Page 107 of Heart Over Heels

His hand came to rest on my shoulder, and I caught a whiff of his cologne, warm smoke and citrus peel, smooth and soothing.

“Take a minute if you need it,” he said. “Or longer. We’ll be here.” A wry smile touched his mouth as he added, “I have a feeling we’ll be here all night.”

I huffed an unhappy laugh. “Tomorrow too.”

He nodded. “Tomorrow too. And then we’ll have the party you planned and send a message to Antonella and her brood that we aren’t so easily defeated.”

With a final squeeze to my shoulder, he left, disappearing into the damaged club.

When I was alone, I slumped.

Shrank.

It didn’t feel easy.

It felt like agony standing there steeped in heartache and flanked by the ruin of the only home I had.

I would have to confront it. Claim it. Eventually accept it as another scar layered over the surface of my battered heart.

It would make me stronger, shrewder, and a little bit sadder.

It would also bring me closer to understanding the tears my mother had shed every night after the clients were gone, when she thought I was asleep. And the way, come morning, she wouldsmooth her hair and smile because pretty was for anyone who wanted it, but love didn’t belong to people like us.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-ONE

Mercer

I couldn’t go home.

The emptiness there was worse now—the loneliness had become a fog that spread for miles around the place, warning me off. It reminded me of what Darby had done there, settling me into my own house after I’d spent months drifting through it like a ghost. It reminded me of the angels lurking in my living room, issuing threats and rendering me ineffective in the face of danger. Making me an accomplice to their crime.

So I rode.

I looped the highways that ringed the city, burning gas and time, chasing the horizon until the sun went down and the neon came up.

It was dark before I found myself pulling into the lot of the VFW Post, not sure when or even if I’d made the decision to come here.

But where else was I supposed to go?

I’d barely swung my leg off the Victory before my cell phone buzzed against my hip.

For one stupid, hopeful second, my heart jumped. Darby. Please let it be Darby. He could’ve said anything—hateful, bitter, cruel—and I would’ve listened, just to hear his voice.

But the screen readUnknown Caller.

Still, on the off chance it was someone else from the Dollhouse, I thumbed it on and lifted it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Nice work, Mister James.”

I would’ve been happy never to hear from Antonella Rossetti again, but there she was, sounding as self-satisfied as ever.

My stomach dropped. “Is that it?”

A pause.