“There’s a dude here who knows her. Says her mom used to be his therapist.” Minxy sounds like she’s rolling her eyes on the other end.
“That can’t be right. Her mom died when she was nine.” My voice drops.
“Maybe. The dude is my psych teacher, and sometimes he sells me pot.” She laughs again, then the sound cuts off.
“Minx,” I growl through the phone. “You told me you were done with that.”
“Trying, Talon. This place sucks. I pass the time however I can.” There’s a crack in her bravado.
“Okay, fine. Don’t let Mom find out, and stick to pot. Don’t tell me this psych teacher touches you. I’ll drive there and…” The rest of it I don’t say out loud. I don’t need to say it to make my point.
“Eww, no. He’s uglier than sin, but he’s the hookup. He’s not a creep.” She clears her throat. “Promise.”
Brose exits the gym, towel over his shoulder, headphones over his head. He moves slowly, like he’s the main character in someone else’s life, oblivious to everything. He crosses the parking lot, opens his car door—perfect timing.
“Gotta go, sis. I love you, Minx. Text me later.”
“Love you too, bro.” She hangs up, and I toss the phone onto the passenger seat. My palm goes flat to the wheel for a second,the tightness in my ribs loosening as I step out. I close the door quietly, not fully latching it so the click won’t travel.
I follow him, walking silently and small as a shadow. He can’t hear me. Those headphones have him wrapped in his own world. He senses me before he actually registers me. Maybe a flicker of motion in his peripheral vision or a shift in the air. But his reaction is delayed. His head snaps up too late, pupils blown wide, mouth forming a tiny O. His jaw works once, twice, like he’s trying to swallow the surprise, and the color drains from his cheeks until he looks paper thin.
I shove him against the car hard enough that the air leaves his lungs.
“Don’t you ever talk to her like that again,” I say. “Penelope. Hurt her, and I won’t be nice when I come for you.”
He sputters something—a pathetic apology—holding his hands up as he attempts to speak again. I don’t wait for him to form words. My fist finds his cheek with a wet, muffled thud. The sound bounces off the metal of the trunk and into my ears. His head snaps to the side, mouth opening, no coherent sound, just a ragged inhale—then he straightens, hands clawing for purchase on my sleeve. He tries to shove back, but his push is slow and sloppy, the kind you do when surprise still has the upper hand.
I don’t stop. My knuckles sting when they connect again. After a punch to his abdomen, he doubles over, air expelled in shock, before his knees wobble and give way to gravity. I drive my foot into his gut; the impact folding him forward, and his palms smack the pavement with an ugly sound.
“Next time,” I say, cold as ice, “it won’t be just an ass-beating. Keep your fucking tone polite and your words nice. Tell a soul about this, or touch Penelope, and I’ll remove your fucking tongue.”
Brose’s face goes white. “You’re bluffing,” he rasps.
“Try me,” I say. “And tell a soul about this and we’ll see how fast they launch an investigation into aprofessorwith a TA who looked upset after she left his class and another student who says he saw the professor touch her.”
He swallows, because he knows how these things look on paper.
I walk away before he can find his feet. My heart bangs in my chest, and a stupid, wide grin spreads across my face. Haven’t done something like that in a long time.
I slide back into my car, pull the mask off, and put my glasses back on. My hands are steady now. If Mom ever saw the blood on my knuckles, she’d lose her mind, but she doesn’t need to know.
I drive home slowly, thinking about Penelope’s face when she cried, about Minxy and how fragile she sounds, about my mom and the neat little kingdom she’s trying to build. I don’t regret what I did. Not one second.
Protecting people isn’t pretty. It isn’t clean. But it’s what I do.
Chapter Eleven
PENELOPE
Velvet’s lighting is soft,andflattering, the kind that turns every shadow into a secret. I pad across the marble in bare feet, skin prickling as the cool floor kisses my soles. My corset’s navy blue, satin with boning that presses against my ribs just enough to remind me to breathe shallow. The matching panties ride high on my hips, lace brushing my skin every time I move. My necklace sits at my collarbone, the weight familiar. Two tokens hang from it tonight, white and orange, both facing out. I have never worn both this openly. A quiet announcement: I can take or I can give, and I haven’t decided which.
No partner booked. No plan. I could keep my room dark and go home untouched. I could let someone with steady hands close the door behind us and tell me to kneel. I could pull a man by his belt and feel him shake when I tell him to ask nicely. I’m two women tonight, and each wants to win.
I walk up to the bar, take a stool and set my palm on the bartop, heartbeat slowing under the club’s steady pulse. “Lunchbox,” I tell Hadley, who runs the bar like a benevolent queen.
She smiles. “Rough day or restless night?”
“A little bit of both.”
