She ties off her stitch and begin to string a new one. “I needed a job.”
“Smash and Sugar?”
She nods.
“Big guy said there was no openings so I left. Then you opened my door.”
“What big guy? Ivan?”
“I didn’t ask his name,” she ties off the last suture. “Anyone you need me to call?”
I shake my head. My eyes heavy.
A job.
I don’t believe her.
I should get off this couch and snap her neck. Dump her body.
But I won’t.
Something about her makes me curious. Dangerously so.
“No one,” I finally say, my voice rougher than I intended.
She nods, packs up the first aid kit with the same efficiency she used to patch me up. Blood—my blood—stains her fingers, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it.
“You should rest,” she says, standing. “Change those bandages in twelve hours. Keep the wounds clean. If you get a fever—”
“I know the drill.”
She heads for the door, and I watch her go. My lungs ache.
“Ayla,” I call out.
She stops, hand on the doorknob, but doesn’t turn around.
“I owe you.”
“Yeah, you do.” She glances back over her shoulder, and for a split second, I catch something in her expression. Vulnerability, maybe. Or exhaustion. “So I’m cashing in now. Don’t look for me.”
Chapter 8
Ayla
The ringing drags me out of sleep like a hand around my ankle.
I groan, roll over—and fall straight off the bed.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tangled in sheets, face down on the floor. The phone keeps ringing, shrill and merciless. I scramble to my feet, heart pounding, eyes barely open.
Where the hell is it?
My apartment is the size of a shoebox—shouldn’t be this hard to find one goddamn phone.
I stumble through the dim pre-dawn light, following the sound. Not the nightstand. Not the kitchen counter.
The bathroom.
