I set the bottle down and grab the counter. I told her I came here to kill Gabriel when I came here to kill Tag. I came here because he knows she matters to me, but I just made sure she doesn’t. And I need to leave it at that. I have to leave it at that. I pull on my shoulder holster—fuck the shirt I’m not wearing—and once my gun is comfy at my side, I snap up the bottle again and walk back into the living room. I sit back down on the couch where Candace and I fucked the first time. Only it wasn’t fucking. I made love to her. The only woman I’ve ever made love to in my entire blood-laced life.
I set down my gun and phone right in front of me on the table when my cell rings with Blake’s name flashing on caller ID. I answer with, “I thought you were out catching serial killers or some shit like that?”
“I hope like fuck I am, but for now, I need to talk to you about Gabriel.”
“I’m listening.”
“Everything to do with your black ops project is completely un-hackable. There’s not much I call impossible. This is.”
“It went high up the government chain. You know I don’t slaughter people for just anyone.”
“Oh fuck. Are you drinking?”
“Fine whiskey, man.”
“Well stop. Because this is the kind of top-secret shit that gets people killed, including your woman.”
“I do my best fighting drunk and she’s not my woman. She’s just the woman I love.”
“I won’t touch that one with a ten-foot pole. Back to me. That seems a safer topic. Here’s what I did. I managed to draw a time and communication line between Tag and his team and people in Gabriel’s circle. Once Adam told me the general was a part of your operation, I included him. And fuck me, and all of us for that matter, considering how deep you are in this, there are links. Enough for me to believe this is all about that operation.”
“Candace found a message on a burner phone,” I say. “Once he marries her, he’s going to deal with her father.”
“Maybe he has a hit list that includes you.”
“And Tag,” I say. “No doubt that’s why I’m here. To deal with him.”
“Anything from Tag?”
“Nothing. I need to reach her father.”
“I know. He’s in a hot territory. I’m working on it. I’m working on ways to protect him. Don’t kill Gabriel. That’s not who you are with me.”
“You sure about that?”
“I am. I think you need to get sure with me. He’s corrupt. He’s got people around him that are corrupt. Let’s take him and them down. Protect the woman you love. I’ve got a serial killer to catch.”
“If I were there, I’d kill him for you.”
“In this case, I’d let you. Not Gabriel, Savage.” He hangs up. I take another drink. My phone buzzes with a text from Asher. I’m in place. And he’s presently fucking his campaign manager.
While I am not fucking the woman I love.
She hates me too much.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Candace
I wake alone in bed, with swollen eyes and the sound of rain pattering on the roof and splattering a song on my windows. Wonderful. It’s raining. And rain reminds me of the night I met Rick. I loved rain from that moment forward, right up until the Dear Candace letter. Then it became pain. It made me think of Rick and all we had and lost. And it’s pain now. He’s here but he’s not here for me. He was never here for me. He was here for Gabriel. To kill Gabriel. I sit up and grab my phone to read nine AM. There’s no message from my doting fiancé—surprise, surprise, but there is one from Linda: How are things?
In other words, did I see Rick? Of course, I saw Rick. I not only saw him, I let him fuck me and break my heart again. I reply with: Still mad at you. I’ll think about calling you tomorrow.
She replies with: He’s hotter than I remember.
I reply with: You are not getting me to talk about him.
She replies with: I’m coming over.
I reply with: Don’t do that. I beg of you.
Don’t beg, Rick always says and yet he begged for trust. And then he turned on me. He’s such an asshole. I throw away the blanket right as Linda replies with: He’s there, isn’t he?
I don’t answer her. I stand up and stare at my body in Rick’s shirt. Why did I leave it on? My gaze catches on his shoes and socks peeking from a spot at the end of the bed. He’s somewhere in my house, that used to be our house, shoeless, sockless, and shirtless. Lord help me, this isn’t getting any easier. I hurry into the bathroom, and with rough hands, slide out of his shirt, and climb in the shower. Forty-five minutes later, I’ve dried my hair, applied my make-up lightly, as I normally do, but with extra effort today to hide my puffy eyes. And my hair is no longer silk mahogany. It’s a slightly frizzy brown. Apparently, my new “no frizz ever” product doesn’t work. I look like crap. I look like the heartbroken ex who got played. Because I am and I did.