Page 95 of Mistaken Identity
“I guess I don’t have anything else to offer,” Week said as he stood beside me and watched as the man went into shock.
I was in shock, and that wasn’t even happening to me.
Yet, I stood where I was and allowed it to happen anyway.
But really, it wasn’t because of the horror of watching a man get his dick cut off with a shard of glass.
It was because my sweet, innocent little Creole looked so goddamn sexy doing it.
I shouldn’t be turned on by that…but I was.
“She needed this,” I said as I watched her throw his member to the floor and make an attempt to stomp on it.
“Whoa.” Dima halted her. “I’m gonna need you to not do that. I don’t want to have to get rid of anything else I don’t need to. Your shoes have your DNA on them. Wouldn’t want you connected to this scene.”
Agreed.
I pulled her to me and said, “Let’s let Dima finish this up. We’re not needed here anymore.”
She let me pull her back, but she did level him with one final parting shot. “I hope Dima makes you wish for death. I hope that you beg. Scream. Cry. I hope that you pray to God, and when he doesn’t answer your calls, because you’re a disgusting human being, I hope you rot in hell. I hope no one takes mercy on you, whomever might be dealing out your punishment for the next however long. And last, I want you to think about how I called you. Begged and pleaded with you. And you told me to fuck off.”
All Goodwin could do was cry.
Squeezing her waist, I said, “Come on, baby. Let’s go home.”
“Dad,” Creole said stiffly. “Are you coming?”
Week shook his head. “Not right now. I’ll find a way home.”
I left him to it, pulling Creole with me to the truck.
I deposited her into the front seat, then buckled her in before catching her face with the palm of my hand and turning it to face me.
“I didn’t know,” I said softly. “I’m sorry.”
She smiled sadly. “I didn’t want you to know. It’s h-hard to talk about.”
The way her breath hitched had my stomach sinking all over again.
“I’d have given him anything he needed if I was a match,” I whispered. “I hate that I wasn’t.”
“Not more than me, Audi. Not more than me.”
Twenty-Two
A part of adulting is telling your parents stories and no longer skipping the parts that were illegal.
—Creole to Audric
CREOLE
Life was good.
I stared at the Pacific Ocean, or, more specifically, my man that was slicing through the waves of the Pacific Ocean.
Once he was where he wanted to be, he popped up to sit on his surfboard and waited.
And waited.
