Page 132 of Painted Scars
Grayson stares into his coffee.
“Tell me the truth.” I deserve it.All of it. “What’s going on? She hasn’t said a word about a stalker.”
Grayson’s shrug is too casual to be innocent. “Guess we both have friends who keep secrets.”
That one lands harder than it should. I’m tired of all this fucking secrecy.
“Wait until Murder Spice confesses hers,” Grayson mutters over his mug.
“What?” I lean forward.
He chokes on his coffee. “Yeah, not going there. She and Katar frighten me.”
Names I’ve never heard before. Sounds like a weapon. Another of August’s soldiers, perhaps. Harper and I will have alongchat once August returns, and I’ve eaten cheesecake.
Grayson relents and gives me the truth. “August assigned me to watch Charlie and determine her connections to the Romans. She’s become an… obsession.”
“You think?” I retreat into my coffee before I can read too much into his face. “Does she know you exist?”
“Yes.” His smile lifts above the mug—the kind of expression that doesn’t belong on a man on surveillance duty.
Good for Charlie. She’s been burned by those closest to her, who should have protected her, yet exploited her. I’m happy so long as she is. I’d love to call her right now for a long gossip session. Hear her soothing voice. Tease out the truth over wine. Get some therapeutic advice. Luxuriate in getting my nails painted. But it feels weird getting a romance breakdown about her stalker when he’s present. I’m trespassing on something I’m not supposed to see. She’ll tell me when she’s ready, and I hope it’s soon, because I’m dying for the spicy goss.
“Treat her right,” I warn, my voice as sharp as the edges on my heart. “She’s got enough scars.”
“I do,” he promises with quiet conviction that makes me believe him. Something about him comes across as honest, unlike a certainhe who shall not be named.
I lean back into the chair, nursing my drink, wondering what kind of battlefield Charlie’s going to have to walk through before she’ll believe it herself.
Grayson resumes his work, hacking the social accounts of content creators, political advocates, news commentators, and analysts, pushing the story’s engagement higher and higher. I get up and observe, fascinated by his ease and speed, him overriding the push back he gets from the Romans in suppressing the story.
Leaning my palms on his desk makes my ribs complain. Drums pound in my skull and behind my eyes. Pain I didn’t tell August about because he’ll get the doctor down here. I’ve had bruised ribs before. This feels slightly different. Strained from fighting off my attacker and sore from where he slammed my chest and head into the desk. I prod my ribs gently and suck in my breath at the tender parts. Every time I shift, the vinyl chair creaks in protest, the shorter leg at the front rocking.
Grayson notices and rolls open a drawer of a filing cabinet under his desk. “Want something stronger?”
I wave him away. “I need to keep my wits about me.”
“Suit yourself.” He shuts the drawer, but it doesn’t close properly.
He glances at the door, a habit he does often, and I trail his gaze, expecting August in the entry. He’s been gone about an hour, and I’m getting antsy for his return.
“Want to see the comments? The women areloud.” Grayson’s wicked tone says he enjoys his evil genius job a little too much. I don’t blame him when he has the power to crush people and dissolve empires at his fingertips.
“Yes!” Book Girlie me crows, inching closer.
“No,” Rational me insists.
I end up going with, “When it doesn’t feel like I’m standing naked on a freeway.”
He chuckles. “You’re missing out.”
Okay. When he dangles a carrot like that, I can’t help but take a gander.
He drags his laptop over to me, and my eyes dart over the flood of usernames and outrage.
JusticeJunkie888:Castrate the creep.
InkandIron:Burn these assholes down!
