I looked like someone had tried to kill me, which…
Who the fuck was the guy at the bar and how had he found me there? Golden’s neighborhood wasn’t my neighborhood and I’d never been to that bar in my life. That meant it was either random, a sexual assault gone wrong, or he’d followed me from home.
Neither option sat well with me, and I closed my eyes, trying to recall what his pretty little blond face looked like. Had I seen him somewhere before? Was he someone I’d played with or fucked? Someone I’d discarded when the novelty had worn off? No, that couldn’t be it. I might have played it fast and loose with my bedmates, but I wouldn’t have forgotten a face.
That left the other far more unsettling option.
The attack had been deliberate and targeted.
The bathroom door opened and Golden was there, a stack of clothes in his hand. I took them without a word and shoved the door closed in his face.
Shit.
Shit.
Who wanted me dead?
“A lot of people, asshole,” I muttered to myself, dropping the borrowed clothes on the counter, a plain white undershirt and a pair of gray sweats. I pulled the shirt over my head, not taking as much care as I should have. Pain seared up my spine and I doubled over, grabbing the edge of the counter with shaking fingers.
I took a handful of measured breaths and straightened, feeling worse than I had when I’d woken up in Golden’s guest bedroom. “Idiot,” I grumbled.
“Hurry up,” Golden called from the other side of the door. “You need to eat.”
“You cook for me too, Golden?” I asked, wincing as I stepped into the sweat pants.
He mumbled something I couldn’t hear, his voice growing softer as he walked away. I let out a rough breath and waited for my hands to stop shaking.
I hurt.
Really hurt.
My whole body fucking ached and I resented it. Here I was in Foster Golden’s house, the place I’d circled and knew about, but hadn’t been able to step inside, and I couldn’t even enjoy it or appreciate it because every nerve ending in my body felt like it had been torched and run over by a semi truck.
I tried to center myself around the pain, and when I’d done the best I could, I stumbled out of the bathroom. I leaned against the wall, dragging my shoulder as I made my way toward the kitchen. I vaguely remembered being on the floor there, and I remembered another man being there with us.
I studied the pattern of the white tiles between his counter and his breakfast island before my stare settled on him, sitting at a small dining room table. There was a plate of food, two mugs of some kind of beverage that steamed, and back in the kitchen, not a speck of blood on the floor.
“You clean up after me, too?” I asked, unhappy with how tight the question sounded when it left my mouth.
“I cleaned up,” he said with a frown. Golden gestured toward one of the empty chairs. “Sit down, Sandro Rosetti. We need to have a talk.”
Chapter Nine
Foster
Sage’s eyes turned wide as saucers, and I couldn’t stop myself from smirking at his reaction to my use of his legal name. He hesitated, fingers curled around the back of the chair, looking like he was ready to run.
I set my 1911 on the table, pointing the barrel in his direction and tucking my hands back under the table.
“Sit down,” I repeated.
“Were you in on this?” he asked through clenched teeth, still not doing what I told him.
“Sit. Down.”
His stare flickered between my gun and my face, and with a tightness in his jaw that looked like it would shatter his teeth if he didn’t relax, he sat.
“I don’t like having the tables turned,” he said, laying his palms flat on the table. The knuckles on his right hand looked like he’d tried to take down a brick wall in a fit of rage. Considering what bad shape he was in, I wondered again what happened to the other guy.
