Chapter 92: My Dark Prince: Chapter 91

Trial Day Four.

No one ever listed restlessness as a side effect of long-distance relationships. That gut-wrenching, vomit-inducing, electric surge inside you that felt like it would combust and take out your organs if you didn’t get up and do something. Anything.

Eli culled through a binder of carpet samples, kicking his feet up on my office desk. “Anything else?”

With the tip of my pen, I swatted his shoe off the mahogany, proud I’d managed to get up after a four-day alcohol bender. Correction: Eli had arrived at my house at seven in the morning and dragged my ass into the office in time for an important vote, barely sparing me a minute to tug on a suit.

My fingers returned to my temples, diving into the skin as if they could squeeze away a hangover. “Have you ever been to Waco?”

“I meant work-related.”

“I’m your boss. Everything I say to you is work-related.”

He sighed, giving me an inch. “What’s in Waco?”

“An asshole.”

Specifically, a cheating asshole that once matched with Briar on Raya, wrote hate comments on every movie trailer she’d ever worked on, and confronted her at Baylor when she visited with her friends. I’d ordered Sebastian to dig up dirt on him months ago.

Kyle Clark. Former junior engineer at Raytheon. Soon-to-be ex-Ph.D. candidate at Baylor. Dallas had given me the run-down when they returned from their trip, and I’d let him off the hook for far too long, too distracted by Briar’s existence near mine.

Eli spared me a glance over a godawful fuchsia polyester. “There are plenty of assholes in this great nation. To which are you referring?”

“One whose lifespan is about to get shorter.”

“Don’t do anything illegal. I’m not bailing you out of jail.”

“I have friends for that.” I stopped rubbing my temples long enough to squint at him. “Is that concern I hear in your voice?”

“It’s self-preservation. You look like shit.”

So. About that … I hadn’t showered since Briar left. Big deal. Not like I let anyone close enough to smell me. It would be easier if she’d stayed in LA. At least, we’d have FaceTime.

But alas, the second she landed, production informed her that they’d moved up filming to a remote private island owned by one of the billionaire investors. Something about cutting costs on set locations.

The tiny Caribbean Island possessed exactly one cell tower that required a two-hour hike up a dense, jungle-filled mountain to catch a signal. Even if I wanted her to make the trek, which I didn’t, she couldn’t with her twenty-hour film schedule.

I hadn’t heard from my girlfriend in four fucking days.

I rested my cheek back on my desk. “I’m dressed in head-to-toe custom tailoring.”

“Your socks don’t even match.”

“A deliberate fashion choice.”

“The only person whose name you’ve gotten right today is mine, you yelled at no less than half the staff, and during the board meeting, you suggested we scrap the entire resort expansion in Brazil.”

“That would’ve led to widespread deforestation and further endangered buffy-headed marmosets.”

“Buffy-headed marmo—” Eli snapped his binder shut. “Who the fuck are you?”

I didn’t answer, bouncing to my feet before I exploded on my seat. That electric surge refused to dissipate. I’d have to make it.

Eli’s eyes followed my warpath to the exit. “Where are you going?”

“Texas.”

“What the hell is in Texas?”

Petty revenge.