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Hands grab at me, trying to haul me off the barman. I lash out wildly, barely feeling the impacts that send them reeling back.
“Someone call the cops!” a woman screams.
Sirens wail in my head, drowning out the chaos. I stumble back from the wreckage, vision swimming. The bar is a disaster of broken glass and blood; terrified patrons cower behind upturned furniture.
And all I can think is that I want more.
I fumble for the baggie in my pocket, my fingers numb and clumsy. The powder burns my nostrils but it’s not enough—it’ll never be enough. I need to burn brighter, hotter, until there’s nothing left.
A gunshot cracks through the sirens and screams. I flinch back as a hole blooms in the wall beside me, plaster dust puffing.
“Freeze! Hands where I can see them. Now!”
The cops. Of course it would end like this.
I turn slowly, my heart jackhammering against my ribs. Two officers have their weapons trained on me. Their faces are set in identical masks of hard caution.
“On your knees! Now!”
For a long moment, I consider fighting. Going out in a blaze of glory and madness. It’s what I deserve, after all. But in the end, I’m too much of a coward. I drop to my knees, the sudden motion setting the world spinning again. Darkness crowds the edges of my vision as my chest seizes, pulse erratic.
The cops are shouting something at me, but I can’t understand the words. Their lips move soundlessly—smeared and indistinct.
The floor rushes up to meet me as everything goes blissfully, blessedly black.
I begin to put the pieces together in a prison cell. Mortified, I chastise myself. What happened out there? I need to go back to my therapist. Or something. I close my eyes and groan. Why did I feel like I was back at war?
These were the classic signs of PTSD that I’d been told to look out for when I came back from war. I should never have drunk that much. I should never have had that stupid cocaine. I was a fool. I am a fool. A fool that needs to get home.
I motion at the cop and tell him I need to call my lawyer. An hour later, I’m out on bail and on my way home. No one will ever find out what happened tonight. No one can.
Chapter eight
Changing Gears
Tanya
I ring the ornate brass bell outside the imposing oak front doors of Brian’s mansion, smoothing down my workout gear in anticipation of our training session. Instead of Brian answering the door as expected, an older woman in a crisp uniform greets me with a polite smile.
“Yes?” she asks, gently.
“Oh, hello!” I say. “I’m Mr. Russo’s trainer.”
“You must be Ms. Nugent. I’m Margaret, Mr. Russo’s housekeeper. Please come in.”
I return her smile, hoping it masks my surprise. Of course Brian has staff. I should have expected that. “It’s lovely to meet you, Margaret. I’m Tanya.”
As I follow her through the foyer and head toward the direction of the gym, she stops me. “He’s not there,” she says. “Please follow me.”
As she leads me in another direction, an uneasy feeling settles in my stomach. Where’s Brian? He ought to know I don’t tolerate lateness or lack of preparation. I made that quite clear in our first conversation.
She leads me to a large den. My eyes scan the room and land on a figure sprawled in a leather recliner. It’s Brian, and he looks as though he just rolled out of bed; his hair is disheveled and his clothes are wrinkled. Annoyance flares in me.
I clear my throat, impatience sharpening my tone. “Brian, it’s time for your workout. Get dressed, have some coffee, and meet me in the gym in ten minutes.”
He cracks open one eye and groans. “Not today, Tanya. I have a migraine.”
I frown, worry dampening my irritation. “What’s wrong? Are you not feeling well?”
