I’m a threat to everyone around me.

  I didn’t realize Blair would become a target of my unquenchable thirst.

  But now she’s the center. Everything focuses on her, and I can’t stop myself from wanting more and more and more.

  There’s a line between lust and obsession, and I know which side I stand on.

  “Get in the car, idiot,” Blair says, looking exasperated. “We have a lot of work to do.”

  I force a smile on my lips. That’s what I do: grin and mask it.

  Hide the hunger.

  Hide the hate and the lust.

  Don’t let her know exactly how badly I want to tear her to pieces and make her scream my name as I do it.

  Chapter 4

  Blair

  “I’m freaking out, Marie, and I don’t know what to do.”

  She frowns at me over the sound of hammering. Men walk past carrying wood and nod as they slip toward the kitchen. The air’s full of the smell of drywall, sawdust, and sweaty man, which normally wouldn’t be so bad but it’s like any suggestion of masculinity makes my legs cross right now.

  Except for Baptist. Which is somehow even worse.

  “Come on, let’s go upstairs and talk.” Marie leads me by the arm up the main staircase. The house is gorgeous and right in the heart of Old City, the nicest neighborhood in all of Philly. It’s historic and cost a small fortune, and now Marie’s overseeing its renovation while trying to keep as much of the old-world charm as possible.

  The workers are everywhere downstairs, but upstairs is quiet. We stand in a lovely, large bedroom, entirely empty, and Marie drifts over toward the big bay windows. I follow and look out at the block, at the trees and the nice cars, and wonder how I’ll ever have something like this.

  It’ll never happen. Not for me, not now.

  There’s too much at stake.

  “What’s going on?” she asks, crossing her arms. “I’ve never seen you looking so worried.”

  “I’m freaked out, honestly.”

  “Is it Baptist? Is he being—”

  “No, he’s fine,” I say quickly, although it is Baptist, just not in the way she’s thinking. “The company’s fine. Cowan’s insane, very insane, but fine. I think. It’s personal, actually.”

  She softens a touch. “Max? Your mom?”

  I shake my head. I filled her in on the vague details during her wedding week—about my mom running off and Max coming to live with me—but haven’t updated her since. I try to keep that stuff close and don’t like to let people see the ugly truth, which is probably a trait I got from my messed-up father.

  “It’s me.” I lay a hand on my stomach and bite my lip. “Don’t tell anyone. Please.”

  She looks at my hand, frowns, looks at me, tilts her head, and her eyes finally widen. “No.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How? When? Who?”

  “Well, when a man loves a woman—”

  “Seriously, Blair. When? Who?”

  “I found out yesterday. And I can’t tell you who.”

  She shakes her head. “This is huge. You’re pregnant! You know who the father is, right?”

  “Hey, asshole. I’m not just throwing myself around town, okay? Yes, I know.”

  “Right, okay, I’m sorry. It’s just, wow. You’re pregnant.”

  I lean against the wall and slowly slide down. I close my eyes and fight back the tears, but they’re hard to stop once they’re on my lids. Marie sits with me and wraps her arms around me and lets me cry for a minute before I finally wipe my face and grin.

  “I’m pregnant,” I whisper. “Surprise.”

  “Oh, god, sweetie. I’m so sorry. It’s going to be okay though, I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

  “Thanks,” I say and laugh once. “God, what a mess. I’m in this thing with Baptist and I’ve got Max back at home, and by the way, dealing with a teenager isn’t easy, and you can throw my asshole piece of garbage Dad into the mix—”

  “Slow down,” she says, hugging me. “You’ve got a lot going on, but this is important.”

  “I know. I know. And before you ask, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I mean, I’m not going to—you know.”

  “Right. You’re not going to take care of it.”

  “Fucked up that we have to talk around it, right? But yeah, no, I’m not having an abortion. I just can’t.”

  “It’s okay, honey. Everyone makes their own choices.” She leans her head on my shoulder. “What then? Adoption? Raise him or her yourself? Will the father be in the picture?”

