“Maybe not, but in some sense, I think you are. At least I’m betting you’ll show me just how much you want. Not the cold, calculating want, not the ugly, stained, pathetic image of want society projects into our brains. But real want, raw want. You’ll feel it.”

  I go quiet then and don’t speak for the remainder of the drive. He doesn’t either—he falls asleep and snores gently as I wind my way to his Main Line mansion.

  What do I want? It’s a question I don’t ask myself enough. There are things in my life that make me satisfied, that bring me short bursts of joy, but what do I really want? What do I like? I’ve always been envious of people with intense hobbies, who are lifelong collectors of games or furniture or whatever. Who read only one kind of book because they love that book, or who knit and love knitting, or who know their aesthetic inside and out.

  I envy those people, because I find myself liking everything, and when you like everything, you don’t like anything enough.

  I park in Cowan’s driveway and kill the engine. My hand drifts to my abdomen and stays there. The only sounds are Cowan snoring and the wind blowing through the trees nearby.

  What do I want? What do I really want?

  This movie.

  Not to be pregnant.

  But also to have this baby.

  What do I want?

  “Well, that was a nice drive.” Cowan yawns, stretches, and kicks open the door.

  “Wait, Mr. Cowan—”

  He ignores me and shuffles out toward the house. I roll down my window and yell after him.

  “Hey, Cowan!”

  He turns, smiling. “Yes, suit?”

  “Don’t misuse movie money again, do you hear me? And you’re signing the goddamn paperwork.”

  “Whatever you say, suit.” He salutes me and walks off.

  I watch him go, tingling with anger, before I shoot off a quick text to Baptist. Meet me at Heart.

  Chapter 5

  Baptist

  “He did fucking what?”

  I stare at Blair through a haze of red rage and try to keep myself under control but I’m pulsing with the sudden and very intense need to hunt down Tony Cowan and murder him. I could easily blame it on the fucking raccoons.

  “I’m fine. Everything’s fine. But our first line item on the budget can’t be crack cocaine, all right?”

  “Fucking hell, Webb.” I stand and start to pace. I grab my coffee and throw it back, distinctly aware of the other patrons watching me. Even Zoe seems somewhat uncomfortable. But they can all go to hell.

  Tony Cowan is a genius. He’s unstable and difficult, but he’s a genius. And now that genius is dragging my partner into insanely dangerous situations all for his own profit and gain.

  My partner. My fucking Blair.

  No, no, not mine.

  For one short moment, yes, at that wedding she was all mine. Her lips and body and moans, they were mine. But the endless string of strange women coming through my bedroom is supposed to drown out the voice that screams at me every time I’m alone to find Webb, rip off her clothes, and fuck her raw and own her the way I need to.

  But I can’t.

  We agreed. That sex, that mind-blowing sex, it was only for that night. I have to set it aside and move on, or else this is going to get extremely complicated very quickly, even worse than it already is.

  “Cowan crossed a line,” I say finally, gesturing with my coffee. Some spills over the side and burns my fingers, but I like the pain right now. The pain helps to focus me. “He went way beyond the line. The line is in a different country.”

  “I completely agree.”

  “Then we’re done. We’re walking away.”

  “Baptist—”

  “There are a dozen talented directors in Hollywood, Webb. Hell, there are probably a dozen in Philadelphia, all we’ve got to do is find them. Fuck Tony Cowan and his crack.”

  “Baptist.” She glares at me, jaw working. “I already paid the damn gangsters. That’s behind us.”

  “He’s going to do it again.” I sit back down in my chair, leg jostling. “You said it yourself. He wants to know how badly we want this.”

  “It’s a game,” she agrees.

  “Which means it’ll only get worse. We back off now, we minimize our losses.”

  “Why are you talking like you want to end this? Cowan was your idea, remember?”

  I flinch slightly and nod, staring down at my drink. Why am I ready to back out so quickly? If this were anyone else—if this were Ansell, or Marie, or any of my other friends or colleagues—I wouldn’t be ready to burn it all to the ground.

