Frida shakes her head, scrubbing her station with her usual calm competence.
For the first time in forever—years—I feel unprepared to move on.
It’s the gym. That’s why. Got to sell the damn place.
Fuck. Ricky and I need to talk because his woman’s getting pissed and he’s digging in his feet and it’s time for me to move out of the area. Permanently.
Just standing here, wiping the counter, my gut’s suddenly twisted so hard I’d swear I was sick if my stomach wasn’t solid as a rock.
I reach for a pan, burn myself like it’s my first time in a kitchen, and pull back.
“All right, chef?” Frida glides by with a pile of dirty dishes, which she stacks neatly in the sink beside Toni.
“Yep.”
The look she gives me from behind her steel-framed glasses is quick and assessing. “Seem distracted.”
I shrug. “Nah. I’m good.”
“Course you are.”
Ignoring her, I turn back to the line, make sure everything’s shut off and start breaking it down. It’ll be an hour, at least, before I’m done and even then I won’t leave. Not until Kit takes off.
I’m on my way back from the walk-in fridge when the kitchen door swings open with a bang to show Cora, out of breath. “You gotta come. Hurry.”
I drop my shit and take off. “What happened?”
“Douche canoe at the bar ran without paying. Kitty took off after him.”
“Shit.” I knew that asshole was looking for trouble from the second I laid eyes on him. It’s why I got so close to Taylor. She did that subtle woman thing of letting me know she needed help without actually saying it out loud.
Nothing in this world is worse than a man who thinks he’s owed something. I put on the speed and streak through the dining room, ignoring the shocked faces of the last few customers and a flustered-looking Taylor, out the door. My eyes take in the lot. There. The Audi. Door open.
Fuck. Fuck.
Something switches in my brain when I see that he’s got her shoved up against the side of his car. I’ve lived through this before and the change that comes over me is not the wild, out of control adrenaline rush you’d expect. A soft calm lays itself over my body. I’m wrapped in cotton. Unreachable. My vision’s hyper focused. Those are his hands. On her neck. Her pale throat. One hand grips her arm. She’s fighting him, trying to shove him back, but she’s trapped and her face is all tight and pissed and scared and?—
He’s a dead man.
I know it with a bone deep certainty. I’ll fucking kill him.
He’s touched her and now he’ll pay.
The equation’s simple.
Before he’s even noticed I’m here, I’m on him, ripping her out of his hold and pummeling. My fist connects with his nose and there’s that pop and crunch of cartilage and bone and the warm spray of blood.
I’ve been here. I know this. Before prison. In prison, too, when everything was on the line every second of every day.
Thanks to Ricky, I knew how to fight before doing time, but Frank’s the one who taught me the quick, efficient jab, jab, kick to nose, nuts, knees.
Then, it’s liver, hand, and liver again.
All the shit wreaking havoc with my insides boils up and over and this…this…thisis what I need. Something solid. Something clear to take it out on. Good versus bad.
“Jake!” That’s Kit’s voice. I hear it, from far off. It’s tinny and weak, not throaty and warm like when we fucked in the hotel. When she laughs at something Cora says behind the bar. When she tried the flounder I fried up for staff meal tonight.
I’ve got him by the clothes, my grip twisting fabric as I drag him away from his car. There’s yelling. I hear it. It just doesn’t sink in. Doesn’t matter.
