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)
Lyric opened her mouth. Shut it.
Turned to the battered steel door that opened into the club.
“This is not how I thought it was all going to turn out.”
“That’s life,” Marcia muttered. “If it goes otherwise, you’re too dumb to understand what’s happening.”
The woman marched over and opened things up. And then she just stood there as the blue glow bled out into the alley along with some measure of the interior’s heat and a thumping bass beat that went right into Lyric’s skull.
“You can turn your new leaf over after you’ve met your obligations.” Marcia swooped her hand, all lead-the-way-inside. “And yes, you can absolutely pretend that this is a dishonorable, exploitive way of making a living—but only after you do the job you sold to these people who paid good money to show up, in the cold, and wait for you to stand in a three-thousand-dollar pair of shoes that you’re going to throw out as soon as you get home because you’ve ruined them in the fucking snow.”
Lyric glanced out toward the wait line and again felt a hollow, ringing exhaustion. Especially because she didn’t know what had happened to Allhan. She could only hope that he’d made it back okay.
“After this, I’m done.”
“If I can get you out of R2E.” That hand swooped once again toward the interior. “And yes, I already lined that up before you were nearly wiped out by Valentina’s billboard.”
Great, Lyric thought.
With dread, she reentered the VIP area. People had already been let in, with the line snaking through the cordoned pathway to the step and repeat. As soon as she was spotted, a cheer went up and cell phone flashes started going off.
The faces were excited and hopeful, the bodies jumping, the crowd sending nothing but warmth and support her way. And this was everything she had wanted… once.
Glancing down at Marcia, she said, “You’re right. I can’t leave now.”
Marcia nodded in a bored way. “I’m always right. At least about this. And now for another truth bomb. The sooner you get started, the sooner it’s over. Up to the step and repeat you go—oh, Svet, darling, right? Can you believe it? She was nearly killed!”
As the other woman came flying over, she had her cell phone out. “I can’t believe it, no! Look what happened to you!”
The jealousy on her face was mostly hidden, and as she dipped in for a selfie, all Lyric could think was, Jesus, you actually wanted to be the one out in that street?
Taking a deep breath, she forced a smile for the iPhone, and then got to walking—in those expensive, ruined shoes that Marcia was, yup, right about: She was going to toss them when she got home, and she abruptly thought about the rest of her wardrobe. She had two closets full of beautiful, expensive clothing, all of which had been bought by exactly the kind of money that she’d brought in tonight.
The problem was not the crowd who’d come here. It was the content machine: the social media platforms, the managers, the influencers, who all worked together to create fantasy out of what was supposedly real, and turned people like her into false idols.
She thought about that man who had rushed out to help her, without any thought for his own safety.
Now that was real.
When she got beside the step and repeat, she went to take off his construction jacket.
Marcia leaned in from out of nowhere. “You should keep that on.”
Of course. Better for the pictures.
“Let’s bring the first person through,” Lyric said grimly as she rolled up the big, loose sleeves.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The eeriest thing about Wrath was the way you’d swear the King was seeing things. As Qhuinn squeezed into a wood-paneled study along with the others, he watched the blind male sweep his head around like he was checking out the room’s decor. Meanwhile, Tohr continued to stay at his elbow, guiding things when needed so that there was no risk of a trip and fall.
After thirty years of thinking Wrath had been blown to hell and gone, it was good to see the male with his second-in-command, the pair working together again.
What was not so hot was to have all the reunited-and-it-feels-so-good happen here at this traitor’s house.
Whestmorel’s den was set up around an ornate French desk with legs that had antique brass sculptures of women going breast-out in all directions. The walls were ringed with shelves full of show-off first editions, antique nautical crap, and Victorian-era mounted butterflies, and there were also window seats for reflection, a marble hearth for warmth, and as much personality as a hotel lobby.
The Brotherhood had already been through the drawers, the books, the nooks and the crannies. But again, like every other room in the house, it had been stripped clean of incriminating documents, computer components, cell phones, and identification. A couple of the art vacancies were in here, too: One behind the high-backed leather swivel chair. Another over the fireplace.