Page 21 of Nothing to No One

“Before I’m anyone’s muse,” she said, unsure how to react to the new man’s scrutiny. “I need to make a call.”

“A call?” Struan asked, then answered. “Wishbone?”

More proof. A good man not only interested in getting laid, he’d cared enough to listen. And she’d stuffed it up already. Wasn’t life just one big laugh?

EIGHT

THE LAND OF MAKE BELIEVE encircled her. She’d woken in normality and, somehow, since then, had been elevated to princess status. Agreeing to the insane scheme turned out to be just the first stop on the crazy train. She’d been shown to a bedroom upstairs, her room, apparently, and given time to make her call. More insanity she didn’t want to relive.

Her Wishbone conversation had been put to an abrupt halt when a bunch of people flooded her room. Stylists with clothes, hairdressers, makeup artists, beauticians, nail techs, and the waxing guy, he hadn’t been fun.

Activity flurried around her. People appeared and disappeared without introduction or explanation. They gathered and discarded apparel as she was dressed up like Barbie, in this outfit and that. Most of the time, well, some of the time, she was allowed a glimpse in a mirror before one outfit was replaced with the next. Why was it so important to prepare her closet for every eventuality in one afternoon?

Obligation to surrender silenced her questions. Everyone was being so nice, how could she question their purpose?

Her hair was dyed and curled; false nails were buffed and polished. She was tweezed and tanned and waxed and shined in every intimate corner without regard for modesty, sometimes decency. Here and there, she caught a name, but couldn’t figure out which body went with which moniker. Then just as quick, Chic, the man directing the performance, commanded everyone depart.

Carts and trollies and racks of clothes were wheeled out to be transported away in vans lined up in the driveway. From her room, the view was pretty damn amazing, probably not the best in the city but far better than any mortal, such as herself, should ever experience.

“How are you doing?” Struan’s voice turned her on the spot.

When their eyes met, her smile was automatic. “You live a crazy life.”

He snickered. “This isn’t my life, not the one I choose. This is Roman’s life.”

Struan lived and worked with his twin brother, yet he didn’t claim the same life? How did that work? Where did Struan’s life begin? What was his?

“And you’re just along for the ride? Everyone’s so kind,” she said, smoothing a hand down her hair, continuing the caress to her dress. “I don’t know how anyone lives like this full-time.”

“It’s addictive. Mark my words on that. Usually, all it takes is a taste. Everyone wants to drown in it, terrified it might ever be taken away.”

Like they would be taken from each other when this was over.

“You don’t seem addicted.”

His regard was curious, yet subdued, she couldn’t figure it out.

“Not really,” he said. “We’ve had more downs than ups these last few years. I keep thinking it’ll straighten out, then some other drama, or some other crime—”

“Crime?” Alarm speared her. “Who’s breaking the law?”

“I don’t mean illegal.” Slipping his hands into his pockets, he sauntered a few steps closer. The bed between them formed a physical barrier, like a manifestation of their new positions in the novel setup, close, yet far apart. “Though I can’t deny thecops would be interested in some of the shit that’s gone down. My brother’s an addict. When you’re that deep in, boundaries, morals, they don’t mean anything. They come and go as the need grows.”

Some of the glitter of the day had been tarnished by the man she’d met on the couch downstairs.

“I don’t have anything to worry about, do I? Would you be honest with me?”

“Worry about? Roman’s clean.”

Or that was the line they were selling.

She was a stranger and wouldn’t be allowed access to every intimate detail, of course not, but if she was going to spend time there, she had to be prepared. Had to know what her life would be.

“Downstairs he seemed…” How did she put it without insulting the men? “You’re so different, you and him. In a way, I’m grateful for that because no lines will be confused, but I have to admit he made me uncomfortable at first.” At first? That implied the discomfort was temporary, it wasn’t. They hadn’t spent enough time together to change that opinion. “For some reason, I trust you, more than I trust him. Stupid, I guess.” Because she had no ownership of him, of either man. “I don’t know much about your brother’s addiction history, but I’ve seen what can happen when men are intoxicated.”

“Most people can’t tell us apart. Those who don’t know us. Everyone thinks we’re the same.”

She couldn’t claim to know him completely. One thing was certain though.

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