smile as he left the room, not needing to insist. We both knew he was right. I was too wound up, shoulder pain or no shoulder pain. No shit.
Jonah had called Peter. Why would he do that? And did it really have to make me feel almost fucking sick?
With a deep breath in through my nose and out of my mouth, I tipped my head toward the ceiling and tried to ease the tension out of my body.
I hated not knowing what was going to happen.
I hated surprises.
There was a reason that jackass had called him. I’d grown up around men with insane amounts of testosterone. When they wanted something, they usually got it.
And when they didn’t want something… well, they didn’t, and sometimes they left without a trace.
I was a lot of things, but I wasn’t dumb or a chicken.
If that fuckface called, he called. Whatever happened, I could handle it.
Chances were, he’d change his mind and keep up his disappearing act, and I could continue to live my life the exact same way I had been.
I was going to work out, maybe hop on a bike so I didn’t aggravate my shoulder more. I was going to fucking calm down. Regardless of whatever else happened, if I was going to have to kill anyone, I had people to help. There was no way for me to stop anything from happening, but I could and would deal with it.
Jonah Collins had no idea what he was going to be walking into, if he did. If, if, if.
If he even walked into anything in the first place.
Chapter 3
“It’s me. Again. Lenny. I went by your apartment. Akira told me they haven’t heard from you either. Look, a ruptured Achilles isn’t the end of the world, even though it feels that way, okay? And I’m sure your face will be fine once the swelling goes down. Don’t be all vain and shit. At least text me back.”
I knew that I wasn’t even trying to hide my bad mood when the second person in less than an hour walked into the office, looked at me, and then turned around and walked right back out, not saying a word.
It was that shitty.
Never, ever had I been the kind of person who bottled shit up and let it fester in the first place. For as long as I could remember, Grandpa Gus had made me talk things out to get whatever out of my system. If that didn’t work, then there were other things I could do to calm down again. To reel back. To center. Pressure makes everything pop, he said.
But despite being fully aware that meditation helped me relax and focus—some days it helped me not think, and other days it helped me think about things that were bothering me but without raging—I didn’t do it. I hadn’t woken up and hopped on the stationary bike either to get out of my head. I knew better.
I had tossed and turned the entire night, staring up at the ceiling and then listening to a true crime podcast because I hadn’t wanted to turn on the television or go downstairs because I didn’t want to risk running into Grandpa Gus, having him see that something—someone—was up my ass and wondering about it. Because he always knew when something was up. Always.
And I wasn’t ready to tell him the things he needed to know.
Not yet. Not while I wasn’t completely convinced I could be rational. So I was going to blame keeping things from him as the reason for my crappy mood the next day. That and a night of sleeping like shit, mixed with the anticipation, anger, and hurt, made this uncomfortable stone that didn’t want to pass through my system.
Picking up my cell phone, I ignored the spreadsheet on my desktop screen and sent a text message I should have the day before. If I couldn’t tell Grandpa, there was someone else I needed to have a conversation with. Someone younger, less hairy, and a hell of a lot nicer.
Me: You busy today?
It took ten minutes to get a response.
Luna: Nope. :] What’s going on?
I shook my foot beneath the desk, thinking about what I needed to tell my best friend of the last eleven years.
Me: Nothing bad, but I need to tell you something, and it’ll be easier in person.
That time there was only a one-minute delay in getting a reply.