Let him talk. Talk is cheap.
I focus on the club.
On the business.
On the dozen fires that always need putting out.
The shipment Zenon rerouted comes through clean.
Steel Kittens' numbers start to tick back up after I have a pointed conversation with the manager.
Klutch handles the situation with the Italians, smooth as always.
Life goes on. The club keeps turning.
Cain becomes a footnote, a cautionary tale, a reminder of what happens when you cross the line.
I tell myself I've forgotten about her.
I'm lying.
Every night, when I close my eyes, I see her face.
The terror. The resignation. The way she looked at me like I was the first person to see her in years.
It's driving me crazy. I don't do this. Don't obsess over women. Don't lose sleep over some random female who isn't even mine.
I've got clubwhores willing to warm my bed any night of the week, and I haven't touched any of them since that night in the parking lot.
Because none of them have brown eyes that haunt my dreams.
I need to get a grip. Need to focus. Need to remember who I am and what I'm responsible for.
I'm in my office, staring at spreadsheets without really seeing them, when I hear the commotion.
Voices in the main room. Raised, alarmed. Someone shouting for me.
I'm on my feet before I make the conscious decision to move, striding out of the office, every sense on high alert.
My hand goes to the gun at my hip—instinct, drilled into me by years of combat and club life.
What I see stops me cold.
Ripley.
She's standing just inside the doorway, swaying on her feet like a strong wind might knock her over.
Tawny's got an arm around her, trying to hold her upright.
Paige is hovering nearby, her face pale.
But I barely notice them. All I can see is Ripley.
Her face is a mess.
Bloody nose, the blood still dripping down her chin.
Black eye, the left one, already swelling shut.
