Page 143 of Hexed
Uncle T and the Kingston name get her far in life, but it’s nothing to this level. This is…outrageous. Enzo’s name makes him seem like a god in this city, and if people know you’re one of his guests?
I’ve never been treated so well.
My stomach growls and caves in on itself, nausea creeping through my esophagus; the type that comes on fast and only hitswhen you’ve waited too long to eat and hunger isn’t an option anymore. It’s just straight to feeling ill.
Glancing around, I walk to my duffel bag and dig inside, pulling out the few hundred dollars I have left to my name.
It’s pathetic. Not the “having no money” part—that I’m an expert in. Money defines nothing other than it’s nice to have it. Makes life easier.
But it’s pathetic because after all these years, after everything I’ve done for my family, this is all I’m left with. I was brainwashed, clearly. Too blinded by my loyalty to Uncle T to see that he wasn’t even paying me my worth, and I’m worth a hell of a lot because I’m fucking fantastic. He won’t ever find someone better than me.
Still, the realization that our relationship differed from the way it was in my head makes me feel like garbage. Like everything I did means nothing.
Like mylifemeans nothing.
LikeI’mnothing.
The dichotomy of both emotions battling for supremacy in my head is tiring.
Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door.
“Room service!” A muffled voice hits my ears.
That’s weird. I didn’t order anything.
I didn’t pack my gun because I hate it, and to be honest, I didn’t eventhinkabout grabbing it before I left. Regret hits me at that decision now, though, because I don’t trust anyone who knocks on a stranger’s door. I can just imagine Bastien yelling at me over the years about situations exactly like this. It’s why he forced me to get the gun.
My chest aches when I think about Bastien. I didn’t even get to say goodbye, and even though I’ve written out a text a hundred times, I’m wary to send it. What if he’s loyal to myuncle, and they track me down somehow? What if he was part of everything and never really on my side at all?
The thought of it makes me sick.
Another knock and I consider grabbing my knife instead, but it’s all the way in the bedroom, so I take a chance and move toward the door instead.
“Room service!” the person yells out again.
I strain my ears, trying to hear if I recognize who it is, if there’s anything I can read from the tonality, but this is a nice hotel and the walls are thick…or maybe my heart is just beating in my ears and muffling the sound. I flex my hands, shaking out the sudden anxiety. There’s a globe on the side of the entryway table, all in gold, and I pick it up to test the weight.
Heavy and solid. Not my ideal weapon, but it will do in a pinch if I need it. I look through the peephole, my brows scrunching together when I see a man in an actual hotel outfit, white chef coat with stitching on the name and an honest-to-God delivery cart.
My fingers tighten on the doorknob until my knuckles turn white, and I don’t know why I feel so untrusting other than being here again after so many years has me on edge.
After all, this isn’t my first time here. I murdered Joey three years ago at this very hotel, in a suite just like this.
The guy looks young and bored, and he sighs, tapping again. “Room service!”
I swing the door open, hiding the globe as best as I can behind my back.
“Miss.” He tips his hat.
“What do you want?” I ask harshly.
“Uh…” He reaches up and scratches behind his ear before jerking his chin toward the cart. “Room service?”
Why does he seem unsure?
I swallow around my dry mouth, shaking my head and pressing my free hand to my temple with a silly grin. “I’m sorry, darlin’, you’re right. Where are my manners? Bring it on in.”
His shoulders relax, and he smiles at me. “Cute accent. Where are you from?”
