Wretched (Never After Series)

The mayor’s desk is larger than it looks on camera.

I grab a Cuban from his fancy case and lean back in the chair, placing my heels up on the ostentatious oak and lighting the end of the cigar. There’s nobody in here right now, but after a quick talk with his secretary up front, I convinced her to take an early lunch and let me wait in his office.

We’re old friends, after all, the mayor and I, and this is the perfect time to meet with him. Everyone else has gone to Chicago early, my dad claiming he wants his guys to “enjoy the town” before Oscar’s event, but I stayed behind, saying I needed to be here with the poppies.

It isn’t a lie, botany is a very time-consuming thing, and I do need to check on them frequently to ensure we have a constant stream of opium to make the flying monkey.

But that’s not why I didn’t go.

The office door swings open, and in walks Oscar. He has a look of concentration on his pale face, and his jet-black hair is stiff and perfectly coiffed, slicked back with a politician’s gleam. His footsteps falter when he sees me, his hand pausing from where it was loosening the knot in his tie.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t little Eveline Westerly.” His eyes drag up my body. “All grown up.”

“Hello, Oscar,” I reply, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

“Your father send you?” He walks closer.

I click my tongue, placing the Cuban down on the corner of his desk. His eyes follow the movement, narrowing when some of the ash falls onto his fancy purple-and-gold Persian carpet.

“I’m here on my sister’s behalf.”

“Which one?”

I tilt my head, watching his face carefully. I hadn’t expected him to say that. “Which one do you think?”

His eyes squint, and there’s a few moments of awkward silence where we’re locked in a heated stare. Finally, a grin spreads across his face. “Are you fucking with me?”

“You know.” I ignore his question, running the tips of my fingers along the wood of his desk. “This is a nice piece of furniture. Strong. Sturdy.” The chair creaks as I move forward, knocking my knuckles on the top. “You could do a lot of things on a desk like this.”

“Hmm.” His smile grows. “Is that why you’ve come to see me? To test out how sturdy my desk can be?”

“Oh, Oscar.” I laugh, standing up and walking toward him. His eyes are half-lidded and the strong smell of cologne wafts into my nostrils as I get near. I wrap my fingers around his tie, smoothing it down and straightening the knot before craning my neck to meet his gaze. “There’s some talk about you, you know? Thought you might want to know.”

“Really?” His brow quirks. “About?”

“You being in bed with the Cantanellis.”

He scoffs. “Please.”

“You were close with Nessa, so consider this a favor… a visit to remind you where you came from.” I pat my palms on the lapels of his suit. “I’d hate for someone as important as you to get caught up in nasty rumors.”

His body tenses. “Are you threatening a public official, Miss Westerly?”

“Just a chat with an old friend.” I shrug.

“Well, as fun as this chat is,” he drawls. “It isn’t a good time. I have a city council meeting in thirty minutes.”

“Of course, I’ll let you get to it.” I step around him to walk toward the door, my heels clicking on the wood floor and echoing off the plain beige walls. My fingers wrap around the metal knob and I twist, but before I leave completely, I pause, turning back to face him.

He’s watching me with his hands in his pockets and a look of consternation on his face.

“You know… it is a shame we don’t have time to test out that desk.” I sigh. “I guess I’ll just ask Commissioner Boq how it holds up.”

I wink and his nostrils flare. “Get the fuck out of my office.”

Laughing, I spin back around and leave, the rush of threatening someone flooding through my veins like a drug.

Three hours later and I’m back with my poppies, breathing in the earthy scents while I write. Scratch that, while I attempt to write. I’ve been blocked for six days, ever since I let Brayden whisper poetry into my skin while I came around his tongue.

Words are your safe space.

I flick the pen back and forth again and again, the end tapping the edges of my knuckles and then the page, creating an agitated rhythm.

Does he whisper poetry to Dorothy too?

My insides sour at the thought and I groan, slamming my notebook on the ground at my side. Closing my eyes, I count backward, focusing on my breathing and trying to find my center. But flashes of Brayden and Dorothy filter through my brain. Are they having fun together in Chicago?

I feel… used. Pathetic. Weak. I should have known better than to give in. And it’s not only that, I continually give in, over and over, reveling in the way he makes my body sing. I should have listened to my inner voice when it waved its giant red flag like a warning sign from day one, screaming in my psyche.

But for the first time since Nessa, someone else’s voice snuck into the cracks, and I started listening to him instead of myself. Like Pavlov’s dog, he trained me effortlessly to accept the bare minimum. To crave the back and forth, the animosity morphing into excitement whenever he was near simply because he paid me some attention.

And whether it was negative or positive, at least he was seeing me.

Plus, I can grudgingly admit he’s the best fuck I’ve ever had.

Let me be your calm in the chaos.

Bullshit.

Sighing, I run my fingers through my knotted hair, pulling at the roots until the sting clears my thoughts. It doesn’t work, in fact, the longer I sit in the silence, the more I replay every single encounter Brayden and I have ever had, searching for some reason beyond the physical that explains the pull I feel.

And when I get to the other night, when he was telling me about his mom, an epiphany goes off like a light bulb exploding in my brain.

Scrambling from my place on the floor, I practically sprint over to my phone, picking it up and speed-dialing Cody. He answers on the third ring.

“Not a good time, babe.”

“How did Brayden’s mom die?” I rush out.

“I… who?”

“The guy I had you look into. Didn’t you say his mom died?”

“Uhh… yeah. Cancer. When he was eighteen. Listen, can I call you back?”

I drop the phone, a pounding ache spreading through my head and through every limb of my body, followed closely by anger.

Pure, unadulterated rage.

That motherfucker lied to me. Again.