Free Twisted by Emma Chase Page A

Billy.
    And what the hell is he talking about— my indiscretion? Like I made it happen all by myself?
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    And then it sinks in—his anger. his vindictiveness. It starts to
    make sense.
    “Do you think I planned this? That I did it on purpose?”
    he smirks, and even a deaf person would be able to hear the
    sarcasm. “No—of course not. These things just happen sometimes, right? Even when you don’t mean them to.”
    I open my mouth to argue, to explain, but the stripper’s giggle
    cuts me off. I glare at her. “Get out of my house before I put you out with the rest of the trash.”
    In situations like this? Women can cut each other down faster
    than a tree dealer on Christmas Eve. But it’s not because we’re
    petty. Or catty.
    It’s because it’s easier to go after a nameless woman than to
    admit that the true fault lies with the man who was supposed to
    love you. Who was supposed to be committed. Faithful.
    And wasn’t.
    She says, “Sorry, honey, you’re not paying for this show. I go
    where the money man tells me.”
    Drew loops an arm around her waist and smiles proudly. “She’s
    not going anywhere. We’re just getting started.”
    I find the strength to raise a brow. And try to land a shot of
    my own.
    “Paying for it now, Drew? Isn’t that pathetic.”
    he smirks. “Don’t kid yourself, sweetheart—I’ve been pay-
    ing for it for the last two years too. You’ve just been slightly more expensive than the average whore.”
    I should have known better. Arguing with Drew is like dealing
    with a terrorist. he has no boundaries; nothing’s off limits. There are no depths he won’t sink to to win.
    Then he looks thoughtful.
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    “Although I must say, despite how everything’s turned out, you
    were money well spent. Especially that night, against the kitchen
    sink”—he winks—“worth every penny.”
    I’m dying. Each horrible word cuts into me like a blade slic-
    ing skin. Can you see the blood? Oozing slowly with every atro-
    cious syllable. Drawing it out, making it more painful than it ever needed to be.
    You look surprised. You shouldn’t be.
    Drew Evans doesn’t burn bridges. he sets dynamite to them.
    Decimating the bridge, the mountains it connects, and any other
    living thing unlucky enough to be within a fifty-mile radius.
    Drew never does anything halfway. Why should destroying me
    be any different?
    I turn to walk down the hall before I crumble in front of him
    like an Egyptian pyramid.
    But he grabs my arm. “Where are you going, Kate? Stick
    around—maybe you can learn a new trick.”
    You know how someone’s personality can make him more
    attractive? Like that kid in high school who, despite the lack of muscle tone and the case of mild acne, was able to run with the popular crowd? Because he told the funniest jokes and had the best stories.
    I wish I could tell you it worked in reverse. I wish I could say
    that Drew’s words magically transformed his face into the mon-
    strosity he sounds like.
    But I can’t.
    Look at him.
    I imagine this is what Lucifer looked like when God tossed
    him out of heaven. Bitter and broken.
    But still so achingly beautiful.
    I pull my arm free. And my voice is high-pitched, almost hys-
    terical. “Don’t touch me! Don’t you ever fucking touch me again!”
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    he smiles slowly, the very picture of serenity. he wipes his
    hand on his pants, like he just handled something dirty.
    “That really won’t be a problem for me.”
    I’m going to be sick. I’m going to throw up all over his black
    Bruno Magli shoes.
    And it’s got nothing to do with the pregnancy.
    I go down the hall, forcing myself to walk. Because I refuse to
    let Drew see me run from him.
    I barely make it to the bathroom in time.
    I drop to my knees and hold on to the toilet for dear life. A
    nail breaks and