Page 41 of Sixth Sin

More paparazzi. More questions. More lies.

By the time I finally drift off to sleep, it’s anything but restful.

Pennies.

I smell pennies.

Lowering my arm, I blink, staring at the floor and adjusting my blurry eyes to the darkness. I’m not alone. A pair of dark boots shuffle as they move toward me.

One step. Two steps. Three steps. Four steps. Five steps.

The scent of pennies grows stronger the closer the boots come. When they’re right in front of me, they stop, and I stare, knowing my choices will end in consequences.

“It’s time to go, little one. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life.”

A strangled gasp tears from my throat as I sit straight up in bed.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

DOMINIC

Slamming the car door, I squint as the sun flips a middle finger and smacks me right in the face. Mornings are not my friend, but this one is extra shitty for multiple reasons. One of them being the raging hangover that’s stabbing into my brain with a rusty icepick.

I admit, downing half a bottle of whiskey last night wasn’t the brightest idea. With a lawn-full of paparazzi foaming at the mouth, I should have kept my wits about me. I should have kept Angel inside and contained. I should have kept an eye on her while keeping my distance.

I should’ve kept my hands to myself.

I don’t know what I was thinking. Actually, that’s just it—I wasn’t thinking. At least not with the head that mattered. Thankfully, the paparazzi were still fucking around on the front lawn, or who knows what might have happened.

Not true. I know damn well what would’ve happened. I would’ve had her bent over that lounge chair screaming my name until she was hoarse.

There’s something about her that gets under my skin. For some fucked up reason, I have this insane need to protect her as I exploit her. Even though she’s determined to hate me almost as much as I’m determined not to care.

News flash. It’s not working.

Sometimes determination lands you right back where you started—swimming in a pile of shit.

And that’s where I am right now—standing outside a giant pile of shit. A half green, half white painted building I swore I’d never step foot in again, much less be summoned to like a goddamn servant.

Yet here I am.

Dominic McCallum, at your service.

I glance up, gritting my teeth as Monty’s Auto Body Repair Shop glares back at me in big, block letters. One of LA’s finest full-service garages. Guaranteed to tune your car in the front and wash your money in the back.

Grimacing, I squint again, pressing my thumb against my temple to counteract the incessant drilling in the side of my head. I should’ve expected this. The minute my phone rang last night, I knew who was calling. Not because he gave a shit, but because the bastard still thinks I owe him. Because he’s concerned about his own ass. Or maybe because he read the blast and dollar signs shot out of his ass faster than a two-dollar taco.

Letting out a breath, I open the door, wincing at the obnoxiously loud jingle. Walking into the muted yellow office feels strange and familiar at the same time. It’s like visiting your childhood home and seeing a new family playing in the front yard. A part of you belongs to it, but it no longer belongs to you.

That’s some deep shit I don’t care to delve into with a hangover.

“Dominic, what a surprise.” Sofia’s red lips curve in a forced smile as she stares up at me over her computer.

I’d roll my eyes, but it’d aggravate my headache, and this bitch isn’t worth the ibuprofen. “Where is he?” I ask. Forget it. I’m fresh out of fucks to give, so I don’t wait for an invitation. I’m around her desk and headed down the long hallway toward the office at the end. The one with the permanently closed door. To enter requires an invitation, and to exit, well, sometimes that depends on the mood of the man sitting behind the desk.

“Asshole!” Sofia yells at my back.

I flip my middle finger over my shoulder and keep walking.

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