Reveal (Wicked Ways #2)(82)

“You’re lying.” I grit the words out as the fear he’s right when I know he’s not takes root. “That’s not the man Ryker is.”

“No, you’re right. It’s not. He just offers his girlfriend up for no reason other than to pay back a debt.”

“I’ve heard enough.” I rip my purse off the counter when I don’t even remember setting it down.

Abel’s laugh rings out the loudest. “Like we care. Remember, Vee, we have all of your phone calls. We have everything on you. Everything.”

My body vibrates with fury and shame and embarrassment like I’ve never felt before. I fight back the sobs from manifesting, but my shoulders heave like I’m already crying.

I jump when Noah’s arm rests on my shoulders, and as much as I should buck it off me, I need to know what it is he wants to say.

“We know this is a lot to take in . . . but like we said, we wouldn’t have picked you if we didn’t trust that you could pull this off.”

Lies. All fucking lies, I want to scream at him. You’re blackmailing me.

All the while tearing my world apart.

I don’t trust myself to speak, so I nod.

“You do this, we don’t prosecute you. Simple as that,” Noah explains.

“And if I don’t?” I fear to ask.

“Let’s just say this would make a great episode for Law and Order, ripped straight from the headlines,” Abel jokes.

“We’ll be in touch in the next few days,” Noah says with a glare directed at his partner. “We’ll get everything set up, and—”

“And we suggest you don’t speak a word of this to anyone. And I mean anyone. Or the problems you’re facing right now will be minor in comparison,” Abel says, unable to resist one last threat. “We’ve put a lot of man hours into this investigation, and if you tell anyone and screw it up, it won’t be just the two of us you’re screwing over—”

“But the whole bureau as well,” Noah finishes for him.

I nod again, the tears burning.

“We know where to reach you,” Abel says. “You’re free to go . . . for now.”

And with that, I walk out the door and leave the life-altering change that room and those men just caused for me.

The elevator ride down feels like it lasts hours.

The walk through the lobby feels like it’s miles.

But I put one foot in front of the other, never more sure of two things. First, I’m sick of men feeling like they have power over me and asserting it. My uncle James, my brother-in-law Brian, Carter Preston, Ryker in the beginning . . . and now the FBI.

Second, this is my worst nightmare all wrapped up into one ball of barbed wire. No matter what I say or do, I’m bound to be cut and injured.

Nothing is safe right now.

Least of all me.





CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Vaughn

I wander the streets of New York.

My wig still on. My heels still high. My outfit still impeccable. But everything about me an absolute disaster.

Time passes in corners turned, in blocks counted, in neighborhoods walked through.

At some point I hear my phone ringing.

I don’t know how many times Ryker calls before I answer it, more than aware that my every word is being listened to. My every verb scrutinized. My every noun analyzed.

“Hey.” Fake it till you make it.

“Vaughn? Is everything okay?” Concern edges Ryker’s voice, and I shove away the hot tears the sound causes with the back of my hand.

“Fine. Yes. I’m fine.” I take a left on the corner of Eldridge and Grand. Another walk to nowhere.

His silence causes me to stop. “You’re walking.”

“No,” I lie. “I’m out front. I had to get something out of the mailbox.”

“You didn’t call me.”

“For what?” I’m having a hard time focusing on anything, let alone Ryker. Everything hurts—my head, my heart, my body—exhaustion and fear taking their toll.

“You were going to come over after work. I was going to send a car. We’d have a late dinner. Vaughn?”

“Yes. Sorry. I’m—uh, I’m just not feeling well. The new client bought oysters. I think I ate a bad one.”

“I’ll come over.”

“No.” I say it more forcefully than I should. “My head’s fuzzy, and my stomach is upset, and I just want to lie on the bathroom floor and sleep.”

“Vaughn, let me take care of you.”

“No. I don’t want you—I don’t want to get you sick,” I correct myself.

“You said it was an oyster. If it’s food poisoning, I won’t get sick.”

“It could be the stomach flu too. It’s going around the staff at the club.”

“Vaughn.” My name says he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.

“I have to go. I’m going to throw up,” I lie and end the call.

And then I stand with my back against some building, my face lifted up to the moonless night, with tears coursing down my cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into the night.

But I’m not sure what exactly for or who the apology is meant for.