Pistol

Chapter Seventeen

Steph laid her head on her bed, and stared at the ceiling. Gargled snores drifted through from where Cass slept on her couch. As soon as she said she was off, Cass had insisted she come too. Something about how they could save on a cab, but Steph had an inkling it was more to do with Cass being able to keep an eye on her.

There was no way she was going to tell Cass what had happened in the alley—no way. And when Cass had clearly stated how unimpressed she was with Steph for even appearing to forgive Pete, her decision had been reinforced. Her opinion on the matter hadn't upset Steph—she couldn't blame her friend if Cass wanted to protect her. No, Cass had scathingly criticised the way Pete seemed to toy with Steph; the way he pulled her emotions one way, then the next for nobody's pleasure but his.

If only Cass knew about the belt.

Maybe then her buddy wouldn't look upon her with such rose-tinted glasses. Because truth be told, every little encounter she'd had with Pete, she had been the wilful participant. What did that say for her? It says you're a twisted little minx. Maybe, but hell, Pete didn't seem to mind. Steph closed her eyes, and smiled as she thought of the dark desire that had consumed Pete's eyes as she leashed herself. He'd been turned on, and he sure-as-shit had gotten off on it.

A bit like the time he sat in the corner of her room and watched her play.

Her old room.

Shit!

Steph rolled to her side, and snatched her phone from the bedside cabinet. She hadn't given him her new address. What if he was at her old place? Shit, shit, shit. Her thumb flew over the screen as she typed out a quick message to him. She placed the cursor in the 'to' field, and groaned. She didn't have his number.

What the hell are you going to do now?

What was the time? Ivan should still be up. Surely. She thumbed to his number, and hit dial.

"Hey, Stephy," he mumbled. Incessant background noise cut to a dull roar with the distinct thud of a door. Clearly, he was still out on the drink.

"Hey, Ivan. I'm so sorry to do this, but can I ask a favour?"

"Sure you can."

"Do you have Pete's number?"

"Pete's?"

"Mmm-hmm."

He sighed through the line. "Why, Steph?"

"I need to ring him—obviously."

"At this time of night?"

"Uh-huh."

Silence hung thickly between them.

"Ivan?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Okay. I'll get it, and text it to you. But Steph ..."

"Yes?" Her fingers tapped an impatient rhythm on the edge of the bedside table.

"Be careful with him."

She moaned. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Because they give a shit, Steph. Unlike others."

The innuendo lay thick in his words. Frustration drew her eyebrows close, her words sharp. "Thanks, Ivan. Good night."

Steph ended the call, and tossed the phone onto the bed to await the number. What was it with everyone? So Pete liked to portray the bad-boy. What of it? Who cared? They judged the book by its cover, but she had been fortunate enough to have read the inside. What did they know?