Page 60 of Painted Scars
Translation: he’s bunking down like a watchdog in designer slacks, shirt, and jacket. I’ll bet my Glock he’s not just playing security detail and making friends. Not with the way he stares at her in photos or videos, like she’s the only thing that makes the bunker feel less of a tomb.
The three of us were never meant to orbit this close to our targets. Yet, here we are, spinning dangerously close to their gravitational force. The longer we stay, the harder it will be to break free, until escape becomes impossible and impact inevitable.
Aside from the obvious concern, I’m just glad my old friend’s out of the bunker when he’s been welded to the cave for months.
No word from Katar. Not unusual when he’s carving confessions out of someone.
I flick him through a text.
Me: Give me an update when you can.
He doesn’t like his process to be interrupted and won’t likely answer until he’s done.
Being this close to Kate does things to me that I stuff down. I sink into the armchair in the corner of her room and play protector before I lie down next to her and never leave. This isn’t a job anymore, this is personal.
I itch to get up. Hurt something. Work off restless energy.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I whisper to her, brushing a blue curl from her temple. “PJ3, eyes on.”
He yips once like a soldier confirming an order.
Downstairs, the kitchen’s dimly lit by glaring green digits on the microwave and oven. It feels lived in and homey, unlike my loft, which has scraped together furniture, and I only go there to shape glass and sleep.
I smile at her alphabetized spice rack and mugs arranged the same way. I grab a tumbler labeledBad Bitch Fueland fill it with filtered water and head back upstairs.
She hasn’t moved, and neither has PJ3, whose tiny body is curled against her ribs.
I leave the water on her bedside table and glare at the lamp that PJ3 bumped to expose our operation.
I press my fingertips to her forehead. Her skin’s cooler now. That’s good. The drug’s slowly working its way out of her system.
By sunrise, I’ve poured half a tumbler of water into her mouth while I cradled her head and prevented her from choking.
I switch out the cloth on her forehead.
PJ3 hasn’t left her side, and neither have I. Leaving after our first night was rough, but a necessity to protect my identity. Doing it once she’s better will be hell.
CHAPTER 17 - AUGUST
Come 7AM, I get the call I’ve been waiting for.
“Watch her,” I grunt at PJ3.
He cracks open one eye and lets out a weary groan.
I take the video call downstairs, out of earshot, setting my phone in Kate’s office cradle. “Got any news?”
Grayson’s got Tom’s burner phone plugged into a computer to extract data. “I’ve got signal traces. Working on decrypting the last outgoing message.”
Katar wipes blood from his blade with the kind of care men reserve for newborns. “He’s a grunt for Blackthorn with a powdered sugar problem.” He removes a baggie of cocaine from his pocket. “Racked up thirty grand in debt and couldn’t pay it. Now he freelances to repay it.”
Blackthorn’s disposable errand boys get buried when they outlive their usefulness or get sloppy enough to attract heat.
My hands crush into fists with the need to rearrange this asshole’s bones. “Was he supposed to scare her? Silence her?”
“Blackthorn’s caught on that your unicorn’s been digging where she shouldn’t and wants her quiet or gone.” He uses our code for Kate to disguise names.
Fuck. The blog articles.
