I took a step closer, my grin cold as ice. “I’m making it my business.”
Skinny went for the gun, but I was faster. I closed the gap in two strides, grabbing his wrist and twisting until the bone snapped, the crack loud in the quiet street. He screamed, the pistol clattering to the pavement, and I kicked into the sewer before driving my elbow into his jaw, dropping him like a brick.
Scarface lunged, swinging a wild punch, but I ducked, slamming my fist into his gut, then his ribs, aiming for that weak right side. He gasped, stumbling, and I finished him with a knee to his face, blood spraying as he hit the ground.
The third guy bolted, his sneakers slapping the pavement as he vanished around a corner, just like I’d figured.
I stood over the two on the ground, breathing steady, my knuckles stinging but my head clear.
The old man stared at me, his hands still shaking but his eyes sharp now, taking me in.
“You all right?” I asked, crouching to his level.
He nodded, slow, like he wasn’t sure he could trust his voice.
I reached into the duffel, pulling out a stack of cash—three hundred bucks, maybe—and pressed it into his hand.
“Get yourself something to eat. Maybe a new wheel for that chair. You need a doctor, call this number.” I scribbled a name and number on a scrap of paper, the surgeon I’d sent Tyrese to, and handed it over. “Tell him Charlie sent you.”
He took the cash, his fingers closing tight, like he thought it might vanish. “Why you doin’ this?”
I stood, slinging the duffel over my shoulder. “Somebody’s gotta.”
He didn’t push, just nodded, and I turned away, leaving him to his pride.
Skinny and Scarface were still groaning, but they’d live—barely.
I didn’t look back as I walked to the truck, the pull satisfied for now, the thrill of the fight mixing with her memory. The woman in red—her scent, her skin, the way she’d burned. I needed to find her, to feel that again. The thought drove me forward, a hunger I couldn’t shake, as sharp as the morning sun.
I climbed into the truck, the engine growling to life, and pulled onto the street. The city was waking, but I was already somewhere else—chasing a ghost in a red dress, wondering where she’d lead me next.
9
SLOANE
The boutique was trying too hard.
That was my first impression as I stepped inside—pastel wallpaper with palm fronds, curated racks spaced like someone had read a blog post about “luxury minimalism,” and a citrusy scent being pumped through the vents like it could erase bad taste.
Still, the lighting was good. I made a mental note to snap a mirror selfie before I left.
“Sloane, darling!” chirped a woman in a cream linen jumpsuit and far too much optimism for noon on a Sunday. “We’re so excited you’re here!”
I offered my most charming smile—the one that saidI’m gracious, but I’m also very busy—and let her air-kiss both cheeks.
“Happy to be here,” I said, adjusting my sunglasses to the top of my head. “The space looks … fresh.”
Her face lit up like I’d handed her a medal. “We’re going for that ‘Charleston girl meets Côte d’Azur’ vibe. Think barefoot yacht weddings. Champagne in clay tumblers. You get it.”
Unfortunately, I did.
She led me toward a seating area with rattan chairs that were gorgeous but clearly chosen by someone who had never eaten carbs. I perched on one anyway, crossed my legs, and pulled out my phone like a sword.
“I’ve blocked off an hour,” I said sweetly. “If we move fast, we can fit in a reel concept brainstorm, two outfit pulls, and some story content.”
“Oh, absolutely. And we’ll comp everything, of course.”
Naturally.
