The floor was cleaned and the towels and bloody water had gone.
Did the cleaning lady do that or him?
Sunshine bounced into the room, defying the white blinds, half drawn to stop the glare on the computer screens, and the large mathematical artwork loomed ever higher, as if taunting me from my dream.
He helped you with your homework.
Whoever the boy was who owned my heart, he was smart—just like this brooding president.
Kill sat in the glow of early morning sun, his naked chest gleaming from a recent shower. He hadn’t dressed yet, but wore a pair of black boxer-briefs. His tattooed leg was hidden beneath his desk. I leaned against the door frame, watching the planes of his back as the golden light made him seem otherworldly. The large ridges of muscle elongated down his spine, looking both masculine and graceful. The huge tattoo was a stain on his flesh. The skull and coins were there, along with the motto—but it looked clouded. As if it’d been drawn over another design—a design that refused to fade beneath the new ink.
I much preferred the tattoo on his leg. It had stories to tell—good stories, happy even. The one on his back was more of a sentence—a lifestyle I didn’t fully understand.
My eyes went to the information dancing on the computer screens.
“See that, Buttercup?”
I opened my eyes, turning to face the television. I lay on his lap, drowsy and content after our day in the sun at the beach. “See what?”
He leaned down, running his gentle fingertips through my hair. “The stock market. That’s called a pip spread. It’s how people make money from trading. And this particular platform is the most lucrative one there is.”
I scrunched my nose. I couldn’t make sense of the flickering colors and lines jerking down, then up, then down again. “What is it?”
“It’s the FX.”
“In English, please, brainiac.” I pinched him, smiling as he chuckled quietly. No one else got to hear him laugh. That was mine and mine alone.
“It’s the foreign currency market and I’m going to use it to make us a fortune.”
The flashback ended.
The knowledge was bright—each small glimpse into my past building a picture out of slices of history. I had no idea what the big picture would reveal but I had to trust my brain would work it out—eventually.
He trades.
I stayed silent by the door, taking in Kill’s intense concentration as he sat on the high-backed office chair and stared into the four screens as if they held the meaning of life.
Graphs, charts, and pie diagrams covered one computer, while another held candlestick evaluations and world clocks. The other two were black with blinking red and green numbers, changing rapidly on different columns.
His head moved slightly, gathering information from each screen, his fingers tracing over the keyboard, making snap decisions based on the conclusions he came to.
How wealthy is he?
What is he hiding?
I jumped as the harsh sound of a cell phone buzzed beside his mouse.
He snatched it up without looking away from the screens. “Kill.”
I couldn’t hear the caller, but Kill’s back stiffened. He straightened, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “Did stage one go off okay?”
Silence while the caller replied.
“That’s good. Tell Wallstreet I’m grateful for his insight. It seemed he was right about that particular issue. I’m just fucking glad it worked.” Kill’s tone was dark with grim pleasure.
What had been done? What projects was he puppeteering all while babysitting me?
Kill suddenly tensed. “Tell him it’s none of his goddamn business.”
I smothered my smile. Seemed that was a favorite saying of his.
“No, I don’t care. We sold the five. He got whatever he wanted by doing something the Club was against. Why the fuck does he care about the sixth?”
I froze. Icicles formed in my blood. Me. They’re talking about me.
“How the fuck did he find out?” He bowed forward, resting his elbow on the table, and dragging his fingers overs his face. “No. I’ll deal with him. Thanks for the heads-up. I’ve got the girl here.”
The caller spoke; Kill breathed harder.
“Fuck. That’s bullshit. I said I’d find a buyer. I don’t—”
The caller cut him off. Kill punched the top of his desk. “Goddammit, what the fuck is his problem? When does he want her?”
Silence as the caller answered.
“No, I’m not gonna hand her over; I’ll take her myself.” Opening the top drawer of his desk, he pulled out a gun. “Wait for me—I’m coming over.” He hung up.
Oh God. Was that gun for me? To threaten me?
I faded into the corridor, not wanting to be caught, but not willing to let him out of my sight. He lied to me.
What did that mean? That the bargain we’d made was broken? I thought he was the president. Why was he bowing to other’s demands?
My body trembled with the need to run—to get as far away from false promises and complicated bikers as possible, but I paused.
Kill bowed his head, massaging his neck with both hands. He looked weary and carrying the weight of endless grief.
Don’t feel sorry for him. Don’t you dare feel sorry for him.
I inched closer to the stairs, ready to scurry back to my room and plot an escape, but Kill bent to a bottom draw and opened it with a key. Slinking his hand in, he pulled out a small piece of paper. I couldn’t see what it was. A photograph? A shopping list?