Page 78 of Rogue
Big, powerful Franco stutters.
I smile at him, then say, “Europe. Did you know he travels? Private chauffeured cars and everything. He was just telling me about the places he’s been to.”
Franco looks relieved. Yeah, seems Hayden was right about how easily men can be manipulated. “I’ve been to Geneva twice.”
“That’s in Germany, right? I always wanted to visit Germany.” Veronica wraps her arm around Franco and rubs up against him like a cat in heat.
“Switzerland, my friend. It’s the home of the European United Nations. And sits on a huge lake, Lake Geneva.”
“I’d love to vacation on a European lake.”
“A very romantic city,” I add. Why not help a girl out, right?
“Not as romantic as Paris,” Franco interrupts. “I go there a lot, too.”
Veronica chimes in. “Ooh, Paris. The shopping . . .”
“It’s the City of Love,” I say.
Whatever her reply, it fades away as my attention turns to the distant sound of a motorcycle’s rumble. Something I find myself often waiting to hear yet never do. Until now.
I shake off my sadness and refocus on the next task at hand. Because instead of being worried about my phone call, I’m actually looking forward to reporting in to Hayden.
Finding Francis. Calling Hayden. Heading home to Mama and Madelyn. Ending my assignment and seeing Jaxson . . .
“Do you think on your next trip—” Veronica murmurs.
“Excuse me. I need to use the ladies’ room. You’re in good hands, Mr. DiCapitano,” I offer with a wink. No sense making an enemy out of the man when I’ve a chance at a faux friendship.
As I wander off in search of Francis.
I find the downstairs bedroom assigned to the chauffeur and push the door open. Time is ticking away. Time is precious. And what I need is just a little more time with Mama to change her mind about her treatment.
Which I might just be so lucky as to have after Hayden hears my updated news.
Once inside, I stop short.
Francis snatches his head up from the night table, wipes the white powder from beneath his nose with the back of his hand, and begins his lame denials. “This isn’t what you think, Kylie.”
“Are you freaking nuts? I warned you to be careful . . . if Hayden finds out . . .”
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep quiet. He’ll know jack if you keep your trap shut,” he says maliciously. His eyes shift nervously to the dresser drawer then back to me. Then he begins straightening his pigpen of a room. A worm pen, for a worm of a man. Complete with grimy sheets and a musty, earthy smell that reminds me of a dried-up cow pasture on a hot sunny day. Jesus. How had things come to this?
Franco’s come to rely on Francis not only to drive him around Shelby like some rock star but to party with him like one as well. They’ve bonded over white-powdered baggies and bad driving. With my shit-for-brains partner getting in close and exactly where we want him. Though if Hayden has any idea screwed up Francis’s actually become . . . how he’s running his goddamn mouth . . .
It’s not just the drugs and his growing addiction. Trust is a key ingredient in any relationship, and I’m beginning to distrust his judgment. His perception’s become twisted. He no longer views the drug-dealing, coke-snorting asshole as the enemy. No, he’s been talking crazy talk, like they’re suddenly BFFs. I should have paid more attention when he’d begun looking up to Franco, like the polyester-clad mobster is some kind of father figure to him. Godfather figure, maybe. Francis’s always had sly, secretive weirdness about him. Like a kid looking for attention and who’s on the brink of spilling the world’s biggest secret.
This month had been a slow start for us. I’m the one who put a bullet in that poor man’s thigh. My idea, Francis’s in. And tonight my role in this assignment has finally begun to fall into place. And I catch him doing what? Getting high. Yapping about my sister—the jerk must have followed me home one day—selling me out to Franco?
“You won’t tell Hayden, will you, Kylie?” he begs in what clearly must be a brief moment of clarity.
I grimace and nudge by him to stand before the dresser. Yanking open the drawer, I snatch hold of the Ziploc bag of coke I’ve been pretty certain Francis’s hidden inside.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he cries out.
I don’t answer, too angry to speak. I brush past him, tugging my arm away from him before he can grab hold of it, and hurry to the bathroom. For a second, we struggle with the door, him on the outside and me trying to slam it in his deceitful face. I push against it with all of my weight, knocking him back, then sprint over to the toilet. Thank God for men and their propensity for leaving the seat up. In one slam dunk, I toss the means of his addiction into the bowl and hit flush.
“You goddamn bitch.” Francis attacks, launching himself at me as I turn and taking us both to the ground.
