Fold

Chapter 7

“Kit.” I clap my hands, hoping the action will make her focus.

Her bloodshot hazel orbs peer up at me in confusion and then in horror as she totters back.

Before I have time to react, she falls faster than a stack of dominos. I manage to catch her right before she hits the ground.

Great. This situation just went from bad to worse. Dealing with a passed-out chick is the last thing I need after losing Campanelli’s money to the Russians.

A passed-out chick I haven’t seen in three years and two days, but who’s counting.

“Bishop. Wake the fuck up.”

Silence. I’m tempted to leave her here, but the poltergeist beating in my ribcage won’t let me. Instead, I check to make sure she’s still breathing before I throw her over my shoulder.

Christ, I can’t believe the unstable girl in my arms is Kit Bishop.

She almost got herself killed tonight. What the hell was she thinking?

Scratch that—judging by her skimpy dress that leaves little to the imagination, and that glazed over look in her eyes before she collapsed, she wasn’t thinking at all. She’s too intoxicated. Presumably due to partying in Vegas.

Which I suppose, explains why she was wandering around by herself at two in the morning. Kit’s not stupid. A bit naïve sure, but she’s far from an idiot. And she’s more than just drunk.

“What are you on?”

When I don’t get a response, I jerk my shoulder until she moves.

“Bar.” She starts slipping away, so I nudge her again. “Alcohol.”

“Yeah, no shit. Did you take drugs tonight?”

“No—a little bit.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “What—”

“The kind that makes me roll in really warm clouds.”

Ecstasy. Those clouds of hers are warm because she’s overheating and most likely dehydrated. And if she scored E off some prick at a bar, there’s no telling what else was in it.

I feel around my pockets for my phone and curse as I recall that I tossed it before the game. Shit.

Thinking fast, I look around for the one she was holding. As luck would have it, I don’t have to search far, because seconds later, a phone on the ground lights up and some Melissa Ethridge ringtone starts to play.

When I bend down to pick it up, I see the name “BILF” flash across the screen. I have no idea who or what that is, but I don’t care. I press the ignore button so I can call a cab.

“I’m dropping you off at the hospital.”

She makes a whimpering sound. “No.”

“Why?”

She stirs. “My na

My jaw clenches as something deep inside my chest shifts.

They say everyone has either an addiction, obsession, or weakness in this world. Something that can penetrate you down to the core and influence you in a way nothing else can.

I have all three.

One happens to be her.

But she’s also the one thing I can never have—which means I need to get rid of her.

“Tough shit, I’m not in the mood to take on a charity case tonight.”

She squirms, trying to maneuver out of my grip. “Then leave me.” Her voice is slurred, nearly inaudible. “Everybody else does.”

Nope, I’m not giving in. I can’t afford to…for a multitude of reasons. The most current one consisting of the fact that I’m going to have a psychotic mob boss on my case in a few hours.

Her breathing softens, and she sags against me, settling in—like she knows I’m going to relent before I do.

Like she knows she’s still in my veins, embedded in my marrow…no matter how much time has passed or how much things have changed.

She’s still my constant. The last person I think about when I drag my sorry ass to bed after too many beers, and the first person I think about when I wake up with my head throbbing.

She’s my twenty-one in blackjack, my jackpot on a slot machine, and my royal flush that’s always just out of my reach.

She’s the lethal poison I can’t get out of my system.

Fuck you, angry girl.

With a sigh, I surrender and head toward my motel. Carrying the girl who holds all the fucked-up shards of the person I still can’t face in the mirror.

“Warm, it’s so warm.”

“This is nothing, you should visit in the summer.” I kick the door behind me closed and drop her on the outdated floral comforter. “Don’t puke in my bed.”

She murmurs something I can’t decipher before turning on her side. I try not to stare at the curve of her ass as I walk into the bathroom to get a cool washcloth.

I make sure to grab a bottle of water from the mini-fridge on my way back. “Here.”

Soft snoring is my only response.

Cracking open the bottle of water, I ask the good Lord for some patience. Then I roll her back toward me, place the washcloth on her forehead, and prop her up to take a few sips.

I should have asked him for some willpower instead because the top of her dress slips down ever so slightly and those pouty lips of hers moan around the bottle before she swallows.

I’ve been with lots of women, but none of them have ever sent me reeling quite like she does. I still want her in every capacity, on every surface, and at my every disposal.

You’d think three years would have diluted the potency, taken some of the shine off the apple, but it didn’t. Not even close.

Every time I jerked and every time I fucked…she was there. Lingering like a stain that won’t come clean.

Reminding me that we always want what we can’t have.

I bite the inside of my cheek when the tip of her tongue darts out to catch the liquid trickling from the corner of her mouth.

She misses it completely though, and I watch as the drop runs down her suprasternal notch—otherwise known as that sexy little indent between her clavicles, before gliding down her chest and continuing to her...

“This is good water.”

Feeling like I got caught with my hand in the cookie jar, I peel my gaze away. “I’m pretty sure it’s just tap with a fancy label.”

“Can I have more?”

Nodding, I go fetch her another one from the mini-fridge. “Aside from going to bars and popping ecstasy, what else are you doing in Vegas?”

“Work.” Her voice is low, and her words are still a bit garbled. “I really loved my job.”

My ears tune in at her use of the past tense. “Loved? What happened?”

She drops her head in her hands. “I’m not sure.”

The sadness in her tone makes me want to put my fist through a wall and I have to remind myself that whatever the issue is, it’s Kit’s bullshit and not mine.

I hold the bottle out to her. “Here.”

She makes no move for it, instead, she sinks down, dozing off for a second time.

Placing one knee on the bed, I wrap an arm around her for support and haul her back up. “Not yet, sleeping beauty. You need to drink some more water first.”

“No thank you.”

“Kit.”

When she starts to decline again, I push on her chin until her lips part and shove it between her lips. “Take a sip.”

Finally, she concedes. Swear it’s like dealing with an infant. My chest contracts with that thought, but I focus back on Kit who takes the water from me and begins guzzling it down like she can’t get enough of it.

I seize it back and place it on the nightstand. “You’ll get sick if you drink too much too fast.”

I freeze when her palm slides over my chest. “This is really soft. What’s it made from?”