He spat blood onto the concrete. “Vasiliev hated that bitch?—”
My fist connected with his jaw before he finished the sentence, and his head snapped sideways.
I leaned down closer, my voice calm. “You don’t work for Vasiliev anymore.”
He glared at me. I grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him halfway off the floor.
“You don’t work here anymore either.” I shoved him toward the hallway exit. “Get the fuck off my property while you still can.”
“Fucking bitch is going to ruin this place, you watch.” Blu staggered through the door, which swung shut behind him.
I turned to Hazel. “You alright?”
She adjusted the sleeve of her blazer as if the whole situation were a minor inconvenience. Most women I knew would have been rattled.
“I’m fine,” she said. “I deal with assholes like that more often than you’d think. Wouldn’t work in a place like this if I couldn’t handle myself.”
I frowned. “Should I be assigning you protection?”
The other managers were all men, and I was used to them handling their own shit. Was that the same protocol for a woman in an environment that could get rough? I had no fucking idea.
“Well, that’s sweet of you, but not necessary.” She glanced toward the staff bar behind us. “Want to share a drink with me? Unless you’re a lightweight and think one drink is going to put you under for the rest of the night.”
She was smiling at me, and I took a step back quickly. I’d had women hit on me before, and it was the most awkward thing to turn them down without offending them or mentioning my sexuality.
I shook my head. “I’m already involved with someone.”
Hazel stared at me for a second.
Then she burst out laughing again.
“Good God, man,” she said, wiping at the corner of her eye. “It’s just a drink, not a marriage proposal. You’re not my type.”
I crossed my arms and couldn’t resist. “I’m everybody’s type.”
Except for Leo’s. Men who were guilty by association of killing their husbands would never be his type. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t present when the whole thing happened.
I accepted the glass of scotch she poured for me. Hazel leaned against the counter, studying me with open curiosity.
“So,” she said, taking a sip of her own drink, “who’s the lucky girl?”
I grimaced. “I’m not sure he’d consider himself lucky at all.”
The words left my mouth before I realized what I’d said. Fuck, why was I feeling so chatty tonight? Usually, I avoided people as much as possible, but I’d gotten to know Hazel through working with her to address the concerns she had about the bar.
For a moment, I stood frozen, waiting for some reaction from her—a look of disgust, probably, but she didn’t even blink.
“Sounds complicated,” she said calmly. “I don’t envy you.”
I stared down at the drink in my hand. “He thinks I’m responsible for his husband’s death.”
Fuck me. There I go blabbing again.
It was the scotch. It had to be for me to be running my mouth, or the fact that I couldn’t talk about this with anyone else. Nik would find too much humor in my suffering. Darius would think I needed my head examined. Jess would tell Wren the first chance she got, which meant Maxim would know, and that would be the worst thing possible.
Hazel tilted her head. “Are you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe?”
