Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 710(@200wpm)___ 568(@250wpm)___ 474(@300wpm)
“I’ll spell it out. Most of the time I’d like to kill you, but if I do, I’m committing suicide. So I’m dealing with a really fucked-up conflict of interest—”
The vibration in Shuli’s pocket was a welcome distraction. At least until L.W. shoved his hand into his own jacket and pulled out his phone, too.
Group texts were never good news—
“Holy… shit,” Shuli breathed as he hit play on the video they’d been texted.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught L.W. staring down at his screen with the same surprise. Which was saying something. Usually the guy didn’t give two craps about anything other than hunting and killing. Then again, when was the last time either of them had seen a billboard go flying off a building and nearly crush somebody they knew?
And… maybe, on Shuli’s side… loved.
A little.
“Oh, fuck, Lyric,” he said. And who the hell was that Good Samaritan? “We got to get over to Bathe—”
L.W. shoved his Samsung away. “There’s no ‘we’ in that. Go if you want, I’m staying in the field.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“She lived, didn’t she.”
Shuli tilted his head. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Go and roll bandages if you want, I’m working the rest of this shift—”
“The fuck you are. You’re coming with me.”
The arrogant look that was tossed back at him was bog standard, and even though it would get him murdered for so many reasons—and it was only a fantasy in his mind—Shuli imagined stabbing the asshole a couple of times in the gut just on principle: The only thing the pair of them agreed on was that this mandated arrangement sucked, and the fact that it meant they had to live together was a total kick in the nads.
Before the male could lay down another round of autonomy, Shuli cut in, “You’re not going to make me choose between the friends who are all I have and the roommate I hate more than anything in this godforsaken city.”
“You’re right,” L.W. said with a shrug. “You’re not doing the choosing. I’m doing it for you.”
With that, the heir to the throne ghosted away, dematerializing into thin air.
* * *
As Lyric walked back to the club, she burrowed into the man’s coat, smelling his scent, feeling the scratch of the collar under her chin, being weighted by the bulky, loose folds. Surrounded by women who were buzzing, and led by Marcia in front, she felt like she was part of a fucked-up marching band, and had to beat off a depressed letdown. But come on, she’d miraculously been saved! She could be dead, in the middle of the street, her body picked up by emergency-response humans who would find out what she actually was and create all kinds of problems for her fathers and the Brotherhood. She should be thanking her lucky Lassiter that that stranger had come out of nowhere—
What color had his eyes been? She couldn’t seem to remember.
As a matter of fact, she couldn’t exactly call him to mind. Then again, there had been a lot to be distracted by.
Maybe she’d gotten hit on the head after all.
When Marcia got to the start of the alley, she called over one of the security guys from the wait line, and he stopped the crowd from following any farther. The breathing room was good. Now she just needed even more space.
Halting, she turned to Marcia—
The woman put up a palm before Lyric could say anything. “You have no idea what this has done for your career. You’re going to be trending on Zideo in a half hour with all that posting. If you aren’t already.”
As the words registered in her ears, Lyric’s chaotic brain couldn’t translate them. “I’m sorry… what?”
“You can’t pay for the kind of exposure you’re going to get after tonight. The world lives for a good romance story and you gave ’em a helluva one in the middle of that street out there.”
“There’s no romance, no story.” Lyric studiously ignored a flush of heat. “That was a complete stranger and dumb luck.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Marcia’s eyes went up and down the coat. “The currency you’re trading in is emotion, and there are few things that make a better setup than a damsel in distress and a fucking hot construction worker—”
“I can’t do this anymore.” She looked to all the people with camera phones being held back by the bouncer’s wide arms. “I’m going home and I’m closing my socials. I’m done.”
Marcia’s eyes narrowed. And then, for once, there was no hyperbole. No grand gestures.
In a low voice, the woman said, “You hired me to grow your business. You don’t have to like me, or approve of the way I do my job. But you signed a contract with me, I arranged this event for you, and you are not going to leave those people high and dry after they nearly saw you killed. Don’t do it for the views, fine. Fuck me off, too—you think that hasn’t been done before? Just don’t get all precious about how ‘ugly’ behind the curtain is when you’re getting exactly what you asked for.”