Page 78 of Wallflower

Fuck, I don’t want to be alone again. Brad’s bound to show up and toss me right off the cloud I’m floating on.

“I want to stay, but I can’t.”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me. You may come and go as you please. I, on the other hand, am trapped here. Made to spread my legs at the snap of your fingers.”

The obsidian pits of Ripley’s eyes lock with mine. The look he gives me sends a shiver rolling down my spine as I slip beneath the sheet.

Slowly, it dissolves away, a coy smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. He raises his hand and snaps his fingers. Rising from the floor, he makes his way toward me. Paper bag in one hand, fingers poised on the other hand, ready to make that sound again.

Ripley leans over me, hovering his lips above mine in a taunt, and snaps his fucking fingers.

“Keep that up and I’ll break them, Mr. Morgan.”

His small laugh tries to pull a smile from me, but I resist.

“I don’t think you will, you seem to like them quite a lot.”

“You’re such an ass.”

“Guilty,” he jokes, pecking me swiftly on the lips. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. I wanted to whoop your ass inGo Fish.”

“Ok, bye,” I say, watching him dart to the door. “Wait… What?”

“Toodles,” he sing-songs, shooting me another wink before the door closes behind him, electronic lock sliding into place.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I set the alarm, and I’m still going to be pressed for time.

The gate is already open for me as I reverse down the entire length of Bleakcrest’s curvy driveway.

When I hit the road, I swing the front end around and high-tail it back toward the hotel. My phone beeps incessantly from within my pocket, and the urge to toss it out the window is hard to resist. Shantel, no doubt, is the one blowing up my fucking phone with all her texts and repeated calls.

Once I’m on the straightaway, I pull it from my pocket, reading the message previews on the screen. Just as I suspected.Seven messages and three unanswered calls from my head of security.

An incoming message from Mr. Smythe lights up the phone.

Mr. Smythe:

Don’t be late.

Neither my men nor I will appreciate it.

Prick.

Mr. Morgan:

Message received.

Another text doesn’t come in. Crisis hopefully averted. It’s more likely he’s waiting until the conclusion of the exchange to see what I’m made of, wondering how far I’ll go to see this through to the end.

There’s a missed text from Kyle, asking how the hell we can spar when we aren’t supposed to be seen together. I press theCallbutton. Bastard better answer this time.

“God fucking damn it, Rip, do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Yes. Since when are you in bed this early?”

“Since you started knocking on death’s door and sleep’s become elusive.”