The Rake (Boston Belles 4)

Two somethings.

There was Devon too. And as much as it frightened me to admit it to myself—he wasn’t like the men who’d let me down. I’d traded my soul to the devil the day I had taken revenge on Coach. I’d paid for the pleasure of taking a life with my youth, with my joy, with my innocence. Lacking all three made it impossible for me to get attached to a man. But Devon Whitehall wasn’t just a man. He was much more.

“You can start by telling me what the fuck I ever did to you!” Frank grabbed the knife he’d threatened me with and pointed at me from across the living room, spitting each word out. “Why’d you fire me when I had a pregnant girlfriend at home? My mom’s medical bills … you know, she passed away two weeks before you fired me. I took a week off. You didn’t even send me a sympathy card. Nothing.”

Pursing my lips, I closed my eyes and thought back to that period of time. When I wasn’t working, I was partying. Hard. There were a string of house parties, then charity events, then a girls’ Babymoon weekend in Cabo for Persy and Aisling. I’d relied on Ross to play Mommy and Daddy at Madame Mayhem and didn’t much care about what was going on in other people’s lives. I was busy keeping myself distracted because that was how I coped whenever memories of Mr. Locken and what I’d done to him resurfaced. I didn’t care about anything or anyone other than myself.

Worst of all—I didn’t remember ever hearing that Frank’s mom had passed away.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” I tried to sound calm, but my words stumbled over one another. “I really am. But, Frank, I didn’t know about your mother, or your girlfriend. Certainly not about your debt. I have a minimum of thirty employees on my payroll at any given time. All I knew was that you copped a feel and harassed one of the burlesque girls.”

“That’s what she said.” He sent his knife crashing against the coffee table between us. The blade kissed the glass, and the thing shattered inward noisily. “You went and told every local reporter I tried to rape her. I couldn’t get a job. Not even a temp one. Not even washing the dishes! You humiliated me!”

I swallowed down a yelp.

Baby Whitehall felt like fingers strumming piano keys, running from left to right then left again.

“Frank, I saw you,” I insisted, exasperated. “Your hand was on the curve of her ass. Your other hand was shoved between her legs.”

I remembered how they both reacted when I walked in on the scene. How she was in tears. How he was in shock.

“I wasn’t harassing her.” Frank darted up from the beige chaise, grabbing a soda can and smashing it against the wall. Orange liquid splashed across it like an abstract painting, dripping onto the floor. I wanted to believe one of the neighbors might hear the commotion and call for help but knew that the houses were too far apart for that to happen. Damn middle-class suburbia.

“We were having an affair. Christine and I were having an affair. I was fingering her when you walked in on us, and she got scared, because she knew you were a no-bullshit kind of boss and also because it was known around the club that my girlfriend was pregnant. She didn’t want to look like a homewrecker or a slut, even though, for the record, she was both, so she made up that story that I harassed her!”

I deeply resented his characterization of Christine, even though I didn’t agree with her behavior. It took two to tango, and no one forced this asshole to have an affair with her. Of course, this was hardly the time to retaliate by sending truth bombs his way.

“I didn’t know all that.” I hated how small my voice was.

“Yeah, well, that’s because you never bothered giving half a shit about anything that wasn’t your club, your parties, your clothes, and your one-night stands. Christine went after me. She knew I had access to Ross’ calendar and schedule. I messed with it, giving her better hours and shifts when he wasn’t looking.” He picked up his knife from the ocean of broken glass in the middle of the living room, wiping it on the side of his jeans.

I moved uncomfortably on the couch. The duct tape was digging into my wrists, and I wanted to stretch my legs.

“Look, Frank, I’m sorry if—”

“I’m not done!” he roared, getting in my face. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes dancing with madness. “I lost everything. My girlfriend found out—of course she did. I got fired publicly, after all, and no one would hire me. Every time we left the house, a reporter or a photographer loitered nearby, because everyone likes a train-wreck story of a guy with a pregnant teenage girlfriend who harassed a burlesque girl and got his ass kicked by the manager of a club for it. My girlfriend didn’t leave, but she wouldn’t fucking let that shit go. Christine, the bitch, left the burlesque show and moved back to Cincinnati to marry some old fuck. He’s about to be in for a surprise when he realizes the baby she’s cooking for him belongs to me. And me? I got hooked on fentanyl. Because, you know, why the hell not?” He cackled tonelessly.