Page 29 of Darcy
Whatever I might’ve said in response is interrupted when two doors open at the same time. The first is Slate, as he escapes the confines of what I can only assume is Prophet’s room. Prophet follows close behind him with rigid shoulders that scream his fury, even if the man himself is silent.
The second is Dodger—fully clothed this time—with his hands in his pockets and damp hair hanging loose around his face.
Suddenly surrounded by the whole band, I bury my face in my hands.
This is not happening. They’re all here, and that alone is making it hard for me to breathe. How do I even process this?
I can’t. Not right now, and not under this much pressure.
“It’s been nice,” I begin, pushing to my feet. “But I’ve got to find myself a new hotel room now, apparently.”
“You’re staying.” Slate actually puts himself in front of the door. “With us. Come on,cariño.”
I stroll right up to him, press a single hand on his chest, and utter the word I don’t think he’s heard once in his life.
“No.”
His jaw goes slack, and I would laugh at how stumped he looks if I weren’t also on the verge of tears.
“You gonna tell us why?” he presses.
I shake my head, and a tiny, half-crazed laugh-hiccup escapes. “You need a why? You cancelled my hotel room, kidnapped me, blurted some stuff about soul mates, and—”
“So that wasn’t as smooth as I’d hoped,” he admits, unshaken. “Lo siento. But you haven’t even considered—”
“Would you?” I demand. “Putting aside the blatant manipulation for one second, Prophet clearly doesn’t want me here. Not to mention the groupies, the drugs…” I pause, grimacing as I realise how prudish I just sounded. “No judgement, live however you want, but that’s not me. We wouldn’t click, and that’s just based on what I’ve seen in the last forty-eight hours. Plus, Iworkfor you.”
After tacking the last bit on, even though I know technically it’s not true, I release him and grab my suitcase.
“I knew I should never have taken this job,” I whisper, more to myself than them as I stride towards the elevator door and grab my phone.
Thanks to Slate’s lack of consideration for personal space, my app has gotten close enough to detect the RFID tag of his door card. With a tap of the screen, I set my phone to match the frequency, and swipe it over the card reader.
The machine beeps and the elevator pings open. Thank god it wasn’t a magnetic lock.
Later, I’ll berate myself for being so obvious about my capabilities, but right now, I just need some air.
Eleven
Prophet
“Fuck,” Slate curses, as soon as she’s gone. He whirls, running a hand over his braids as he paces the length of the room.
“Well, that’s that,” Dodger mutters.
That’s one way to put it.
“That’s that?” Slate retorts. “Dark—ourDark—just walked out on us, and that’s all you can say?”
He turns to glare at me, and I shrug.
If he’s hoping for an explosion of guilt, he won’t get it. Nothing he does is going to make me think that dragging that adorable blonde bombshell into our lives is a good idea. He’s trying to use her as a Band-Aid to fix the shit that’s been tearing us apart. It was obvious from the start. Thank God that Darcy is smart enough not to fall for his shit.
Arlo is staring at the abandoned coffee cups on the table, caught in thought, blissfully unaware that he’s the next object of Slate’s ire.
“Anddrugs, Lo?” our bassist demands. “What the fuck? After all the work it took to get you off them?”
I’m actually with Slate on this one, but Arlo shakes his head. “I flush every bag he gives me. I swear. I’ve been clean for years.”
