Page 92 of One Last Shot

“Trust me,” she says. Her voice is as flat and cold as a sheet of ice as she turns her head back toward me. “You really don’t.”

I turn on my hip so I’m facing her. “Why don’t I want to know, exactly?”

“Too close to home,” she says.

What the hell?I furrow my brow as I try to think about what she could mean. Who the hell would be too close to home? “Not Niko?”

She laughs. “Oh God no. Definitely not Niko. I never so much as looked at your brother.”

“Good. I was too old for you back then, so he wasreallytoo old for you.”

I can’t read the look that passes over her face. “Petra”—my voice is soft but insistent—“tell me.”

“No.”

“Why not.”

“Because once you know, you can’t un-know it.” She looks away again, as if downtown LA is the most interesting sight on the planet. Meanwhile, I can’t take my eyes off her in that maroon spandex tank top that’s barely containing her cleavage.

“You can’t say shit like that and expect me not to be even more curious.” I reach over and tilt her chin back toward me. “Tell me.”

“Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She pauses and waits for me to nod in agreement. “Felix.”

“Who the hell is Felix?” I ask, but she doesn’t say anything. Then it hits me. “Not the fucking gardener?”

A slight nod of her head is all the response I get.

“Are you kidding me?”

Her forehead wrinkles above the top rim of her sunglasses. “See, this is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“He was ten years older than you!” A shiver runs up my spine at the thought of sixteen-year-old Petra being mauled by the attractive but creepy gardener.

She gives me a curt nod and takes another drink from the can she’s holding with a look of utter indifference. Does she really not see why this is such a big deal?

“Was it that summer before you went to boarding school?” I ask.

Another nod. “After you left.”

“Did you sleep with himbecauseI left?” My voice is loud, even to my own ears. I need to get a fucking grip. This was over a decade ago. Why am I so upset by it?

“In a way, yes. I was just so sad, and he was there and paying attention to me. It felt like . . .” she says, then trails off for a few seconds. “Like it would help me get over you leaving.”

“And did it?”

Her derisive snort is her answer.

If I’d have known that my breaking off our friendship like that would lead her straight into the arms of that perverted asshole, I never would have done it, even though my father demanded it. In trying to protect her from a truth and a marriage she didn’t want, I led her to seek comfort from someone with the power to hurt her. As much as I’ve thought about it over the years, I don’t know what I could have done differently—but I really wish I’d tried harder to figure out a different solution.

“Was it any good?” I don’t know what makes me ask this. Maybe a morbid sense of curiosity, or an instinct to make sure she wasn’t hurt.

“It should have been.Heshould have been.” Her nostrils flare, but I can’t tell how she’s feeling because of those damn reflective sunglasses covering her eyes.

“Petra, look at me,” I say, and she moves her head a quarter-turn so she’s facing me. “Without the sunglasses.”

She shakes her head, a tiny movement back and forth.

“Did he hurt you?” I ask, reaching my hand over and resting it on her forearm. Her skin is soft, but the muscles beneath them ripple with tension.

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