Still Not Over You(65)

“Move, Dallas!” I say. Maybe if I play it cool. Act like I don’t suspect him. “I need to find Landon. It’s important.”

“Unfortunately, darling, I need you to not find Landon. Or Milah. Not right now. I need you right here.” He smirks. “Look at you. You’re a mess. The story practically tells itself. Love-crazed, jealous little girlfriend chases down her man and poisons her rival. Poor incompetent Landon. So inept at managing his business he can’t even protect his clients from one devious little woman. Think what the blogs and papers will say!”

My eyes widen. Everything recedes to a dull, roaring distance.

That's it then. He’s going to use me to frame Landon. Only, that doesn’t work if I can tell the entire story and show him up for the snake he is.

Then it hits me: the only way this works for Dallas is if I’m dead.

Cold sweat ices down my spine. I don’t waste words.

I’m only frozen for a moment longer before I bolt, darting for the small opening at his side, shoving past him. I barely manage to squeeze beyond his bulk before his arm snares around my waist, an immovable band of steel.

He jerks me back against him in a mockery of a lover’s embrace. Even while I kick, struggling and snarling and jerking against him, he bends down and whispers in my ear.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, and my skin crawls at the mimicry of intimacy, at his breaths curling against my ear. “This pill won’t kill you...yet. They’ll find the other in your pocket, and realize you tried to commit a murder-suicide. You should thank me, Kenna. It’ll be painless. You’ll slip away quietly in your sleep, and won’t have to see your annoying little boyfriend fall.”

He reaches around me with his other hand, clasps the wine glass I’m still clutching, and snaps the stem like it’s the thinnest twig.

I scream, elbowing back, fighting with everything in me, and there’s one satisfying thud as my head crashes back against his face before he snarls and clamps a hand over my mouth.

“Be a good girl,” he hisses in my ear, before something bitter and foul-tasting rolls over my tongue.

I fight not to swallow, but he pushes down harder, squeezing against my cheeks, pushing the pill deeper. It goes down in a hard little painful lump.

And then the world goes black, fading away into a wavering, trembling nothing.





18





Countdown (Landon)





Something isn’t right.

I feel like the only one standing still in a sea of panic, with the paramedics rushing in on Milah, the media angling for a look, the crowd alternately trying to rush the stage and stampede the exits.

Only, I’m motionless, watching as Milah is bundled onto a stretcher, taking in the details as the seconds tick by. She's alive for now. Still breathing.

The paramedics are already saying she collapsed from exhaustion, too much stress, the searing heat from the lights. But her skin is gray and her lips are blue, and she’s breathing oddly, her chest hitching up in shallow, strained jerks.

No. No, this isn’t right.

And the second I overhear one of the EMTs say “she’s going tacky. Might be dealing with a drug overdose,” my heart nearly stops before Milah’s can.

Fuck.

This isn't really happening.

Drugs? How? I was with her almost the entire time, and so was Skylar and James. None of us would've let her slip anything past us. She didn’t snort up or shoot up with me. I know her routine by now.

She doesn’t coke up right before going on stage. She forgets the lyrics, loses focus. There’s no way she’d OD. The girl is all kinds of messed up, but she took this show seriously.

This has Dallas' hand all over it.

I just have to figure out how.

But first, I have to find him.

At least I'm leaving Milah in safe hands. There’s nothing I can do for her medically, and several of my guys are clustered around, standing watch over the paramedics.

They’ll bring her back.

I have to believe that, but me hovering won’t help. I stride out of the wings and into the backstage hallway. It’s unnervingly deserted, dark, my steps echoing. Everyone’s either vacated the arena or rushed out to rubberneck, leaving the place looking like a disaster zone where people dropped everything just to run. Papers scattered, equipment abandoned.

Every instinct in me screams be ready. For what, I don't know, but it feels like an attack.

It’s like I’m back in Fallujah, relying on the same sixth sense soldiers develop in danger. A man who's seen combat can sense people’s intent riding on the air, this heavy scent of purpose that tells us when an enemy is ready to strike.

And this place stinks of Dallas.

But I can’t find anyone. Every room I check is empty, every hallway vacant, this horror movie atmosphere of silent tension stalking me through every corridor.

I know where all of my men are.

It’s telling that I don’t see a single crew member with the Crown Security logo on their jacket. I’m about ready to join my team on containment and cleanup, shelving Dallas for a more considered, careful approach, when I trip over something that yields with a rubbery push and then kicks back against my ankle. The hard edge of a sandal, with a foot still in it.

Fuck. I drop to my knees, an “Are you all right?” on my lips, only for the words to crumble into dry ash once I realize who I’m bending toward.