  I sob once and have to bite my lip to stop myself from crying more. God, all these questions, and I hadn’t even thought about any of it. She’s right though, there are a million things to take care of, all of them logistical nightmares, and then there’s Baptist.

  How am I going to tell him the truth?

  Can I tell him the truth without ruining everything we’re building together?

  “I really don’t know yet,” I finally manage to say. “I’m figuring it out. Right now, I just want to get through the day.”

  “Look, I’m going to make an appointment for you. You’ll see a doctor—” She must see the horrified look on my face, because she quickly adds, “Just for a routine checkup. You have to start having regular appointments if you plan on going to term.”

  “Right. Shit. Doctor. Okay.”

  “You’ll need prenatal vitamins. No more drinking. A lot less caffeine. No smoking, although I don’t think you smoke—”

  “Marie.”

  “Yes?”

  “Stop it.”

  “Okay.” She sighs and tugs at her hair anxiously. “I plan when I’m scared.”

  “I know.” I kiss her head. “Can you promise not to tell anyone? Especially not Ansell? I don’t want Baptist to find out.”

  She looks at me, frowning, but nods. “I promise, although I don’t like keeping anything from him.”

  “You can tell him eventually, but not yet. It’s important.”

  “Okay, I promise.”

  “What a mess. If I thought my life couldn’t get more complicated—” I’m interrupted by my phone ringing. I frown at the screen: it’s a number I don’t recognize. Normally I’d send it straight to voicemail, but since I’m in a vulnerable state, I extract myself from Marie with an apology and answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Blair Webb.” The voice is male, harsh, and vaguely familiar. “You’re the production girl, right?”

  It clicks into place and my jaw falls open. I’m stunned for a split second before I gather myself. “Mr. Cowan. What can I do for you?”

  “Cowan. Just fucking Cowan. Where are you?”

  “I’m, uh, at a friend’s house. Is something wrong?”

  “I need you now. I’ll text you an address. Bring money.”

  “I’m sorry, but why—”

  The line goes dead. I stare at my phone, not sure what the hell to do, when a text arrives with an address deep in South Philly. I look up at Marie and shake my head.

  “Work,” I say with an apologetic shrug.

  “That was Tony Cowan?” She gets to her feet. “What’s he like?”

  “Absolutely insane. I got to go though. I have a feeling I’m going to get a lot of calls like this one for the foreseeable future.” I give her a tight hug and she holds me a second longer than she needs to.

  “I’m here for you,” she whispers and I nod back, unable to speak, because I’m pretty sure I’ll cry again.

  This is not how I pictured becoming a mom.

  I hurry downstairs, through the mess of contractors, and out to my car. I hop in and head to the address, head spinning.

  My mother was a lovely woman growing up. She was the perfect contrast to my father: kind, caring, warm, loving. When my father screamed and raged, she bore the brunt and calmed us down when it was over. When my father belittled me, she tried to build me back up.

  She cleaned up his messes for years.

  And it wore her down.

  As I got older, she withdrew further and further into her own life, until she finally disappeared.

  Leaving poor Max to fend for himself.

  I want to be understanding, especially now that I’m pregnant myself and looking forward at a future where I realistically might be taking care of a child alone and without any support. I want to feel bad for her because being with my father must’ve been hard.

  Except she abandoned my brother when he needed it most. I can get over her disappearing on me—but not on him.

  I finally reach the address Cowan sent and drive past twice before I’m sure it’s the right place. The building is deep in South Philly, the part of the city where I’m pretty sure everyone standing around outside is in the mob. The address belongs to a hole-in-the-wall bar, a real piece-of-trash dive with no sign and no indication that it’s anything but a doorway aside from a Coors advertisement plastered over the front.

  I park, get out, and try the handle. It’s open and I step into a smoky, dimly lit room. It takes me a second to get over the assault of cigarette stench—smoking indoors should be illegal—but I keep my mouth shut and stare at my surroundings.

