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Speaking of…

She appears in front of me, taking the towel from me to do it herself. I brace myself for rough treatment, but she’s incredibly delicate, especially over my wounds.

Much softer, she repeats her question. “Do you like it?”

“I’m good at it,” I say.

“But does it make you happy?”

This was never about me being happy. Nothing I’ve ever done was about me being happy.

“Being happy is a luxury I haven’t been afforded.”

Both her eyebrows lift as she halts all other movements.

“Nothing makes you happy?”

“You do,” I tell her honestly. Kota makes me unbelievably happy. I didn’t know this kind of happiness existed. I thought those movies with happy people were just that—fictional.

Those light brows of hers plummet and she resumes cleaning me up.

“Why weren’t you honest with me? It can’t just be about my protec—”

“Because then you’d fucking know.”

Pausing again, she waits for me to elaborate.

“I’m nowhere near good enough for you.” There. I fucking said it. Not like she didn’t already suspect it. How could she not?

To my surprise, she looks surprised.

“Why, because you’re a ‘killer’?”

The parts of my face that are working correctly wince.

“I’ve never killed anyone.”

“You tried to. That banker—”

“That banker had it coming.”

“Did he deny your loan or something?”

A loan. She really thinks I’d ask a bank for money. That further proves my point about how different we are, not just in how we live but how we think. That kind of thing would never cross my mind. Maybe because it’s legal, maybe because it’s so far out of my depth I didn’t even know it was an option until right now. Nobody I ran with in New York has loans through a bank. We borrow our money from other, seedier places. Not even places. People. And they don’t deny anything. They approve, approve, approve, then wait for you to fall behind so they can recoup not just from you but everyone in your life. Their interest doesn’t come in percentages, it comes in blood. They’ll take it from anyone you’re related to, anyone you love, they don’t care as long as they get what they’re owed, plus more for their troubles.

“He was a judge at one of my fights.”

“And what? You disagreed with his score?”

I nod whole-fucking-heartedly.

“Isn’t it based on opinion?”

“His opinion was wrong.”

“So you beat the hell out of him?”

Throwing my arms out wide, I tell her, “It’s what I do.”