My heart is pounding now. Pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, right where his fingers left their marks.
"What did he do?"
Cain turns to look at me, and for a moment, I don't recognize him.
The charm is gone. The swagger is gone.
There's nothing left but rage—pure, white-hot rage—and beneath it, that unfamiliar fear.
"He stripped my patch."
The words don't make sense at first. I hear them, process them, but they don't compute. "What?"
"My patch." Cain's hand goes to his chest, to the spot where the Saint's Outlaws logo should be. "He took my cut. Stripped it right off me in front of everyone. No vote. No church. Just walked up to me and said I was out."
"I don't understand." My voice is shaking now. "He can't do that. Can he? Don't they have to vote?"
"That's what I said!" Cain hurls the whiskey glass across the room.
It shatters against the wall, amber liquid dripping down the paint.
I flinch but don't move. Don't run. Running makes it worse.
"I said, you can't do this without a vote. It's not how it works. And you know what he said? You know what that bastard said to me?"
I shake my head, mute.
"He said, 'I just did.'" Cain laughs—a horrible, broken sound. "Three words. Three fuckin’ words, and everything I built is gone. Eight years I gave that club. Eight years of blood and sweat and loyalty. And he takes it all away because?—"
He stops. His eyes focus on me, and something in his expression shifts. Hardens.
"Because ofyou."
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. "What?"
"Don't play stupid, Ripley. You know exactly what I'm talking about." He moves toward me, and I back up instinctively, my hip hitting the counter. Trapped. "Last night. In the parking lot. He saw us."
"I didn't—I didn't do anything?—"
"You didn't have to do anything. You just had to stand there looking pathetic, looking like some kind of victim, and he—" Cain's face twists. "He said I violated the code. Said we don'thurt women. Like I was hurting you. Like I was doing anything wrong."
My hand drifts to my throat. To the scarf hiding the bruises. To the evidence of exactly what he did.
Cain sees the gesture. His eyes narrow.
"Don't," he warns. "Don't you dare. Everything I do is because you push me. Because you can't follow simple fuckin’ instructions. Smile. Be polite. Don't embarrass me. That's all I ask, and you can't even manage that."
"I tried?—"
"You didn't try hard enough!" He's in my face now, close enough that I can smell the whiskey on his breath. "And now look what you've done. You've ruinedeverything.Eight years, Ripley. Eight years gone because you couldn't keep your shit together for one night."
I'm crying now. I can't help it.
The tears spill over, hot and shameful, tracking down my cheeks.
I hate crying in front of him. He sees it as weakness, as manipulation, as one more thing to punish me for.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. The words are automatic. Reflexive. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean?—"
