Deviant

Chapter 12

DEVIANT

Callie Hart

Copyright © 2014 Callie Hart

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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places and characters are figments of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. The author recognises the trademarks and copyrights of all registered products and works mentioned within this work.

CHAPTER TWELVE

 

 

SLOANE

 

 

What the fuck?

I wake up in a bed and it's not mine. I curl my toes and flex my fingers, reaching my arms up over my head in the most satisfying stretch ever. My whole body hums, like I went really hard at the gym yesterday, but I know I didn't. I was at the hospital all day and then I—

Oh.

No.

I freeze in the bed, suddenly remembering where the hell I am. His place. His bed. His sweat all over my body. And...and ohmygod. Some random woman's sweat, too. What the...what the hell was I thinking? I sit bolt upright, ready to lay into the man who's put me in this position—along with many others last night—but he's not there. I'm alone in a bed in a strangely sterile, empty room, weak sunlight pouring through the windows, and Zeth is nowhere to be seen.

"Motherfucker."

I hurdle out of bed, already half inside my dress before I realize he must have gone and fetched it from the other room. My stockings and garter belt are folded carefully on the chest of drawers at the end of the bed, and my medical bag rests on the floor by the door. I stuff the stockings and belt inside the bag, wondering where the hell my bra and panties are, gone forever, probably, and then I hurry out of the room in a fit of rage.

The apartment is a bombsite. Empty, lipstick-smeared glassware decorates every available surface, and abandoned clothing litters the floor down the corridor. I kick at something sparkly and golden on my way to the open-plan lounge space, muttering under my breath.

"Stupid...so fucking dumb. Hate him so much..."

The apartment is complete empty, apart from one single man standing at the huge bay of windows overlooking the city—Zeth. His back is to me, but I know he's heard my approach. I pick up the first thing that comes to hand and I launch it at him. The champagne flute narrowly misses him, shattering against the support beam beside his head. He recoils like a bomb just went off.

There's a dark fire in his eyes when he slowly turns around, hands balled up by his sides. "What. The. Fuck. Is. Wrong. With. You?"

I pick up another glass and I chuck it, taking care to aim more carefully. Zeth ducks just in time to avoid some serious facial injuries. "Last night! That's what's wrong with me!" I turn...I need another glass. I find a discarded black, patent pump instead. The heel on it looks lethal. I hurl it, grunting with the effort, and the thing hits him square in the chest. Zeth's face is a dark thundercloud, seething and growing angrier by the second.

"What about last night?" he hisses.

"The bed? The restraints? The..." I shut my eyes, shaking my head. I can't believe that happened. "Thegirl."

The corner of his mouth twitches, like my freak-out is entertaining to him. He still looks like he's going to brutally murder me, though. He begins to stalk forward, lethal, a dangerous predator, and I snatch up another glass—a rocks glass this time. Heavier in the base, more sharp corners. I throw it at him as hard as I can, but he simply ducks out of the way, still coming for me.

"Were you drunk?"

"What?"

"Last night. Were you drunk?"

"No."

"Were you high?"

"No!"

"Then stop throwing shit at me. And stop pretending like you didn't enjoy every second of it!"

"I—" My cheeks flood with heat. He's right. He's so right I want to cry, but I can't let him see that. I need to get the hell out of here. "Where's my underwear, Zeth?"

He's three feet away now, slowly closing the distance between us. In a complete about-turn from last night, he's wearing some low-slung jeans and a plain, white T-shirt. Somehow I just assumed he would always wear black no matter what—black in keeping with the color of his soul.

"I'll be keeping those," he informs me.

"Uhhh...I don't think so. They were Provocateur." I shift to the left as he inches closer, putting a narrow ornament stand in between us. A cold smile unfurls across his face—a calculating, assessing one.

"Are you denying that you wore them for me?"

He has me there. I shrug my shoulders, trying to remember how nonchalant people act. "So?"

"So when a girl wears something for me, it becomes mine, Sloane."

"Wow. You must have wardrobes full of hookers' underwear, then."

"Multiple wardrobes," he says. "Many. Full to bursting."

I feel sick. "Forget it, you know what? Keep them. I'm too tired, and sore, and freaked out to be doing this with you right now. I need to go home." I suddenly remember I'm on the nightshift tonight and my spirits plummet even further. I'm going to have to spend twelve hours walking around the hospital, reliving every second of last night while Zeth brags to...whomever about bagging me again. I'm such an idiot.

"Fucking typical," Zeth breathes.

"What is?"

"You. You're deflecting your shit onto me. All I did last night was show you who you really are. You can't be mad at me for that."

I can be, and I am mad at him. "I think you're seeing what you want to see. I'm not looking for some sexual awakening. I'm just looking for my sister. I'm done wasting my breath asking you what you know, and I'm done playing these little games with you. Maybe one day, if you suddenly develop a conscience, you'll come and tell me because it's the right thing to do."

I take a deep breath and walk toward the apartment door, betting that he won't follow. He doesn't, but he does manage to get the last word in. "A conscience will get you killed in my line of work, Sloane. And doing the right thing often has the same effect."