Page 21 of The Knockout Rule

“I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d stop by.”

He watched her, his lips pressed into a stern line. Graham Slade had two scars around his left eye; his right eyelid hung lower than his left ever since that Hector Narvarez fight. Droopy eye or not, his stares were skewering—an interrogation technique he’d used often when she was growing up.

As a kid, if she’d lied—of course I did my homework…no, I didn’t break your massage chair—he wouldn’t yell or threaten like her mother. He’d just stare. And wait. Like now.

“What?” she asked, on the defensive. “I live down the hall. It’s the same neighborhood.”

He stood his ground, waiting for her to crack and admit why she was really there. To ask how he was feeling, obviously. Make sure he hadn’t tired himself out and that he was taking his medication and getting enough fluids and vitamins.

All forbidden topics, thanks to Stubborn-Ass Slade.

He blinked once. Then resumed his role of Stare Champ.

She opened and closed her mouth, squeezed her hands into fists while matching his look eyeball for eyeball. But giving good stare was hard, and not talking about his illness was excruciating. Why did he have to be so infuriating?

She closed her eyes, defeated, and remembered a simple yet powerful Ramona Estle quote:

“where we have wounds

we heal”

Swinging Graham Slade had been dealing with his Parkinson’s on his own for two years. Isla hadn’t noticed any obvious symptoms. For now, she’d follow his lead, quit checking on him. When they got home, all bets were off. She’d force him to finally relax.

She shook out her cramping hands and kissed his cheek. “Just wanted to wish you a good night. Sleep well.”

He huffed but didn’t call her on the lie. “Heard you did well with Brick today.”

“You mean Eric?”

“No, I mean Brick. He’s got an image to uphold, Isla. In public, you call him Brick.”

Don’t ask me how I’m feeling. Don’t call Eric by his actual name. This whole dictatorial situation was testing her last nerve. She saluted him and walked to the elevator, desperate for a drink and change of scenery. A moment without worrying over her impossible father.

The hotel had at least three bars in it, not to mention a number of restaurants and shops to tantalize the senses. Heaps of food and grandeur and buy, buy, buy in this town. She found her way to the most low-key establishment, a dimly lit speakeasy-style bar with velvet-padded booths and a wall filled with enough booze to drown an octopus.

She sat on a stool and smiled at the bartender. “What’s your best cocktail?”

“The Gangster’s Mistress,” he said. “Tequila, triple sec, lime, cucumber puree, agave nectar, and mint.” He wore a bowler hat and bowtie. His dark skin and eyeliner made his brown eyes shine. “Goes down nice and easy.”

Nice and easy sounded like heaven. “I’ll take one of those.”

“Your wish is my command, ma’am.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me ma’am.”

“Noted and abided, miss. You can call me Jason.”

Miss wasn’t much better, but Jason played the part of old-fashioned server well, and she wouldn’t mind gazing into those deep-brown eyes all night. Or she could extricate her phone and scroll through her thankfully silent dating app. Between this afternoon’s second physiotherapy session with Eric, her hours on her phone and the internet trying to figure out how to navigate her new appointment-booking software, she hadn’t given the app a second thought.

The bar’s atmosphere was the perfect place to sneak a peek. The room was half-full with low-talking patrons. Freshly roasted, spiced nuts were delivered to the couple at her left. She inhaled the tempting aroma as Jason slid her drink in front of her. She took a sip and added talented to his list of lovely attributes. The man made a mean cocktail.

Another sip sliding down her throat, she pulled out her phone and tapped on the app.

First up was Brett. Brett’s photo showed him holding a huge fish. The caption read: Size matters. She clicked the X icon to delete the match. Brain size matters more, Brett.

Vincent was next. He was handsome and athletic. His picture had been taken while on a hike, amid towering trees. Promising. When she read his profile’s last line—Modern technology will be the downfall of the world—her lips puckered. A tad dramatic for a dating profile on the internet.

X marks the spot, Vincent.