Page 31 of Blood Money

I try to take in a deep breath to stop myself from screaming, but the coppery smell of blood fills my nostrils and goes straight to the back of my throat. I slap my hand over my mouth and try to dodge the pool of blood as I run into the bathroom.

My knees crash to the tile, and pain shoots through the bones all the way up my thighs as I fall to the floor in front of the toilet. I try to ignore it as I jerk the seat up and empty my stomach. I heave until pain vibrates through my belly and nothing is coming out.

When I stand, my knees wobble, but I know I can’t stay here, and I can’t call the cops. What if they think I did it? What if they ask questions about how I know him? I can’t tell them he’s paying me to hang out and potentially fuck. And what if they ask all I know about him? Because at this second, I realize he knew all there was to know about me, but I know very little about him. Like who the fuck would murder him. Hell, I don’t even know his last name.

I shake my head and scrub my hands down my face. “Okay. It’s fine, Carmen,” I start telling myself, but my mind knows I’m lying. This is definitely not fine.

I can see my purse from my spot in the bathroom, and instead of focusing on B’s dead body or the insane amount of blood, I stare at the leather and start forming a plan in my head. One, get my purse. Two, walk out of the room. Three, stay cool as a fucking cucumber.

I look to the ceiling and shake my head. If only it were that easy.

When I bring my focus back to my bag, I grow a pair of balls and just go for it. In three long strides, I make it to my purse and pick it up. Without looking at Bernard’s face, where his eyes are still open, I fish out my phone with a shaky hand as tears blur my vision. Managing to type out “911,” I hit Send. If I can keep Lydia’s deepest, darkest secrets, it’s time for her to keep mine too.

Once it shows delivered, I start to turn on my heel and walk out the same way I walked in—a complete badass—but the open briefcase catches my eye again. I know I shouldn’t, but I step over B, squeezing my eyes shut, and snag it. I push the golden latches down, clasping it shut, then hop back over the crime scene at my feet to the door. I crack it open and peek outside.

This time I’m not scared of someone seeing me and telling my dad. No. I’m scared someone will see all the blood just beyond the door and accuse me of murder, and I’m sorry, but I do not look good in orange.

When I don’t see anyone, I step out and close the door behind me. I only make it a few feet when my phone rings. Knowing it’s Lydia, I answer and try to keep my voice level and pace steady and not rushed. “I’m on my way. I need help.”

When I pull up to Lydia’s, I do my best to calm myself. I did pretty good walking through the hotel, but as soon as I made it to my car, I lost it. The weight of all of this came crashing down, and I can’t get a grip on myself. My heart feels like it’s going to beat out of my chest, my stomach is turned, and my hands won’t stop shaking.

I step out with my phone and the briefcase in hand and hurry to the door. Again, I don’t knock, and I don’t even care if I see shit I don’t want to. This is bigger than that. Bigger than anything.

“Lydia!” I scream, pacing just inside the door.

She appears within seconds with Cater by her side. “Carmen, what happened?”

She tries to stop my movements by placing her hands on my shoulders, but I brush them off. “I fucked up. I fucked up really bad. And now I’m fucked I should have called the cops I should have called someone.” The words coming out are nothing more than all the thoughts in my head—run-on sentences, emotions, fear. It’s all just spilling out.

“Carmen,” Carter starts, stepping in front of Lydia. “You need to tell us what happened.”

I shake my head and throw the briefcase down. “Bernard is dead. He’s dead and I took this and now I don’t know what to do. I’m a dumbass!” I yell, smacking my head.

The briefcase falls to the floor with a thud before popping open. Bills fall out, some with his blood painted across the front, then kick up in the wind from my pacing.

“Who is Bernard?” Lydia’s voice is soft, almost like she’s scared. Hell, I’m scared too. I handled all this the entirely wrong way.

“Oh my fucking God.” I stop in my tracks as a new thought forms.

Lydia and Carter exchange a concerned look. “What is it?” she asks.

“Stallion. He did it.” The realization hits me like a ton of bricks.

That wasn’t lipstick on his shirt—it was blood. He killed Bernard, and now I’m connected. Was it because of me? Was he jealous?

No, that can’t be it. Can it? No one even knew I was seeing B. It was my secret—my way to get everything I wanted.

“Carmen, you’re not making sense. What the fuck happened?” Carter chimes.

And I want to answer him—explain everything so they can help me out of this fucked-up position—but the doorbell rings, never giving me the chance.

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