  But it’s Blair. He dragged her into a mafia bar and stood her in front of extremely dangerous men and made her give them cash. If he were anyone else, I’m sure those assholes would’ve done something to her.

  I can’t think about that. Rage roils in my heart, white hot and painful. I can’t picture Blair getting touched, cat-called, violated—

  Fuck, I want to kill them. I want to burn that whole block to the ground and piss on their ashes.

  “I’m not going to let you put yourself in danger again.”

  She laughs once. “I’m not sure you have a say in that. We’re business partners and nothing more, remember?”

  “I’m aware, but—”

  “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”

  I lean forward, staring into her eyes. “Yes, Webb. I do.”

  Silence falls. She’s seething, but she doesn’t deny it. I’m seething, and I’m ready to throw her over this table and suck her soaking pussy until she screams.

  “We’ll make a deal,” I say quietly, still meeting her gaze even though it sends shivers down my spine. “You don’t ever go do anything with him alone. We do this together.”

  Her head tilts. “That seems impractical.”

  “I don’t care. We’re a team, and I’m not letting him bully you into more awkward situations.”

  “He didn’t bully me. He tricked me.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We do it together, Webb.”

  She takes a deep breath and slowly releases it. Some of her tension eases and she nods. “All right, fine. I can agree to that.”

  “From now on, no matter what, we don’t do anything with Cowan alone. Do we have a deal?” I shove my hand out at her and she hesitates, but she shakes it.

  I hold on for a moment too long. She notices and she feels it, but she doesn’t say anything. I feel that skin against my palm and I want to bring her finger to my lips. I want to press my thumb against her tongue and make her suck it as I fuck her and let her moans play through my ears like candy. I want her so badly it’s like a demon screaming in my skull.

  I release her and she rubs the back of her hand in slow circles.

  “Where do we go from here?” she says finally and clears her throat. “With Cowan, I mean.”

  “Lawyers. Paperwork. We’ll need to find some plausible reason for that cash you spent today.”

  “Can’t claim crack on our taxes.”

  “Unfortunately.” I run a finger around the rim of my coffee cup. “But there’s something else I wanted to ask you about while I have you.” I hesitate and meet her eye. “While you’re here, I mean.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The other morning when you came over.”

  “Which time? The redhead or the blonde?”

  “Redhead.” I grimace slightly. Fuck, has it really been more than once? I’m worse than I thought. “You seemed off. Angry, almost.”

  “If you’re asking if I was jealous, I wasn’t, and that’s inappropriate.”

  “I’m asking if you’re okay, that’s all.”

  She chews on that and nods. “I’m fine.”

  “Good. I’m fine too, thanks.”

  “Great.” She pushes back from the table. “This was supposed to be my day off and instead I’ve spent it with you and that insane asshole. I gotta say, Baptist, not my idea of relaxation.”

  “I apologize for interrupting your sensual afternoon of bubble baths and a long date with your vibrator.”

  She turns pink. “Baptist.”

  “Webb.”

  “Inappropriate.”

  “Just because we aren’t mixing business with pleasure doesn’t mean I’m going to swallow all my best jokes. You’ll get used to it.”

  “Truly, Baptist, you remain the king of all pricks.”

  “Thank you, my royal subject.” I give her a little bow and she rolls her eyes and stalks away.

  I watch her go with a knot in my gut.

  What the hell is Cowan’s game?

  I was warned about this. A friend of mine that worked with the eccentric director a few years back said that Cowan liked to fuck with the people in his orbit. Producers, actors, anyone working his sets, he liked to press buttons and see how far he could push. I expected something like this—but making her pay gambling and drugs debts to a bunch of gangsters is way too fucking far.

  I finish my drink and head outside. It’s a decent day and the sun feels good on my face. I make a call, let it ring, and Ansell answers right before it goes to voicemail. “My former best friend,” he says with that odd affectless drone.

