The Sinners of Saint Amos - Logan Fox Page 0,128

this?”

“They told me you don’t want to help anymore,” he says. “But I think you should.”

I rip my hand out of his. “Zachary told you to bring me up here?” My voice is tight, my hands balling into fists.

“No.” Apollo shakes his head. “He—they…” He lets out a long sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose before looking back at the hysterical matrix of evidence scattered over the wall. “They’d kill me if they knew this was here.”

“Kill you? Bit dramatic, don’t you—?”

“Don’t tell them. Please.” He turns to me, grabbing hold of his elbows. “We’re not supposed to keep stuff like this around.”

“So why do you? Why is this here?”

“I had to put it all together so I knew it made sense.” He waves a hand at the photos and clippings, shaking his head. “I mean, it’s easy for them. They’re all so fucking smart. They just keep this shit in their heads. You ask any of them which year the fire broke out on Rhode Island, how many orphans apparently died in it, they could just tell you straight off the bat.”

Fire? Orphans? What the hell is he babbling about?

“Me? I get it all confused. So I made this. It helps me keep track. Helps it all make sense.”

I find the clipping he’s talking about.

14 DEAD IN FIRE

My eyes swivel back to him. “And it all leads here?” I ask, pointing at the photograph again.

“Yeah, in some way or the other.” He runs his palms carefully down the wall, smoothing everything in his path. “I thought, if you saw this, you would know it’s not just four guys talking shit. It’s real, Trin.” He cautiously moves closer. “Can you see how real it is?”

“Where did you get the photo?” I force myself not to look at it, even though I’m itching to snatch it off the wall and burn it.

“High school yearbook. Tracked it down in a library a few years ago.”

“How old is he?” My voice is hoarse now. I’m barely holding back…what? Anger? Fear?

Apollo is right. This changes everything. This photo?

It. Changes. Everything.

“So will you do it?” he asks. “Will you go back and try again?”

“I don’t know.” I have to crane my head to look up at him when he steps closer still. “I’d need more time, I think. Or maybe I did it wrong. Zachary said—”

“He lied.” Apollo’s eyes narrow. “He wanted you to think you’d fucked up so you’d try again.”

My mouth falls open. “That’s—”

“Why I brought you here.” He squeezes my arm. “But please, don’t say anything. Not to anyone. Understand? No one can see this.”

I nod mutely, wishing my skin would stop tingling where he touched me. Maybe it was our proximity, or my brain trying to cope with the next-level shit it had just been dealt…but suddenly I want nothing more than to kiss him.

He must see something in my eyes because his gaze drops to my lips a second before he ducks down and presses his mouth against mine.

Wanting and doing are two very different things, of course. No matter what I want, I shouldn’t let him kiss me. I mean, what does that say about me?

Blasphemous little sl—

You know what? Fuck it.

I arch into him, tangling my fingers in his hair. If this is going to happen, then for once I’m going to be in charge of it fucking happening. No more being bullied. No more unwanted fingers in my yoohoo.

Apollo huffs out a laugh as we totter back from the force of my kiss. But instead of pushing me away, or laughing harder at my pathetic attempts at seduction, he slings an arm around my waist, hoists me up, and plops me onto the desk behind him.

The cold metal starts seeping through my dress.

But cold is the last thing on my mind.

I’m focused entirely on Apollo’s mouth. But, also, how silky his hair feels as I twine it through my fingers. Then there’s his intoxicating taste, and the way he urges my hips closer to his with both hands on the small of my back.

Okay, fuck it, my mind is going in fifty different directions. But just like that web on his board, everything leads back to him.

His kiss grows deeper. He slides his tongue into my mouth, cautiously curious, until I give him unrestricted access.

Then he kisses me so hard my core starts to ache, and I can’t help but moan against his lips.

“Fuck, you taste good,” he murmurs, a volley of hot pants brushing