  It’s a bar like I thought, and it’s a total dump. Taps on the left, bottles lined up behind them, and an old woman leaning against the wall watching a Wheel of Fortune rerun on TV. In the back, several big guys sit around puffing on cigars, and right between two ugly, nasty assholes sits Tony Cowan looking very unhappy.

  At least until he spots me and waves me over.

  All eyes turn as I head toward the group. Six men stare at me with expressions ranging from boredom to disgust. My heart leaps into my throat and I feel like my feet are going numb with fear. These aren’t the kind of men that let a woman walk through the door and out again without some trouble and I’m terrified it’ll be worse than I’m imagining. I try to smile but nobody smiles back, and the biggest of the group leans forward and taps his cigar against an ashtray.

  The danger is palpable and I’m suddenly very fucking mad at Tony Cowan.

  “You the money?” the big guy grunts.

  “Uh,” I say and look at Cowan. “Am I?”

  Cowan nods once. “These gentlemen and I entered into an agreement recently, one which I find I cannot quite hold up. I hoped that my new producer might take care of said agreement for me, if you’d please.”

  “What the nice director here is trying to say, miss, is he owes me $2,530, and I’m gonna break his fucking ankles if he doesn’t give it to me right now.”

  I gape at him and blink rapidly. How the heck did I go from crying in my friend’s beautiful Old City home to this total dump and these obvious gangsters? Cowan’s grin remains plastered on like he’s got a gun to the small of his back, and that’s probably not far from the truth.

  “What’d he do?” I ask.

  The big gangster grins at me like he didn’t expect me to do anything but pay. “Mr. Cowan here entered a few games of chance and bought more than his fair share of crack cocaine.”

  “For research purposes,” Cowan quickly says.

  “And I don’t give a fuck what he did with the crack. All I care about is getting paid. I like Mr. Cowan’s movies very much, which is why I let this go on for so long, but a man’s got to eat, miss.”

  “Yes, a man’s got to eat, Pussyfingers here has a point.”

  “Pussyfingers?” I tilt my head toward the big man. “That’s you?”

  “My mother gave me that nickname,” he says and everyone at the table laughs like it’s a joke they’ve heard a million times but they’re too afraid not to pretend to think it’s still funny.

  “All right, Mr. Pussyfingers. I don’t have that kind of cash on me. I’ll need to go to an ATM, unless you take checks?”

  “There’s a machine around the corner. We can wait. I’ll keep Mr. Cowan here entertained.”

  “They’re delightful company, really,” Cowan says with a sight. “Now run along, little suit.”

  I give him a sharp look. This bastard is making me pay his drug and gambling debts and pulling me into what looks like an extremely dangerous situation, not to mention he’s exposing my unborn child to a cubic ton of secondhand smoke, and I am more than a little unhappy about this.

  But I leave the shitty dive and find the ATM in question. It’s plastered with graffiti and stickers, but it works, and even has enough money inside to cover me even though it charges me five bucks per transaction and only releases five hundred at a time. When I’m done, I head back inside and hand the cash to the lovely Mr. Pussyfingers.

  “Thank you very much,” Pussyfingers says, running a thumb over the stack. “Tony here’s lucky to have a lovely friend like you, miss.”

  “Tony here is lucky he’s not dead.” I gesture with my head. “Come on.”

  Cowan gets to his feet, grinning huge. “Gentlemen. It was truly an honor and a pleasure. For you all, at least. For me, it was nothing but a long nuisance.”

  “Looking forward to your next movie, Mr. Cowan,” Pussyfingers says as Cowan hurries past me toward the door. “Give me a consulting credit, you fucking bastard!” The table laughs for real at that one, and I follow Cowan out onto the street.

  “You are truly a good producer, suit,” he says, striding away from the bar. “One of the best I’ve ever had. I recall this one trip to Buenos Aires—”

  “Cowan.” I snap his name like a leather belt on flesh. “Stop.”

