Page 10 of Boardroom Ties
I’m scared to learn what happens if I don’t.
4
CASS
Adrenaline.
Shock.
Fear.
Attraction.
Awe.
I mean, c’mon now. It’s too much.
I’m very grateful to the Blue-Eyed Bastard for saving me. But frankly, it’s a little rude of him to make me go through so many emotions at once. A girl has limits, you know? Emotional circuits have a maximum capacity, and mine are without a doubt overloaded. Any second now, I’m going to implode into a puddle of drooling, stuttering goo, and the B.E.B. will be at fault.
This whole night has been cursed from the start, really. From the millisecond I pulled up in front of Khaza, I should’ve known it was always destined to end up like this.
I keep jumping out of one frying pan and into another one that is somehow hotter. Now, I’ve finally found the heart of the flame.
Guess I should’ve realized that the hottest parts of the fire always burnblue.
I look up again to realize that the hand is still waiting for me. There’s a bit of blood smeared on the fingertip. As I watch, it wells up and falls to the ground.
With a gulp, I reach up to take it.
What else am I going to do? Sit here in a puddle of alley runoff and wait for the next horror to wander along? No thank you. I’ve met my quota of nightmare fuel for the evening.
His grip is so firm and warm and steadying that I almost want to cry. That’s annoying. I don’t cry. Not anymore. I cried for a long time after Giana’s funeral, and then I decided I was done with that particular bodily function.
Tears are for people who haven’t yet accepted that the world is a meat grinder and we’re all just waiting our turn. I accepted it a long time ago.
But God, his hand is sowarm.
He pulls me to my feet. My knee screams in protest. When I glance down, I see that the skin is torn open. Black grime mingles with red blood. It’s oddly pretty, the sight of those colors on my bare skin.
“Can you walk?” B.E.B. asks.
“Yes,” I declare, although my knee vehemently disagrees.
I thrust my chin high in the air and take one step.Nice work, Cass. It’s almost like you’ve been doing this since the day you were born.
Then, without further ado, my leg buckles completely, ligaments blaringCode Red, and the ground rushes up at my face. I’m about to add “traumatic brain injury” to tonight’s growing list of accolades when an arm hooks around my waist and hauls me back from the brink.
“That’s what I thought,” B.E.B. murmurs.
He doesn’t put me back on my feet. Instead, he reaches behind me with his free hand and drags a slab of flattened cardboard from where it’s been leaning against the dumpster. He folds it once to expose a clean spot, lays it across a dry patch of concrete, and lowers me onto it gently.
“There,” he says. “Sit. Stay.”
“Do you always talk to women like they’re dogs?” I wheeze, even as I accept the seat gratefully.
“Only the disobedient ones,” he fires back.
He drops down next to me on the cardboard, back against the brick alley wall, long legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. Despite his nice suit, he doesn’t so much as glance at the filth he’s sitting in. Either this man has zero regard for what I’m guessing is a very expensive ensemble, or he’s so far past caring about material things that it doesn’t even register. Must be nice to be that wealthy.
