“It’s suspicious.”
She let out another sob and dropped her head in her hands. “Heaven’s used to the heavy shit. It doesn’t seem right.”
Rourke nodded sharply. “Do you remember what this lady looks like?”
“Hispanic.”
Shock filtered through Rourke’s body. There were a lot of Latina women around the city. It couldn’t have beenher. “What else?”
“Wore a suit. What kind of woman wears a suit?” she muttered. Rourke didn’t answer. “She, um, had her hair done up in a bun. She looked very professional, like a businesswoman. That’s why we thought she was a potential client.”
Fuck.ItwasDiaz. It had to be. “All right. Let me think on what I’m going to do.” He stood straighter. “You better not pull something like this again, Alice. I don’t care that you and Terrance fucked. Don’t take another step out of line. Until I can decide what your punishment will be, you’ll continue work like normal. On top of that, I expect a list of the whores you provided coke too. This is not negotiable. Am I clear?”
She nodded furiously.
“Get out of my office.”
Alice didn’t argue. She nearly ran out the door, leaving it open in the process. Rourke was about to take a seat behind his desk to decide what he was going to do when someone else came stumbling into his office.
He sighed when he saw a frazzled Angel. “What now? I swear, if it’s something as simple as someone using your face cream, I’m going to lose my temper.” He’d never met prima donnas like these whores. Anyone would think they were royalty.
“I think Forrest is hurt.”
The words were like a jackhammer straight to his chest. Real and terrifying fear swelled behind his ribs, and he stood in front of Angel with his hands gripping Angel’s arms in seconds. “What do you mean?”
Angel’s chest heaved like he’d run the entire way here. “He’s spending the night with Eric Montague and that guy… Rourke, he’s abusive. Forrest said it was only tame, small bruises and stuff, but I heard Forrest yell out a few minutes ago, and I knocked on the door and Montague told me to fuck off. I swear I heard Forrest call out my name, but I can’t get in there. The door’s locked.”
“Slow down,” Rourke demanded. “He’s the fucker who’s been bruising Forrest?”
Angel nodded quickly.
“Get Terrance and some guards, now. I’ll meet them at Forrest’s room.”
Angel spun on his heel and escaped out of the room with haste.
Rourke grabbed a set of master keys from his desk drawer before he shot through the door, heading straight for Forrest’s room. His feet couldn’t take him there fast enough, and by the time he made it to the door, he heard some muffled words on the other side. Then what sounded suspiciously like a pained whimper.
Rourke unlocked the door and threw it open. The wood hit the wall, rebounding off with enough force to break the plaster behind it. What he saw made his blood hot and the monster he had locked deep down inside of himself broke free.
Montague had Forrest on the ground, pinning Forrest’s legs to the carpet with the weight of his body. Forrest’s cheeks were caught in his hold, his fist raised as though he was going to land a punch on him. Forrest looked like he’d taken more than a few hits, with his right eye already discolored and blood gushing from his mouth and bottom lip. He spluttered, droplets landing on his chin and bloodied shirt.
Montague had a few wounds himself. Obviously, Forrest had given him a fight. Cuts littered his face, with his cheeks scratched up with fingernail marks.
Rage made Rourke surge forward, and he grabbed the back of Montague’s shirt, dragging him off Forrest and across the room. Montague landed on his side with a grunt and by the time he got on his feet, Rourke hammered him with his own fist, dropping Montague on the ground again. Rourke flew on top of his stomach, using his weight to hold the bastard down as his fists slammed into Montage’s cheek and jaw again and again. Every move dictated by an anger he’d never felt before, and he didn’t hear the crunch of bones under his knuckles above the roaring in his ears. Rourke kept hitting until someone grappled at his arms, tugging him off Montague.
He fought the hold, but three or four men dragged him away. His thirst for blood throbbed in every limb in his body, and it took him a few minutes to register Forrest calling his name gently. A sense of reality slipped back into him.
Terrance knelt beside Montague, cursing quietly at the obvious damage Rourke did. Montague’s face looked almost unrecognizable, beaten until blood painted his skin as though he was a piece of Picasso art. His cheekbone had caved in, and the bastard whimpered something about cops and that was the last straw for Rourke.
His chest heaved in exertion, but he still managed to shake off the guards’ hold. He held up his palm to them when they stared at him in uncertainty. His knuckles stung, dark red blood layered his fist, but he didn’t know if it belonged to him or Montague. He assumed the latter.
Rourke stepped closer to Montague, who whimpered. He felt powerful in that moment, a man who’d been hidden away for so long. “What did you say?” he growled.
Montague twisted away, but Terrance grabbed his shoulder, turning him back to Rourke. “I’ll get the cops after you.” He spat blood onto Rourke’s shiny black shoes.
Rourke smiled, and Terrance’s eyes widened. Terrance moved out of the way right before Rourke kicked Montague on the jaw. Montague’s head flew back, and his skull hit the wall behind him, acrackechoing through the quiet room. It left behind splatters of more blood as Montague collapsed on the ground.
“I want him gone.” Rourke spun on Terrance, the rage too hot on his skin. The urge to kill lingered in his belly, a hot swirl of need that might have scared him an hour ago. But he wasn’t that man anymore. He’d killed—slaughtered—for Sloan, and he’d promised himself he’d never do it again. For Forrest, though, he’d do anything.
