"No." Her voice is barely above a whisper. She's still holding the mop, hand trembling around the handle. "Just... just my arm. Thank you."
I grunt. I don’t know what else to say. Talking's never been my strong suit. Especially not to women like her. Women who look at me and see exactly what I am, a man with a violent past and a violent present and nothing in between worth mentioning.
"If anyone bothers you again," I say, "tell one of the Riders. Or tell Rampage. They'll handle it."
"I will." She's still looking at me. "Are you... are you okay?"
I frown. "What?"
"Your hands." She nods toward them. "They're bleeding."
I glance down. She's right. Blood's dripping off my knuckles onto the concrete. I hadn't even noticed.
"Happens every fight," I say. "It's fine."
"That doesn't look fine."
"I've had worse."
She hesitates. Bites her lip. Then she says, "There's a first aid kit in the back. I could—"
"No."
It comes out harsher than I mean it to. She flinches, and I hate myself for it.
"I'm good," I say, softer this time. "But thanks."
She nods. Looks down at her mop. I can see her shutting down, pulling back into herself. Building the walls back up.
I should walk away. Go to the locker room. Wrap my hands and get the hell out of here before I say something stupid or do something worse.
But I don't move.
"What's your name?" I ask even though I already know it.
Her eyes snap back to mine, surprised. "Joanna."
"Joanna," I repeat. It sounds different when I say it out loud. Heavier. "I'm Danny."
"I know." A faint smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Everyone knows who you are."
Right. Bruiser. The guy who beats people unconscious for money. The ex-con with a temper and a reputation.
Yeah. Everyone knows.
"Thanks again," she says. "For... for helping."
"Don't mention it."
I turn and walk away before I can do something stupid like ask her if she needs a ride home, or if she's working next week, or any of the hundred other questions rattling around in my head.
Back to my corner. Back to decompressing.
But when I glance over my shoulder, she's still standing there. Watching me.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, the rage in my chest doesn't feel quite so loud.
Chapter 2 - Joanna