  “Ansell. How are things?”

  “Busy. Drake’s been going through some changes. House is coming along. Marie’s happy, which is good. How’s Blair?”

  “Doing fine. I’m actually calling about her.” I hesitate, not sure how much to tell him, and decide to stick to the bare minimum. “Listen, do you still have those contacts on the seedier side of town?”

  That’s our slang for mobsters.

  Ansell Drake was my boss at Drake Entertainment and remains my best friend in the world. He’s a hard man to get close with, but once you see beyond the ice-cold exterior, there’s a decent person buried beneath all his pain and trauma. He had a hard upbringing and came by his money honestly, and he still retains some connections to his more troubled youth.

  Connections I’d like to exploit.

  “I know people and some of them owe me favors. What’s Blair into?”

  “Nothing really. It’s actually Cowan. I wanted you to put the word out, that Cowan can’t be a customer. Not for a while at least.”

  He’s quiet for a moment. “What did he do?”

  “Just put out the word for me.”

  “I can do it, but I don’t know if anyone will listen. Tony Cowan has his own star power.”

  “The guy’s got to be clear for a while. No fucking drugs.”

  “I’ll do what I can. Is everything okay, Baptist? Should I be worried?”

  “Do you ever worry? No, don’t answer, we’re fine.”

  “I’ll see what I can do then.”

  He hangs up and I shove my phone away, feeling guilty. I shouldn’t have called in a favor from Ansell like that. I walked away from Drake Entertainment to start on my own because I wanted to get away from his extremely long shadow, and yet now I find myself needing his help all over again on top of taking his money as an early seed investment.

  It’s far from ideal, but I can’t have Cowan getting himself killed by mobsters or dragging Blair into danger again because he got himself hooked on fucking crack or fentanyl or whatever else is popular on the streets these days.

  I shoot a quick text to Blair. I’ll have the paperwork ready. We’re nailing him down ASAP.

  She answers right away. Great, now leave me alone. I have a date with my bubble bath.

  Chapter 6

  Blair

  I park outside of Cowan’s house and kill the engine. Beside me, Baptist is unusually subdued, even for an early Monday morning.

  It’s been a week since I went to pay off Cowan’s drug debt. In that time, I had my first visit with an OB, and while it felt good to talk to an actual doctor about what’s going to happen throughout the pregnancy and what my options are, I’m still lightyears away from knowing what the hell I’m going to do.

  The not-knowing is killing me. And the man that should know about all this—the man that needs to know about all this—it sitting beside me in this car, my business partner, my nightmare, and the only person that might potentially understand what I’m going through.

  I still can’t find the strength to open my mouth.

  “It’s quiet,” Baptist comments as we sit there staring at the door.

  “I think that’s a good thing. No shotgun blasts.”

  “His lawyers were too easy.” He frowns and leans forward. “Did you notice that?”

  I hadn’t noticed, but now that he says it— “They didn’t ask for any revisions.”

  “Exactly. I mean, it’s a fair contract, but it’s a bit one-sided in our favor. They didn’t push back at all. They practically rolled over and accepted it.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking nothing is this easy, especially not with a guy like Cowan.” He sighs and pushes the door open. “Come on, let’s go see what fresh hell we’re in for.”

  I follow him to the front door. He knocks, and knocks, and knocks again, but there’s no answer. Finally, out of frustration, he tries the knob and the door swings open. His eyebrows raise and he gives me a look like, we might as well, and I just shrug. Cowan’s crazy enough already, he won’t care if we just walk inside.

  Although maybe we should’ve brought some bulletproof vests.

  Baptist steps into the entryway and doesn’t move.

  I hesitate next him, staring around.

  “Something’s off.” He moves closer to me, like he’s being protective. “What’s different?”

  The feeling was nagging at me too, and the realization snags in my brain all of a sudden. I suck in a breath and grab his arm.

