I step around the island and closer into her space. “Show me.”
Her hand stills over the phone for a beat, then she slowly turns it my way.
It’s a meme someone has posted—from the blonde I assume—of a picture of a bar fight with a caption“how professional”and a tag to @ThorneRevival.
I see her gnaw her lip. “Nobody gives a shit about things like that,” I say, my voice softer than before, but the words are meant to push her, make her react.
“One-hundred-fifty-two likes, twenty-two comments, and seven shares. Those numbers could devastate a small business.”
Her shoulders sag, and she spins on the chair to look out toward the light pouring in through the windows over my bed. Then she pushes herself to her feet, clearly trying to escape the weight of it all.
I move faster than I think. Without even meaning to, I reach out and loosely grab her wrist, trailing my touch down her hand to her fingers.
Her body freezes for the briefest second as her eyes drop to the connection, just long enough for me to notice the subtle change in her.
I pull her gently toward me, my fingers lingering against her skin. “Let me help you, Sable. I don’t care who she is. I’m not letting her tear you down.”
The words hit her harder than I thought. She swallows and meets my eyes, but there’s a deep tiredness in her gaze that makes me pause.
“Sometimes I wish I could just disappear, you know?” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t even know how to fix this. How to make it stop.”
My hand grazes her fingertips. I lean in closer, not letting the small touch go. “I’ll help you make it stop.”
There’s hope in her gaze, brief but real. The warmth of her hand retreats, and her face schools itself to composed and cautious.
“I have to go,” she murmurs. “I took up too much of your time.”
She doesn’t give me a chance to respond. She hurries down the stairs, her footsteps echoing within the distance stretching between us.
I stand there, thoughts swirling.
I’m not letting this go. Not with her.
This isn’t a job.
Giving her exactly what she deserves is no trouble for me.
This is going to befun.
Or maybe the blonde was right. Maybe Sable Hawthorne does ruin men.
I’m already ruined. There’s nothing left to tear down. No clean edges. No innocence to corrupt.
So go ahead.
Take me apart.
Make it mean something.
Fucking ruin me.
Zzzzzzzzzzzz *pop*.
I wake to the sound of zipping and snapping. It stammers through the room, stopping and starting, relentless in its rhythm, dragging my focus with the frustration of something that won’t stay fixed. Brain fuzzy, I roll over in bed and squint at the clock.
7:45 AM.
I groan, rolling onto my back. I don’t normally sleep this late—possibly residual effects from the hangover and underestimating the recovery time my aging body needs.
