Page 123 of Safe Word

When he finally spoke, it was colder. ‘Right.’

I zipped up my hoodie – hurriedly, as if suiting into armour. My fingers lingered at the collar.

Vinnie was… intense. Fun – sure, if one liked chaos. The kind of man who thought emotional boundaries were for the unimaginative. From what I’d seen, he bounced between women too young for his age – too much, too fast. And he was also the kind that made you laugh until you couldn’t breathe, suffocating you in the end.

‘I was thinking it could just be you and me, actually.’

He said it. Just like that.

Looks like we are doing this now, I thought, biting my cheek.

‘I appreciate the invite,’ I said, each word slow and careful as if I were defusing a bomb in pitch darkness. ‘But we work together. It’s probably best we don’t blur that line.’

His smile returned, but it didn’t reach his baby blues.

The moment crystallised. I squared my shoulders. Zipped the hoodie all the way to my throat. My hands flexed at my sides once, just before I reached for the door.

‘You’re a nice guy, Vinnie,’ I said, pushing the words out more firmly. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but it’s bad for business.’ The underlining meaning stood stark between the syllables.

Managing a polite smile, I slid my key off the hook. The chill of metal grounded me – and I took in a deep breath when he moved towards the door.

We stepped out together, side by side, but my skin didn’t believe it yet. My nerves stayed coiled.

Some things didn’t need a scream to be a warning.

‘Thanks for coming to check up on me. Let me know if Cain gets back to you.’

After locking the door, we both left the building, and I did my best to keep that friendly mask on my face as I waved a goodbye and started walking first, then jogged away from him.

He stayed where I left him, unmoving until I circled the first corner.

Fuck. My. Life.

TWENTY-TWO

‘I need a hobby.’

The words scraped out of my mouth and bounced off the tiled walls.

The shower kept a slow, steady drizzle, icy needles digging into skin that felt too tight. Borrowed. The cold water bled over my closed eyes and fevered cheeks as I shivered more from shame than chill. But it was sobering, if anything.

My swollen lids peeled open, the world still tilting like a broken compass from last night’s escape.

Through the fogged glass of the shower cabin, beyond the doorframe, I caught sight of the bed.

Or rather, what lay beneath it.

Two empty bottles of brandy; one slumped on its side like a casualty of war, the other glaring at me as if proud of the wreckage it had helped cause.

A sour taste clung to the back of my throat.

I felt as though I’d failed at life. And this failure sat heavier than the hangover – throbbing behind my eyes, aching in my chest, wound around my spine.

I scrubbed a hand over my face.

Not to wake up as much as to check I still had one.

I hadn’t drunk to celebrate. It had always been about silence and numbing the world out of me. This time, I was trying to drown the coldness of the gun barrel pressed against my jaw and the plea that followed it.