I toss the crumpled paper towels into the bin and walk out without so much as another glance.
But as petty as it sounds, itisa little satisfying to leave her speechless.
I’m pretty sure I know exactly why Bridget was so shocked I’m staying with Killian, and it doesn’t have to do with the fact that she thinks it’s a nice gesture.
Bridget doesn’t see me as competition. She looks at me and sees the large glasses, ratty clothes, frizzy, kinky curls always shoved into a bun, and she thinks I’m some wallflower.
I’m no threat to the Ken and Barbiefantasy she has going on.
But that’s the thing. I have no interest in competing for any man, let alone Killian.
She can have him. I have bigger, more important things to worry about.
I shove my apron into my bag and head for the back door, stepping out into the warm evening air. The sun is starting to set, painting the Brooklyn sky in shades of orange and pink that would almost be pretty if I weren’t burdened with saving Eva’s life.
I’m halfway down the block before I realize something’s wrong.
My hand goes to my jean pocket automatically, searching for the familiar weight of the key Killian gave me. He’d lectured me about only coming and going alone when absolutely necessary; when he wasn’t around to chaperone me to and from work.
I only find lint and a crumpled bodega receipt when I tug my hand free from my pocket.
Crap!
Don’t tell me I’ve…
I check the other pocket and then the pouches of my backpack. The key is nowhere to be found, which means I really have lost it.
And only a few days into Killian entrusting me with it.
I can hear his moody lecture now. His grunt about how I’m in deep danger and can’t be wandering the streets with the Bratva after me.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, pedestrians flowing around me like water around a rock, and try to retrace my steps.
Did I leave it at the pub? Drop it somewhere on the floor? Did it fall out when I was digging for my phone this morning?
A dozen possibilities scroll through my mind, none of them helpful.
Icouldgo back to the Banshee and search for it, but the thought of facing Bridget’s nosy ass again makes my head throb even harder than it already is.
My other option is waiting outside Killian’s building until he gets back, but who knows how long that would be—and he’d be pissed if he found out I was lingering on the street.
A deep sigh leaves me as I settle on the third option. Theonlyoption even if it feels like the worst one.
The gym is a few blocks away. I’ve been there before, early in the mornings when the place was empty and I could sneak in to use the showers without anyone noticing.
I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder and start walking.
The gym is a squat brick building that has faded letters on the sign spelling MALONE’S BOXING.
The windows are cloudy and covered with posters advertising upcoming fights.
As I approach, I’m greeted by sounds like the rhythmic thud of fists hitting leather, the squeak of shoes on canvas, and the occasional grunt of exertion.
I hesitate at the door, my hand hovering over the handle.
This is a terrible idea. Iknowit’s a terrible idea.
But the alternative’s wandering the streets of Brooklyn until Killian decides to come home, and nothing about that sounds appealing when my head is aching and I have the Russian mob looking for me.
