“Fine!” She turns on her heels and walks back into her apartment.
“Fine!” I say to her back, wondering how we went from mind-bending orgasms to fighting like a cat and dog as the door slams behind her.
On the ride down the stinky elevator, I take a few deep breaths trying to calm myself, which turns out to be a bad idea due to its horrible smell.
George gets out of the SUV when he sees me approaching, keeping his expression carefully neutral despite the fact that I look like I probably want to murder someone.
“Rough night in paradise?” he asks mildly, opening the back door for me.
“You could say that.” I slide into the seat with a grunt as my ribs protest every movement.
George settles into the driver’s seat and starts the engine without another word. He’s good like that—knows when to ask questions and when to let silence do the talking. As we pull away from the curb, I force myself not to look back at the building.
I settle back against the leather seat, closing my eyes as the familiar hum of the engine fills the space between us. The contrast between George’s pristine SUV and Bea’s rattling death trap is jarring, but somehow I miss the intimacy of her tiny car. Miss the way she had to lean close to adjust the mirror, the way her perfume mixed with the musty smell of the old upholstery.
I’m losing my fucking mind.
“I waited here outside for a couple of hours.” George’s voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
“I know,” I say, not opening my eyes.
George is the only one who knows about my fighting addiction. He’s the one who introduced me to the club in the first place a few years ago when he found me punching a wall in my penthouse. I knew he’d follow me in his car yesterday, and I knew I could just go home.
But I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay with Bea. I wanted her to take care of me for just one night.
I open my eyes to find him watching me in the rearview mirror, concern etched in the lines around his eyes. George has worked for our family for years—first for my father, now splitting his time between Ezra and me. He’s seen us both at ourworst, picked up the pieces more times than I care to count. He’s probably the only one I’d trust my mom with.
“What?” I ask, confused at his intense stare. He’s seen me with bruises before, so I don’t know why he’s watching me so intensely.
“Wanna tell me how you missed that?” He circles his finger around his face. “Never seen you fuck up like that.”
I sigh, throwing my head at the back of the seat. “It’s complicated.”
“I bet it is.”
George’s eyes find mine in the mirror again, and I see understanding dawn in his expression. Of course he knows. He probably knows me better than anyone else does.
“You went back for a reason,” he says. Not a question. “I thought you were done until you called me a few days ago.”
“Yeah.” I lean my head against the cool glass of the window, watching the city blur past. “Needed to blow off steam.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why so much steam lately?”
I stare out the window, refusing to voice the answer he already knows. I tried escaping a tiny woman with big, blue eyes and blond hair. But seeing the person I wanted to escape at the warehouse like that, I got so distracted that I let a guy twice my size split open my face.
George doesn’t push for details, which I appreciate. I need the time to compose myself before I pick up the phone and call Hank to find out how much damage there is and how far back it will push our project.
We drive in comfortable silence through the morning traffic, the familiar rhythm of the city waking up around us. Street vendors setting up their carts, commuters hurrying toward subway entrances, the organized chaos that makes New Yorkfeel alive. All of it gives me assurance that we can deal with whatever I find at the construction site.
I pick up my phone and text Masters.
I need a favor. Someone broke the windows at my site. Can you take a look at it?
The answer is instant.