  He looks surprised and I bet he’s not used to having people talk to him like that. But a smile comes across his face. “You have spine. I like it.”

  “Get in the car, you stupid asshole.” I get behind the wheel and he slips into the back. I want to tell him to get up front but I don’t bother. I pull out, happy to be far away from that bar and that terrifying Pussyfingers. I get the sense that the only reason they didn’t try to take more from me—in both money and other things—is their respect for Cowan’s films.

  “I can tell you’re upset, and you have every reason to be.”

  “Crack? Poker with gangsters? Are you absolutely insane?” I grimace and shake my head. “Don’t answer that, I already know you’re a nightmare. Why the hell would you call me down there?”

  “You’re the suit,” he says calmly, his eyes narrowed now, his charming smile gone. “You’re the producer. You want to make this movie? You’re going to have to do much more than pay off a few unruly gentlemen to make it happen.”

  I grind my jaw and want to scream in his face. I’m pregnant, you stupid prick. But that would only be counterproductive, and anyway, I’m not sure he’d care. I’m not sure how I feel about it yet, and I’m fairly certain that Tony Cowan is too much of a narcissist to think about anything beyond his own immediate needs.

  “That is not my job. I’m the producer of your damn film. You need equipment, actors, soundstages, special effects, you come to me and I give you money. That’s it. I don’t bail you out of your drug debts. And seriously, crack cocaine?”

  He laughs softly, but there’s no real mirth behind the sound. I glare at him in the rearview mirror and he looks back at me. His eyes are red-rimmed and he seems tired and older than he had the first time we met, and I wonder how long he was with Pussyfingers before Cowan finally called.

  “Do you want to know what my movie is about, suit?”

  I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Stop calling me that. And yes, I do.”

  “My movie is about a man that wants things.”

  I expect him to elaborate, and when he doesn’t, I finally break the silence. “That’s not enough.”

  “Isn’t it? That’s what all stories are about. Someone wants something and there are obstacles in the way of them getting it. The story is how they get past the things in their way and how far they’re willing to go to achieve their goals. That’s a story.”

  “It’s not only that.”

  “Oh, yes, suit, it is. Wanting is everything. Sometimes what the characters really want isn’t clear to the audience, and sometimes it isn’t clear to the characters themselves. Sometimes what they want changes. But it’s always about wanting, and not some superficial, socially programmed form of want. It’s not about playing nice and getting rewarded. No, we want to read about people willing to break rules, willing to bend morality, willing to hurt themselves and others to get what they want.”

  I let that sink in. He’s striking a chord, but it doesn’t help me understand his movie, and right now I’m too pissed off about having to pay over $2,500 to a bunch of gangsters to ensure my director didn’t get his face blown to pieces.

  I’m not feeling too generous at the moment and don’t want to hear his artistic bullshit.

  “Fine, maybe that’s true, but you’re not telling me what your story is about. You said a man that wants things. Who’s the man? What are the things? All that matters.”

  “Yes, it does,” he says, looking out the window. “This man is an addict. He wants drugs and only drugs, that’s all he can feel. But slowly, his addiction changes into something else, something much more sinister. He finds himself wanting other things, horrible things, and he has to struggle with those wants and those cravings. What do you do when what you need the most is wrong, suit? Do you deny yourself? Do you find some facsimile of the thing, a morally gray version of the real horror you’d prefer? How far do you go to silence the screaming need in your skull? That’s my movie. That’s why I played poker with those lovely gentlemen and why I bought their drugs and why I took it all.”

  “The explains the raccoon insanity from the other day,” I grumble and he smiles in return.

  “Tell me something, suit. What do you want?”

  “I want to take you home and never think about you again.”

  “That isn’t true.”

  “I want to make this movie.” I glance at him in the mirror again and he’s listening like this is the most important thing in the world. “I want to bring another Cowan film to life.”

  “That’s what I want too. See, suit, we’re not so different.”

  “I’m not willing to take crack for this movie though.”