Page 71 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

The smile falls off my face when I see Bambi’s name instead.

Are you ignoring me?

I’m immediately irritated. I wasn’t so far gone that night not to realize the emotions swimming in Bambi’s eyes as she stared up at me. She’s usually always kept her crush in check—never crossing that boundary.

But lately, it seems like she’s holding onto me tighter than ever.

In the past, I’d tolerate her clinginess. After all, what my brother did to her is beyond fucked up, and even so, when he died, I think a part of Bambi died along with him.

It’s fucked up to say, but I feel responsible for Bambi, yet for the first time I can think of, I want to release and be released from that bond.

My phone pings again.

I’m sorry. It’s just a lot is happening over here and I could use a friend.

Fuck. Well, when she says it like that, what the fuck am I supposed to do?

I release a prolonged growl and think of how to respond, coming up blank. I finally land on:

I’ll hit you up later today.

There. That’ll do.

My phone lands on my bedside table with a mutedclack.

I’m turning the dials to “Bulky Bedding” when the sound of my front door clicking shut has me on full alert.

I don’t want to call out in case it’s an intruder, so I move silently from the laundry room back to my bedroom. I ease open the door with my back facing my bed, and shout when I see Riale sitting on my bare mattress.

“Riale, what thefuckare you doing in my apartment?” I swipe a hand down the side of my face, mostly angry he managed to come into my apartment and slip past me.

He pats the bare mattress. “Have an accident?” His smile mocks me, so I shoot him the finger.

“Again, why are you here, Riale?” For a moment, I dread the idea that maybe someone found out, or someone’s asking around about the guy.

Jaxon Samuels. Senior investment banker at Riddington Bank.

He might be missed.

If he is, we’ll fix it. Money fixes everything.

The thought brings peace and disgust.

“Your father is here,” he says, his voice dropping low and all signs of humor fading from his face.

Fuck.

“As expected,” I drawl, rolling my eyes and keeping my voice as low as Riale’s. Of course, I’d expected my father to show up at some point, and I’m a little surprised it’s taken him more than a day to make contact.

“What’s his mood like?” I murmur to Riale, and he grimaces.

“Storm.”

My father doesn’t have to yell, despite being in the other room—the kitchen, if I had to guess from the direction of his voice. Still, his displeasure is unmistakable.

It’s time to face the music.

I leave the door open, and predictably, Riale follows.

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