Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Fuck that.
I’m nobody’s secret.
I yank out my phone, thumbs tapping before I can think twice.
Me: You busy tonight?
The text flies off like a bullet. No time to overthink.
Bane’s reply comes quick. Too quick.
No. Why? You want me to bring pasta on my way home? You eat pasta, I eat you? I’ve still got the taste of you on my tongue.
A shiver dances down my spine, sharp and electric, pooling heat between my thighs. My knees wobble, and for a second, I almost let it go. Almost let the sweet talk smooth over the jagged edges.
But I’m Moira.
I always poke.
Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: when something feels too good to be true, there’s always a catch.
Me: Good, you’re free. Dress up nice and meet me here at 8:00.
I drop a pin, my thumb hovering before I add the kicker.
Me: I want to introduce you to my brother.
I hit send before I can chicken out.
Then I stare.
And wait.
The screen stays blank.
No reply. No dots. Just the harsh glow of expectation burning into my retinas.
Maybe he’s just busy, I lie to myself, heart pounding like a drumline. Maybe his phone’s dead. Maybe he’s—
…
I suck in a breath, not realizing I’d been holding it.
Then the dots disappear.
Pop back up.
…
Disappear again.
My pulse pounds in my ears. “Answer me back, you motherfucker,” I hiss at the phone like it owes me something, frantically waving my hand through the lingering weed smoke like that’ll help.
Finally—ping.
Bane: I don’t know. I might have to be on a call with the worship committee tonight. Can we have your brother over for dinner another time?
I blink.
The worship committee?
WORSHIP COMMITTEE?
Me: Lie
My thumbs type furiously.
Me: You just said you were free.
He tries to call me, but I silence it. More fucking smooth talk isn’t going to cut it. I’m seeing red. The petty, righteous kind that demands satisfaction. My thumbs fly over the screen.
Me: I’m at work
I type, fingers hitting the keys like they personally offended me.
Me: And maybe I’m done with your secrets. Meet me tonight where I said or we’re over.
Send.
The second it flies off, regret crashes into me like a freight train.
Fuck. Did I just ultimatum him?
I did.
Fuck, fuck, fuck—I just ultimatum’d him.
Why did I do that?
I pace in frantic little circles, bouncing on my toes, phone clutched like it’s a grenade. My mind spins out:
Should I text back? Say I didn’t mean it? Play it cool?
Or grovel? Maybe grovel.
No. Fuck that!
But also, maybe yes, grovel.
Ugh, why am I like this?
“Say something!” I hiss at the phone.
But the screen stays stubbornly dark.
No dots.
Just me and my spiraling thoughts.
Minutes drag by, stretching into the unbearable. I consider typing another text—something cute, something flirty, something to undo the explosion I just caused—but the self-loathing bubbles up before I can.
Weak. Stupid. Naïve.
I hate that voice. But it’s mine.
Finally, the phone pings.
I fumble it like a greased-up football, scrambling to unlock the screen.
Bane: Fine. We’ll discuss this tonight.
Relief crashes over me in a tidal wave, but it’s bitter, mixed with dread. I glance up, catching my reflection in the cracked mirror above the grimy sink.
Oh. Shit.
I look like a street cat that’s just lost a turf war. Hair wild, smudged eyeliner from god-knows-when, janitor gloves still dangling from my pocket like sad little flags of defeat.
And I’ve just arranged for my very pissed-off, possibly-keeping-secrets-from-me dominant to meet my brother—who also happens to not be speaking to me—at one of the city’s swankiest yearly galas.
Oh, and I have nothing to wear.
I chuck my gloves into the janitorial bucket, wipe my palms down my jeans like that’ll help, and whip out my phone again.
Fuck. Who’s the fanciest person I know?
I text furiously.
Me: Kira, HELP. Fashion Emergency 911!
TWENTY-THREE
BANE
Am I furious that Moira’s cornered me into this public spectacle of a night?
Yes.
Is it my own damn fault for the way I’ve handled things from the start and then doubling down on stupidity by feeding her some half-baked lie about a worship committee meeting to wiggle out of it?
Also yes.
I tried to justify it to myself, of course. Technically, it wasn’t really a lie. They have been asking me to join those calls, nudging me to step in and lead. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? The second I’m on the line, everyone suddenly defers to me, looking for guidance they’re perfectly capable of providing themselves. I’ve been trying to cultivate leadership from within and make them realize they don’t need me. Priests only stay in a parish for seven years or so. They should stand on their own, whether I’m presiding or not.
But when you peel away all the righteous justification, it was a bullshit excuse.
And Moira saw right through it.
So here I am, sitting in the back of an Uber, grinding my teeth as we circle the city blocks congested with traffic, all funneled toward the bright chaos of the famous yearly Christmas charity gala.