  “It’s empty,” I say and slip past him, heading toward the living room. He hurries to keep up but I reach the doorway first.

  It’s empty. Entirely empty. Two weeks earlier, when we first came here and watched Cowan fire a shotgun at what I’m still positive was an imaginary raccoon, this room was packed with books. They were everywhere, on every surface, in moldy cardboard boxes, piled on tables, leaning in massive towers that likely would’ve crushed me if they tipped the wrong way.

  Now there’s nothing. Only gleaming hardwood floors like they were refinished recently.

  “Look at this.” Baptist moves past me, deeper inside. I want to tell him to stop—this is too fucking weird—but I can’t seem to open my mouth. He pauses beside some marks on the wood and kneels down. “Buckshot. From his shotgun.”

  I walk up beside him and sure enough, little pellet-sized holes are dotted in the floor in a spray pattern.

  Which means we’re in the right house and didn’t somehow head up the wrong driveway.

  “What the hell is going on here?” I ask quietly, looking around. “Why’s the place empty? Actually, better question, how is it empty? There was like a decade worth of hoarding in here.”

  “I don’t know, but let’s find him and figure it out.”

  We head back onto the solarium. It’s also empty. All the plants are gone, the fainting couches, any signs that it was ever filled with life, utterly gone. The backyard looks the same and there’s no sign of Cowan anywhere.

  We check the whole house. “Cowan!” I call out, too afraid not to say something, expecting to find some fresh nightmare around each corner. I have this irrational fear that something terrifying is going to leap out of every single dust-bunny-filled closet. Instead, my voice echoes back at me, and we only get a nice tour of a very empty, very gorgeous house.

  But no Tony Cowan.

  “What the fuck,” Baptist says, standing near the landing to the stairs. “We’re in the right house, right? Seriously, we didn’t stumble into some bizarro-world wormhole?”

  “Shotgun blast, remember?” I knock the banister and try to think. “Did he move?”

  “He should’ve told us.”

  “That seems like the kind of thing he’d forget to do.”

  “But the place is empty. You saw it before, it would’ve taken days or weeks to clear all that shit out. They had to have started right after we left, practically.”

  “Endless money. You know he’s rich.” I shake my head slowly. Every inch of me wants to get the hell out of here. I’ve never felt so thoroughly spooked before in my life. “This is too weird.”

  Suddenly, a noise from somewhere nearby breaks the tension. It’s a sharp slam like someone hammering wood. It comes again and again and again then stops abruptly. Baptist moves closer to me and grips my wrist, holding it tightly and glaring around like he’s scanning for threats.

  My heart’s in my throat and the smell of Baptist so close makes sweat roll down my back and my chest judder with excitement. He’s not supposed to touch me, not supposed to get so close, but I’ve noticed ever since our conversation about Cowan and the crack debt that he’s been twice as protective as he ever was before that. It’s like he doesn’t want to let me out of his sight.

  “Upstairs,” he says, sounding grim and staring at the ceiling. “There must be an attic.”

  “I think I saw one of those pulldown staircases at the end of the hall.”

  He nods and leads the way. I let him do it, and he doesn’t release my wrist, like he forgot he was touching me. I should pull free but I like the feeling of his fingers right now, and having him so close is keeping me from freaking out too much.

  Above us, a single pull cord dangles from a square sliced into the drywall. He grabs it and yanks, and the stairs come down with a slow, agonizing creak. Once they’re set, he holds up a hand.

  “I’ll go first.” Slowly, he climbs the steps, and disappears inside.

  There’s silence.

  “Baptist?” My chest is on fire. What if he’s getting eaten by raccoons? What if he found a ghost? Okay, there’s no ghost, but still—rabid raccoons are a real possibility.

  “Come up, Webb.”

  I follow him, palms slick with sweat. When I reach the top, I find him standing stooped beneath a pitched ceiling, and several feet away, standing in front of what looks like a work bench randomly thrown on top of some plywood and surrounded by insulation, is Cowan.