“Are you though?” He stepped around and rested his hands on the back of my chair, caging me in. “Because team players understand that sometimes … accommodations need to be made. Especially when they’re in delicate situations.” He leaned down, his breath hot against my ear. “I could make this whole mess disappear, Faith. Smooth things over with the owners. But I need to know you’re willing to be … grateful.”
“What exactly are you suggesting, Brett?”
“I’m not suggesting anything.” His gaze flicked to his zipper and back so quickly that I questioned if I’d even seen it right. “I’m just saying that people who are nice to me tend to find I’m very nice back. Very … generous with scheduling. With overlooking absences. With keeping their jobs despite murder charges.”
My stomach churned. “That sounds like quid pro quo sexual harassment.”
“Yeah?” He loomed over me. “What are you gonna do? Tellsomeone I propositioned you? Who do you think they’re gonna believe? The respected manager or the bartender accused of murder?”
There it was. The truth I’d learned in different foster homes, from different men who thought vulnerability meant availability. I swear, predators had a sixth sense for people whose credibility had been shredded by circumstance. People whose word meant nothing against theirs.
In foster care, it had been the group home director everyone called Uncle Jerry. Sweet as pie to the social workers, handsy as hell when they left. Nobody believed Melissa when she reported him. They just moved her to another home. A worse one.
Nobody ever believed girls like us.
But maybe that was the thing about being accused of murder. Once you’ve been painted as dangerous, you might as well use it.
His fingers suddenly twisted in the collar of my shirt, yanking me toward him, but I jerked back, shooting to my feet before his mouth could reach mine.
Red slammed through my vision. I imagined taking the crystal paperweight from his desk and introducing it to his skull. Repeatedly.
Instead, I got right in his face, close enough to see his pupils dilate with something between arousal and alarm.
“Careful.” I dropped my voice low, angry. “If even half of what they printed about me is true, a man like you would be well advised not to provoke a woman like me.”
Fear flashed across his face before he masked it with practiced arrogance. But I saw it. That beautiful moment of pure terror.
“Get the fuck out.” His face flushed purple. “You’re fired.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds of being a psychotic fucking bitch! Now get out!”
The lump in my throat grew three sizes. Maybe I should have cowered, played the scared little woman he wanted me to be. Maybe then I’d still have a paycheck.
“Fine. Fire the murder suspect—that’s the smart play, right?” I rose my chin. “But here’s what you didn’t think through: I have nothing left. No reputation to protect. No career to salvage. So, I’ve got no reasonnotto tell the owners everything. Every woman you’ve cornered. Every ‘accommodation’ you’ve demanded. They’re going to hear all of it.”
His face went slack, just for a second, before the bluster returned. But I’d seen it. I’d finally made him flinch.
I turned and walked out, shoulders back, spine straight, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me run.
I made it to the end of the hall before the tears came. Sobs tore through me in ugly, gasping waves. Two years. Two years of smiling through his comments, pretending I didn’t notice his eyes on my ass, telling myself it could be worse.
And now I had nothing. No job. No income. A murder charge hanging over my head and a future that looked like a black hole.
But at least I hadn’t let him see me break. My whole life, I’d perfected the art of never letting them see me cry. Never giving the Uncle Jerrys and Brett Fontaines the satisfaction of my tears. It was armor, the only kind I’d ever had.
I burst through the front doors into the afternoon sun, moving so fast that I slammed straight into what felt like a wall.
Not a wall. A chest.
Two hands caught my elbows.
“Faith?” Ryker’s voice wrapped around me like armor. “Hey.” He tilted my chin up with one finger, forcing me to meet his eyes.
One look at my face, and his expression rearranged into something lethal.
“What the fuck happened?”
