Dirty Together (The Dirty Billionaire Trilogy #3)(8)


by Meghan March

He meets my gaze without hesitation. “I didn’t like the way Holly looked when she rolled into town, and you’re the most likely cause.”

I imagine her looking tired and stressed to the max, the way she did before everything went to shit last night at the MoMA event, and I want to get her back to her grandmother’s house to take care of her properly. Last night left a lot to be desired on both our parts, but I’m here to fix whatever broke between us.

I keep my words steady, even as my temper flares hotter. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Logan shifts his shoulders back, and his hands tighten into fists at his sides. “I’m making it my business.”

I glance at Holly, passed out in the passenger seat, before looking back to Logan. “I don’t have time for this right now, but if you’ve still got a death wish in the morning, you know where I’ll be.”

He shoves off the truck and steps toward me, and this time it’s my hands balling into fists. “Some of us have to work in the morning. Like me, on your wife’s piece-of-shit car that broke down the second she pulled into town.”

I curse under my breath. “Don’t bother fixing it. I’ll buy her something when we get home.” I don’t know what she was driving, but I’m guessing it wasn’t the Maserati I’d pick for her.

“You sure she’s leaving with you?” Logan says smugly.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” I won’t allow for any alterative outcome.

“That’s the same answer your wife gave when I asked her if she wanted to get drunk tonight.”

I grit my teeth as I yank the door open. Logan is still leaning against his truck as I pull out of the parking lot of the bowling alley, gravel flying. I swear his smug smile grows bigger, and I hope the stones chipped the paint of his truck. Fucker.

We make it to Holly’s gran’s front porch before she starts puking again, and I know it’s going to be a long night.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow, Holly and I need to have our own come-to-Jesus talk.

My head pounds and the light cutting across the room hurts my eyes, even though they’re still closed. I make a sound that I think qualifies as a moan, but it’s guttural enough to be an animal noise. Rolling my head to the side, I see a glass on the nightstand, and pills beside it.

“Thank you, Logan,” I mumble.

I almost fall out of bed when a deep voice answers, “It wasn’t Logan.”

I shoot up in bed and regret it instantly as nausea roils in my gut. “Creighton?”

He’s seated in the tiny chair that belongs to my vanity. He looks ridiculous because he’s big enough to crush it.

What the hell is he doing here?

My mind spins, looking for answers, and I can’t grasp a single one. My confusion must be obvious, because Creighton raises an eyebrow.

“You don’t remember last night?”

Last night? My memory might as well be a black hole. I shake my head, and splinters of pain shoot from behind my eyeballs.

Whoa, Holly. Take it easy.

I look at Creighton once more, but his dark expression sends a new and different kind of pain through my head. It’s a look I’ve seen before. Creighton is pissed. The reason for it comes out quickly.

“The fact that you expected another man to be in your bedroom pisses me the fuck off, Holly.”

Big swamping waves invade my stomach, notching up the nausea at the thought of the coming confrontation—one I’m not nearly ready for—and I swing my legs off the bed and bolt into my tiny bathroom. Dry heaves rack my body until tears stream down my face.

A glass of water appears beside me magically. Well, if you consider Creighton Karas to be magic. I refuse to give my opinion on the matter.

Mumbling my thanks, I take a sip and spit it into the toilet. I feel like road kill, and not a single memory of last night surfaces from the black hole. Not a good sign.

Creighton takes the water from me and produces a damp washcloth before leaving the tiny bathroom.

I wipe my face and carefully stand. A peek in the mirror reveals that I also look like road kill resurrected from the dead.

I wipe at the raccoon eyes left by my mascara, and attempt to look less awful. My hair is tangled and knotted, so I grab a hair tie off the counter and attempt to pull it away from my face into some semblance of order, but it’s really not happening. Nothing is going to touch this hot mess but a shower.

Wary, I poke my head out of the bathroom door. Creighton is sitting on my bed, looking completely out of place in my white and pale lilac room. His eyes are on me, and his pissed-off vibe hasn’t lessened a bit.

“I, um, I’m going to grab a shower.”

The nod he gives me is stiff, and I can’t read anything beyond not frigging pleased in his expression.

Frowning, I slip back into the bathroom and shut the door. After stripping off my rumpled clothes, I turn the ancient showerhead all the way to Hot and hope it can wash away . . . something. Everything? I don’t even know anymore.

I came here to get away, to regroup, but part of me is really happy to see Creighton in my bedroom. I thought I’d be ashamed to have him see this side of me, but something about it is actually . . . freeing?

Like I no longer have anything to hide. Like he’s seen all of me, including the innermost and least fame-worthy part of me, and he’s still here.

I smile into the nearly scalding water, and when I feel something like hope bubbling up inside me, I can’t help but start singing in the shower.

After I brush the hell out of my teeth and my tongue is mostly numb from Listerine, I reach for the door handle. The smile on my face is wide, and I feel almost human again.

I’m ready to talk to Creighton, ready to lay out my cards and see if we can figure out where we go from here.

My room is silent and empty when I push open the door. I hang my towel on the back of my chair, and dig some yoga pants and a T-shirt out of my bag. Listening for sounds of life in the house, I pad down the stairs.

There’s more silence when I enter the kitchen. My stomach churns, although it was calm only a few minutes ago, and I think I’m going to be sick again.

Creighton’s gone, and there’s no sign to suggest I didn’t just imagine his presence.

With measured steps, I cross the room and peek out the lace curtains to the front yard and gravel drive.

Empty.

I don’t remember what Creighton drove last night due to the memory thief called tequila, but I know he must have a car. There’s no garage for it to hide in.