“That’s not what I meant,” she said gently.
“Shit,” I said, but the word was soft and without malice. I’d told her nothing but the basics—that I’d gone into the op with a plan to seduce Tyler. That the seduction part of the equation had chugged along just fine. At least I thought so until it boomeranged on me and turned out to be nothing but one big con, with me wearing the neon target sign.
What I hadn’t mentioned was how intimate the seduction had become—how far I’d let him go. Hell, how far I’d wanted him to go.
And I sure as hell hadn’t said anything about how deeply the truth had cut me.
I should have known Candy would dig it out anyway.
“I didn’t want to get you all caught up in my personal crap,” I said, though the words sounded lame.
“I’m all about the personal crap,” she said. “I drag you into my personal crap all the time. That’s sort of the point of the whole friendship thing, right? Celebrating the good, bitching about the bad, sharing secrets?”
I supposed it was. Not that I had oodles of experience in that regard. I hadn’t had any close girlfriends growing up. For that matter, I hadn’t had any close friends, period. Like Candy said, friends shared their secrets. I, however, didn’t share mine.
As far as BFFs went, Candy was probably as close as I came. It probably qualified as pathetic that my closest friend was also my CI. Then again, when did I have time to meet people other than cops, lawyers, victims, and suspects?
Not that we had a frilly-pink girly relationship. We didn’t sit around discussing men and painting our toenails—and though I’d let her glimpse a few bones here and there, she’d yet to see the skeletons in my closet. But we went out for drinks and pizza sometimes, and whenever I hit her up for street gossip we usually ended up sharing a beer on her fire escape and talking about life and television and stuff. As far as I was concerned, that must put us somewhere on the friendship spectrum.
“Sloane?” Her voice held wariness now. “You wanna talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I said.
“Fuck that.”
“Jesus, Candy, what do you want me to say? I didn’t realize he was playing me, and I got burned—end of story. But it’s only my pride that got wounded. It’s not like I’m drowning my sorrows in chocolate ice cream and writing poetic love notes to him in a pink diary. It wasn’t real—how the hell could any of it been real?”
“I’m so sorry.”
It was the gentleness in her voice that undid me. “Bitch,” I whispered. “You’re supposed to just let me wallow.”
“You really liked him, huh?”
I started to say no, then stopped myself. “I liked the man I saw—I liked him a lot. But beats the hell out of me whether that man even exists. Shit,” I added, as I pushed myself up and ran my fingers through my hair. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m not looking to get involved, and even if I were, a Chicago-based criminal wouldn’t be my first choice.”
“No, I guess not. You know what you should do?” she asked. “Go get a pint of that chocolate ice cream.”
Since friends rarely steer you wrong, I took the advice to heart. Fifteen minutes later I was cross-legged on the floor, my back to the bed and the TV on in front of me. The pint of double chocolate chunk ice cream I’d bought at the corner market was still frozen, and I was scraping the spoon along the top, grateful for every tiny little bite I was able to chip off.
I’d turned the television on in a brutal and obvious effort to knock all thoughts of Tyler, Amy, the whole damn thing, from my head. But since the only thing worth watching was Law and Order, I was doing a piss poor job of getting clear.
I wanted Tyler. Irrational and stupid and complicated and dangerous, but damned if I didn’t want him anyway. And even though I kept trying to bury the thought of him down deep, my thoughts of him were as relentless as the man himself.
The shrill ring of my phone made me jump, and I wanted to kick myself, because my very first impulse was to check and see if it was him.
Apparently, I’d never left high school.
With my pulse pounding, I checked the screen. Just a number, but I knew it was him. I could feel it, and I took a deep breath to steady myself before I answered.
But it wasn’t Tyler’s whiskey-smooth voice I heard. It was Kevin’s.
“You got a minute?”
“Actually, no.” Not exactly a warm and fuzzy response, but I wasn’t actually feeling warm and fuzzy toward Kevin at the moment.
“I talked to Tom,” Kevin continued, undeterred. “He said he saw you at Evan Black’s engagement party. Sounds like you’re making progress.”
“Hard to make progress when I don’t know all the facts.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m just a little irritated that you somehow forgot to mention that you were dating Angelina Raine before she went and got herself engaged to Evan Black.”
“Fuck.” The word was a sharp whisper, but it came across the phone just fine.
“Yeah, I’d say so. I don’t like being used for your private vendetta.”
“Dammit, Sloane, I wasn’t—”
“Wasn’t what? Wasn’t being a lying, manipulative sack of shit? Got news for you, Kevin. You were.”
“I wasn’t lying. I’m not manipulative. And I’m not using you.”
“Color me unconvinced.”
“Look, just come meet me.”
“Forget it, Kevin. I’m sorry your girl ditched you, but I’m not your personal payback bitch. You have a battle to fight? I’ll let you be the one to fight it.”
“Dammit, you’re not—”
“Listening? No, I’m not. Goodbye, Kevin,” I said, then ended the call. And although it felt good to hang up and take control, I was still antsy. Stewing. Kevin’s allegations about the knights stirred in my head, getting mixed up with my thoughts about Amy, and those thoughts were doing a tango with the confused mishmash of emotions I felt simply from the mention of Tyler’s name.
“Dammit,” I muttered, then jammed the lid back on the ice cream.
Kevin’s call had pumped my edginess up exponentially. I needed to move. Needed to clear my head. Needed to figure out how the hell I could get into Destiny—because for better or for worse, my curiosity was piqued now. Tyler Sharp had shown me the man he wanted me to see. Now I wanted the chance to peek behind the curtain.