Page 44 of The Count
She jerked backward. “What? No.”
She sat up and looked at me now. “But glad to know you have no more use for me. I guess a limping disguise isn’t a very good one, anyway.”
I sat beside her and tried to control my frustration. She’d been chipping away at it bit by bit since she came here. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
She slid of the edge of the bed to standing.
I swooped her in my arms and lifted her. “I just wanted to take a shower.”
“You can’t with that bandage on your leg.”
I walked her into another room off the other side of my closet. This room rarely got used since I never felt the need to take a bath.
She gasped when I flipped on the light. “You were holding out on me. Is that a Jacuzzi tub? She wriggled until I sat her down on the edge of the tile.
I ran the water and she adjusted in to a molten temperature before pouring in some shampoo to make bubbles.
Once she’d removed her clothes, I helped her in the tub and arranged a towel over her bandage so she didn’t get it wet. She sighed and sank lower in the suds.
When she yelled at me, I came over and washed her hair for her. A surprisingly arduous task. It required two washes and a lot of conditioner to clean the entire length to her satisfaction. She laughed at my facial expression. “And then we have to brush and dry it all. You know I should probably cut i—”
“NO!”
She laughed at me and I splashed her face with some hot water. “Haha.” Despite her playful tone I still felt the undercurrent of her rejection earlier. And I couldn’t shake the fact that she wasn’t telling me something. I hadn’t figured out what quiet yet though.
I held her out of the bath again and into some clothes. My body burned with the need to take her, claim her, make sure she knew who she belonged to. But not while she was injured. Besides, consent on narcotics didn’t count.
Back in bed, I sat on the coverlet and made sure she didn’t need anything. A stack of books sat beside the bed and I noted she’d taken some of my personal shelf. Worn battered well-loved copies. It eased me somewhat.
“I’m going to get dressed and then go do some work.”
She nodded, sleepily and rolled over to watch me.
When I came back in the room I stood over the bed, shirt in hand. She continued her inspection, I shook my head, and walked away. Maybe I’d imagined the look she gave me. The tension of the morning finally seeped in.
I sat behind the desk and dragged the green book toward me. The code took minutes to sort out. I identified all the names on the list except the flower on the last line. There were no female hierarchy members in the gangs right now, unless you counted St. James’ new wife. But she’d be in another book, her own empire to manage.
I scanned the entries and found payments going back to the night I’d been arrested. Her flower sat right there with the other men who betrayed me. And then it came up regularly once a year to a last name. Then after 18 years the payments switched, went up, and started being sent to a college.
I scanned everything again and made sure I’d decoded it correctly. Did I miss something? ‘
The knowledge hit me like a sledgehammer to the nasal cavity. I bowed back with the weight of it.
No. No. No. She wouldn’t. No. She didn’t.
I stared at my bedroom door. Mercedes was the flower. If that were the case, after my incarceration, what were all these payments for?
I checked the entry. Another payment needed to go out today. Fate, you wily bitch. I checked the college event list and found a fundraising event listed.
Looked like my traitorous ex-fiancé needed a serious wake up call. She cared enough to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for twenty years now. And before I killed her myself, she’d see whatever that was ripped away.
My chest felt like someone scooped it out with a melon baller. Empty, misshapen, painful.
I stood, tucked the ledger under my arm, and stopped at my bedroom door. Would this ever be over? Could I ever be free?
Eighteen
Mercy
