Page 26 of Claiming Liberty
I suck in a breath, trying to soak up some of my impatience before releasing it. My chin rises and falls defeatedly.
Kingsley continues down the hall, and I follow him to a kitchen. When he pulls a soda from the fridge for me, I think nothing of it, but when he pulls a water out for himself, I give him a funny look.
“I don’t drink alcohol,” he mutters, twisting off the cap. “Too many toxins.”
He chugs half the bottle while I sip my soda, and after a minute, once we’ve had a chance to relax, we walk back to the room to find Malakai and Millie. They’ve formed a semicircle with a couple of guys in front of a couch where a man and woman sit.
Kingsley seamlessly slides into the group, me at his side, and it seems easy enough for him to join in on the conversation. He thinks he doesn’t fit well here, but he’s likable as hell, and it seems the others think so too. They talk for what feels like a long time about surfing before the conversation turns to gossip. My mind wanders, but I manage a nod and smile here or there until Angel’s name is said, and I perk up.
“You know he murdered another one of his slaves?” the guy on the couch says with a shake of his head. He scoffs. “Unfuckingbelievable. Kirk accidentally gets his slavepregnant,and it’s a giant deal, but Ramos can kill bitches left and right, and all Hansley does is wag his finger.”
The woman beside him rolls her eyes in agreement.
“Did he push this one off a cliff too?” Malakai asks with a tasteless chuckle none of the others mimic.
Couch Guy moves his annoyed stare to Malakai. “I don’t know, nor do I care, but it’s bullshit.”
Where did he hear this? They’re referring to me, right?
The urge to defend Angel crawls up my throat, rests on my tongue, and waits for another remark. I look away and try to ignore them before I blurt something stupid.
A guy with a mustache shrugs. “I don’t know. I like Ramos a hell of a lot more than I like Hansley. Killer or not.”
Couch Guy strokes his beard as he considers this. “Yeah, it’s kind of sad, but I feel that way too. I can’t fucking stand Hansley.”
“Hey, has anyone seen Ramos lately?” Mustache asks.
Couch Guy shakes his head. “Not here. He hasn’t been to Chaffer’s since—”
“Who hasn’t been to Chaffer’s?”
I jump as a voice sounds just behind me, and I whip around to lock eyes with a pudgy man in a dark blue suit. Dull blond hair reminding me of the color of soap bars is combed back, revealing a wide forehead with wrinkles hinting at his age. He smiles at me but not in a friendly way. More like the way you’d look at a slice of cake you forgot was in the fridge.
He puts a cigar in his mouth and puffs on it, never taking his eyes off me.
“Angel Ramos,” Couch Guy replies.
The man looks up at Couch Guy and blows the smoke in my face. My nose wrinkles as I turn away.
“The last time I checked, he was smitten with Robert Gaumond’s wife,” he says.
“Not anymore,” Couch Guy retorts. “Unless that’s a different person than the one he recently murdered.”
The man’s lips pull into a grin, and he shakes his head like this is somehow funny. “Again, huh?”
“Again.”
He puffs on his cigar and turns his head to blow the smoke this time. “I should give him a call.” He looks at Kingsley and points to me. “Is she yours?”
Kingsley’s face reddens, and whatever nerves he calmed earlier are now lit up as hot as the fire we saw outside.
“No,” I answer for him.
The man turns back to me, one eyebrow raised with intrigue. Probably because I just spoke out of turn. It doesn’t matter how long I’m on this island, I will never, ever learn. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t care.
“He’s borrowing me. I belong to Peter Shaw.”
His eyes widen, and even more wrinkles break out on his face from his Cheshire smile. “Oh,really. He finally broke down and got himself a slave, did he?” His eyes travel down my white, long sleeve dress and back up again. “He has good taste.”