Page 48 of Roma King
R!
I check to see if he stored his information via his last name, but I draw a blank there, too. There’s no contact between Rennie and Madison Roberts, where Rivin should be.
I toss the phone on the table, scowling up at the ceiling. What the hell was he talking about, then? What did his cryptic, ‘I’ll be waiting for your call,’ mean, if he hadn’t found a way to even store his number in my phone? I sink down into my chair at the dining table, and I let my head rest heavily in my hands.
When I was a child, I used to sit with my father in the mornings at the breakfast table and help him complete the crossword. I was too young to really be of help—he did all of the work, of course—but the excitement of being allowed to sit with him, to try and solve the clues, when he was usually too busy to notice I was even there, caused me to develop an early obsession with puzzle solving. I wanted to be good at it, so I could reach the answers before him, because, in my seven-year-old mind, that would make him proud of me. Ever since then, I’ve always loved puzzles. All puzzles. Loved working through the complex knots and tangles of them, unraveling them until I reach the end.
Butthispuzzle? There’s no end to this puzzle’s complicated mess of frayed ends and ambiguous clues. This puzzle isn’t fun in any way, shape or form. It has real-world consequences, and I don’t want to have to pluck, pull and tease at it anymore, trying to force it to make sense. This particular puzzle can go fuck itself.
A crack of lightning, blindingly bright, illuminates the sky out of the kitchen window, and the washed-out, rain-soaked street beyond flares into view for a second, bathed in brilliant white light. I start, nearly knocking over my mug of cold coffee. The liquid inside spills, splashing onto the table and landing directly onto my phone.
“Fuck!” I jump up, grabbing a handful of kitchen paper, and I furiously wipe at the screen. My hand stills when I see the contact information that I’ve missed there, displayed clear as day…
A moment ago, I looked specifically for Rivin, where Pasha’s family name should have been stored alphabetically amongst the other names. I hadn’t bothered to look at the top of the ‘R’ section. If I had, I would have noticed the odd phrase at the beginning of the section.
‘Raised by wolves.’
My heart jumps at the words. The words I said to Pasha, when I yelled at him in the street outside the Midnight Fair. The bastardhadfound a way into my phone, and he’d decided this was how he was going to pass on his number to me? For fuck’s sake. How long would it have taken me to find that, if I hadn’t accidentally stumbled on it now?
I hit the call button and hold the phone to my ear, refusing to allow myself to prepare what I’m going to say in my head. If I overthink it, I’ll end up stumbling all over my words. And anyway, this isn’t a social call. Pasha Rivin is a smart mouthed, arrogant, smug piece of shit. I’ve already decided this, and I’ve barely even spent any time with the man. He’s certainly not the kind of guy I’d want to date. Definitely not the kind of guy I’d involve myself with any way. I’m going to call him, get the answers I need, and I’ll never have to speak to him again. Still…my hands shake as the dial tone burrs in my ear.
It rings six times. Seven. Eight. Nine…
He’s not going to answer. He’s not going to pick up.
But then the dial tone cuts off abruptly, and I’m met with a tense silence on the other end of the line.
Then…
“Firefly.”
My heart tries to catapult itself out of my chest. Rich like honey, coarse like the surface of unfinished wood—the sound of Pasha Rivin’s voice rocks me to my core. Itisthe same voice from my dreams. I know it now. I can deny it all I want to, but I feel the truth of the realization, sinking deep down into my bones. My tongue feels like cotton wool against the roof of my mouth as I say, “You think that’s cute, don’t you? If you’re going to address me by a name, then perhaps you could do me the honor of using the one my parents gave me.”
“Mmm.” The timbre of his voice is so low, it vibrates in my ear and makes the skin on my neck prickle. “I told you at the bar, didn’t I? Names have power. You shouldn’t give yours out so freely.”
“Ididn’t give it to you. You took it from my phone, I’m sure. And then Andrew confirmed it for you.”
He doesn’t deny this. “What’s so wrong with Firefly?”
“Nicknames are for friends. People you know. People that you like.”People that fuck you senseless in your sleep.
“Come on. You like me well enough, little firefly.”
I’m riled by the sound of the amusement in his voice. “Really? What gave it away? Was it the part where I screamed at you and punched you in the arm? Or was it my complete and utter contempt for you in the bar?”
He doesn’t even take a second to think about it. “Both. I know when a woman’s attracted to me. You’re like a little girl, spitting and kicking at the boy she has a crush on in a playground.”
Oh…my…god. I wish I hadn’t punched him in the arm. My aim should have been a little higher. A black eye would only add to his bad boy smoldering good looks, I’m sure, but so what? I’d be feeling a little better about myself right now. My temper flares, and it takes everything in me not to hang up the phone. “I didn’t call to massage your ego, okay. I called because I need to talk to you. Something’s happened, and I…”
Damn. How do I even begin to explain any of this? He’s going to think I’m crazy.
Pasha’s voice has lost that infuriatingly playful edge. His words are sharp as he says, “Something good? Or something bad?”
“What do you think? Somethingbad. I wouldn’t be calling you to tell you I’d won the lottery, believe me.”
“Okay. So tell me.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I close my eyes, exhaling hard. I don’t even know where to begin. Unbidden and unwelcome, tears prick at my eyes as I try and find the right place to start.
