it in for recharging. Half the time I forgot, and endured regular complaints from my family about my slow response times because of it.

Less than an hour later, I had one batch of cookies cooling and a second baking in the oven as I finished up at the sink. I liked to clean as I went along. And especially tonight, I didn't want a massive mess to deal with after I was done. My recurring yawns pushed me to hurry as I wiped down the counter around the sink. The energy drink from earlier had worn off, and I really needed to get to bed. Tomorrow would start early and end late, and I knew some solid sleep was necessary, or I'd be a cranky zombie for Thanksgiving at the center. I also wanted to package up a few cookies for James and leave them on his doorstep with a note before I left in the morning. A peace offering after the "incident" from last week, especially since we hadn't spoken or seen each other since then.

James was probably avoiding me.

Strangely, his avoidance relieved me rather than hurt my feelings. Denial worked well most of the time, and James's friendship was far too precious to consciously take the risk of destroying it. I suspected he felt the same way. So, we'd both act like nothing had changed between us the next time we saw each other. And things would go along as they had been doing for the last six months.

It wasn't the best situation, but it was how it had to be unless I wanted to ruin a lifelong friendship with a person I loved and cared about. As if on cue, the timer went off. I turned off the timer and opened the oven to check on my cookies. They looked perfect, but the key to having them stay that way was to get them out on time and onto a cooling rack.

I reached for the hot pad where it had been sitting beside the sink and began pulling the cookies out of the oven.

The hot pad protecting my hand went utterly nuclear hot just as I had the cookie sheet halfway between the open oven and the cooling rack. Everything then turned to complete shit.

Hot as in a skin-scorching 350 degrees.

I dropped the pan the second I had it level with the countertop. I couldn't help it as the pan clattered down with a bang and cookies scattered everywhere. It happened so fast I didn't even feel my hand crash into the side of the dish cabinet.

My body's response to the burning of skin was reflex. I had zero control over direction of movement—only the instinct to put as much distance between the heat and what was being burned—as quickly as possible.

The

fact that I kept a set of very sharp knives attached to a magnetic rack on the side of the dish cabinet in my kitchen?

Bad.

Bad luck.

Bad string of events.

Just REALLY BAD.

The blood didn't start gushing immediately, so I wasn't aware until I felt the tickling sensation of trails flowing down my arm, and the dripping of big, warm, plops onto my leg.

And saw some splash onto the floor.

I stared in horror. The sight of blood was nauseating to me. Always had been. I didn't know why, but I just couldn't handle seeing it. The pain wasn't the worst pain, and I could endure it. But the sight of gushing blood from my body?

Hell, no!

I needed help—and since I was incapable of even managing a simple glance at my hand to assess the damage—I needed help from another person.

My phone was charging in my bedroom. My brother was gone. The closest "help" I knew of was one floor above me working out in his home gym.

I didn't think about it, because if I did, it wouldn't matter when I was passed out still bleeding profusely, and hopefully not to death. I grabbed the first thing I could find to soak up blood. With the hot pad pressed against my hemorrhaging hand, I headed into the hallway and stairwell. Only one flight of stairs. I couldn't look at my hand, but I could climb a single flight of stairs. What the hell have you done to yourself?

When I stumbled out of the stairwell and to James's apartment, I'd just about exhausted my mental reserves. There wasn't a lot left inside me to combat the nausea. I felt myself slide to the floor to land on my ass.

I pushed my feet forward and kicked at the base of his door as hard as I could, and as many times as I could.

And screamed his name.

Chapter Six

JAMES