“Don’t be a martyr, Bash. Go tell her. See what happens.”
The car draws to a halt outside an apartment building, and Isabella covers my hand with hers. “Thank you. For being different.”
“Different? Should I take that as a compliment?”
“Take it however you want. I know how the mafia works. It’s in my blood. I’ve spent my entire life trying to fight it, and you and Cash have given me hope.” She leans closer and kisses my cheek. “I’m so glad I chose you.”
She climbs out of the car and enters the building without looking back.
“I think I’ll get out and walk,” I tell the driver.
I can’t remember the last time I walked through the city without someplace to be. It’s a whole new city when there’s no business meeting at the end of the tunnel. The glass skyscrapers are rosy in the early-morning sunshine, the sidewalks hear your footsteps, the stores slumber peacefully.
It isn’t Ireland. But it’s less claustrophobic and more hopeful.
Like anything could happen.
Go tell her. See what happens.
But there’s still Cash to consider, and if we’re considering timelines, he met Remy first.
Love has no timeline though. Love has no constraints, no blueprint, no one-size-fits-all method to follow.
I inhale deeply, expanding my diaphragm and filling my lungs. I’m starting to think like a love manual, and who’s to say that the author is an expert? Who is going to hold up their hand and validate anyone’s love story?
Plenty of people.
Perhapsjudgeis a more appropriate word.
So, the big question is, do I care what anyone else thinks?
No, scratch that. Do I care what anyone else thinks about Remy?
That one is a resounding yes.
But she started a fire and hid behind a bathroom panel. She didn’t scream for help when Isabella found her. She didn’t come running back to us. She put her neck on the line and helped the woman who set up her abduction and used her to get to us.
Remy Jones makes her own choices.
My cell vibrates and I check the call screen while I walk.
Cash.
“You need to get here now.” We don’t need introductions or greetings.
“Where are you?”
It takes a moment for me to adjust my bearings to a regular day in the life of a casino hotel owner. I feel the weight settling back around my shoulders. He’s with Remy. Her injuries were worse than we thought.Fuck!I stare at the street sign and calculate how long it will take me to walk back.
“Clinic. E 94th. We’ll wait for you.” He ends the call with a click.
My heart pounds louder than my footsteps. Within seconds, I’m running, forgetting that a short while ago it felt good to have no destination in mind. This is different. This is Remy.
The lights are on inside the clinic even though it is closed to the public. I press the buzzer on the control panel and am buzzed through immediately. This is a private practice. The owner has connections in all the right places and is compensated well for meeting our needs and keeping them close to their chest. No questions asked.
The foyer is unmanned.
Through the frosted glass door marked PRIVATE on the other side of the room and Cash is waiting for me. His eyes are glittering. Moist. And my stomach lurches.
