Free Darkling I Listen by Katherine Sutcliffe

tucked beneath the twisted speculation about his life in hardcover, was a Glock 9 mm with a loaded clip—sixteen bullets with his name engraved on each.
    "Of course it would mean your trusting me," she said, her long fingers bothering the spoon near her cup and saucer. "Might do you good, actually. The purging, I mean. Imagine regurgitating all the garbage you've had to swallow over the years. Be a little like getting your stomach pumped after eating a can of bad Vienna sausages. Think how much better you'll feel."
    "And what do you get out of it?" he asked, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear her admit it.
    "Money and acclaim, of course. I'm not so altruistic as to do it for nothing. Being associated with a book that will blow the lid off the bestseller lists will open doors for me."
    "Not to mention get your pretty face on Late Night with David Letterman."
    She raised her eyebrows and tipped her head. One corner of her mouth lifted. Not a smile, exactly. "You think I'm pretty, huh? That's quite a compliment, coming from you."
    "Yeah, well, don't get carried away. I've seen a lot of pretty faces, and they were usually attached to big trouble. Let me rephrase. They were always attached to trouble. Trouble is the last thing I need right now."
    "Do you intend to hibernate in Ticky Creek forever? Don't you entertain the thought of at least attempting a resurrection of your career?" She shook her head, and her fine, arched brows drew together. "You're a brilliant talent, Carlyle. I can't see you wasting your life growing hay and watching afternoon reruns of Ma and Pa Kettle Do Hawaii ."
    "You're hardly in a position to speculate on my emotional fulfillment. You don't know me."
    Her gaze shifted to the book under his hands, and her expression became hard. "I know what I've read. That you're a self-centered egomaniac who drinks too much, emotionally abuses his mother, and spends his nights cavorting with S&M porn queens. You get off on whips and bondage, and occasionally experiment in bestiality. All evidence points to your raping and murdering Emerald Marcella, and the only reason you got off with manslaughter was that the District Attorney owed your mother a favor—Cara to the rescue once again, despite having been used and so heartlessly tossed aside when you no longer needed her influence to get you movie roles."
    He almost laughed at the ridiculous accusations, but her expression and the steely intensity in her hazel eyes told him that she was dead serious. Cold nausea rolled inside him. Fear clamped around his throat—as suffocating as it had been the morning he woke up in a hospital emergency room to learn that Emerald Marcella was dead. First there had been the despair over Emerald's death—which had quickly become terror over how the news would affect his already tarnished reputation.
    His image on the book jacket glared up at him, his own eyes, angry and razor sharp, mocking him. "That's sick. That's just … sick." He gave a short laugh and rubbed one hand over his forehead, which had begun to sweat. He wanted like hell to howl at the absurdity of it all, but his throat remained closed so tightly he could hardly breathe.
    "Jesus, I thought the nightmare of rumor and speculation after Emerald's death left me impervious to shock and humiliation. I buried myself in obscurity to avoid confronting the nastiness of people who get their jollies eviscerating celebrities. Now here it is again. Lies. Sick, perverted lies spewed by so-called acquaintances who're simply using a book to grab their fifteen minutes of fame."
    The woman across from him frowned and leaned toward him. Her eyes were no longer accusatory, but showed concern. She reached across the table and laid her hand on his, the contact like a warm shock to his raw senses. The touch traveled up his arm and slammed into his chest.
    "Carlyle, are you all right? You look like—"
    "Can't breathe." He waved her away, jerked from her touch, and slid out of the