She gestures sharply. “And yeah, Kitten, too. Stop playing the tortured husband card. Remember that I’m the reason you still get to wonder how she’s doing. And be grateful, Booyonce. What did you think would happen? That she’d come home with you? Newsflash, Ghoulbert — if she had to choose between you and sleeping on the streets? She’d pick the goddamn pavement.”
Fuck. She really knows how to cut someone open, doesn’t she? My fingers curl tighter around the steering wheel. My jaw grinds.
“You’re right,” I mutter. “I’m pissed. Frustrated. Desperate. All of it, all the damn time. And I took it out on you.” I glance her way. “Thank you for saving her, Ria. For giving her somewhere to land. She deserves someone in her corner.”
“That’s better,” she mumbles, leaning back like a merciful queen.
I can’t say another word for the rest of the ride. Not at the store either. My throat’s locked up. Ria’s words keep echoing in my head over and over again. Guilt’s clawing up my spine, shame sitting right beside it.
It’s not until we’re halfway back to her place that I can breathe again. And even then, barely.
There’s still shit I need to say. Important shit. I force the words out and get right into it.
“Ria… I want to give you some money. For food. Clothes. Whatever she needs. I know your shop doesn’t bring in much. That’s not an insult, just facts. Boutique coffee in a quiet mountain town isn’t exactly printing money. And Adora… she doesn’t have any savings. They left her with nothing.”
She crosses her arms slowly, face murderous. “You left her with nothing too. So what now? You throw money at the problem to buy your way out of guilt? Or maybe you want her to find out and feel like she owes you something?”
“No,” I answer, voice low. “You can tell her or not. Doesn’t matter. I’m not expecting a damn thing in return. Believe me… nothing could ever patch up my guilt.”
My voice thins out near the end, rough around the edges. Because it’s true. Even if she teleported into this car right now and told me she forgave me, the damage inside me still wouldn’t ease. The pain’s already spread too far.
Her next words snap me back.
“How’d you know I like money?” she asks, scandalized.
I glance at her, confused. “What?”
“I said — how did you know I like money?”
I blink. “I didn’t, Ria. I’m just a realist. And doesn’t everyone like money?”
She hums like she’s weighing that, fingers tapping a rhythm on the door. “How much money are we talking about?”
“However much you think it’ll take.”
Her eyes narrow with suspicion. “You’re rich, aren’t you? All of you Vultures. I’ve seen your clubhouse. And all your damn bikes. Your boss spends like he owns Fort Knox.”
I shrug. “Depends what rich means to you.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Rich means not worrying about dinner. Or shelter. Or hopping on a jet to Paris just because the mood struck. That kind of rich.”
Her hand moves to the dash and starts tapping, considering.
“Alright, Lil’ Boo. Fifteen thousand. Every month. For a year. You kept her from working? You owe her a damn salary for the same amount of time. Seems fair.”
She says it so deadpan that I let out a short laugh. Dry. Disbelieving. But fuck me… she’s right.
“Substitute teachers don’t make anywhere near that. But yeah, I agree,” I mutter.
She shrugs. “Yeah, well. The rest is hazard pay. For surviving you.”
I glance sideways. She’s smirking now.
What the fuck can I even say to that?
Adora
I wake up gasping, panic taking over, the room spinning around me like a carousel.
