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“Kinda cold,” he said, making me turn to look at him.
Objectively, he was hot.
Tall.
Prison-fit.
Short, dark hair, broad, masculine features.
But I’d made a deal with myself a long, long time ago that I couldn’t invite someone with an addiction into my life unless they had many years in.
“We can’t have people here that are breaking the rules,” I reminded him. “It might be cold, but sometimes it is what people need to help them get back on track again.”
“So if I fuck up…” he started, head cocking to the side.
“I will personally call your parole officer,” I told him, tone and gaze stone cold because these guys could sometimes get the idea that because I was a girl, and somewhat young, I was tender-hearted or could be manipulated.
And you never wanted unpredictable men to think you could be taken advantage of.
Besides, if they were looking for good, soft hearts, they could find it in Russ, not me. Life had hardened me up a long time ago.
“Did I ever tell you that hard-ass women are like fucking catnip to me?” he asked.
“I don’t date residents,” I told him, as I told everyone who came onto me.
“Won’t be a resident forever,” he said.
“Keep your ass in line, get some years in, and then we can talk.”
“Years?” he asked, brows shooting up.
“This place has rules. And so do I,” I said, shrugging, then going into Doug’s room.
Doug had lucked out in getting a double room. We were so often at capacity that we’d resorted to doing four beds to a room. Sometimes more, if the rooms were bigger. The largest one having ten beds.
We desperately needed to fund an addition.
But there was hardly money to keep the damn lights on most months.
The other bed was currently abandoned with a new resident slated to arrive first thing in the morning directly after leaving detox.
It looked like I could call someone on our waiting list when I got in the next morning as well. Make someone’s day. While ruining another’s.
Such was the job, I guess.
The rooms were nothing special.
White walls.
Two metal beds pushed against each wall with white bedding and gray blankets that we’d gotten on clearance, and had literally bought out every one of those chain stores in an hour radius. Each bed had a foot locker. And then there was a metal storage unit nailed to the far wall for storing clothes or their toiletries.
Doug’s room was a bit of a mess.
We didn’t nitpick about the rooms per se. So long as your roommates weren’t bitching, we didn’t care if you didn’t make your bed or fold your laundry.
We cared more about everyone pitching in around the main areas. Chores were a big part of living at Barlowe House. Everyone contributed. Which meant someone else was going to clean Doug’s room tomorrow morning.
Knowing his heart, it was probably going to be Marshall. It would likely be done before I even made it back in the next morning.
Quickly, and carefully, ever aware of the chances of drugs or needles around, I packed Doug’s things.
I was just about to head out when the door flew open.
And there he was.
Tanked, but alert, piss stain still darkening his jeans.
His gaze moved from me to his room then, finally, the bag.
I watched as realization hit.
I didn’t even tense or panic.
I’d been through this so many times.
I didn’t think I would be in danger.
But then I watched as his face twisted, as he went an alarming shade of red before he lunged.
“You fucking bitch!” he roared.
Adrenaline kicked into overdrive then, making my heart pound and my hands start to sweat as I ducked under his cocked arm.
“Russ!” I yelled, hearing a panicked edge to my voice as Doug turned with a surprising amount of speed given the state of him, his hand shooting out, going for my throat.
I was strong, sure.
Of spirit.
Of mind.
But there was no mistaking the fact that I was a pretty small woman. And I was very aware that I didn’t stand a chance against a big, hulking, angry man, no matter how drunk he might be.
Outside of this building, I always carried some self-defense, acutely aware of how someone could overpower me.
This was work, though.
I was supposed to be safe.
It was why I worked so hard to have a good rapport with as many of the residents as possible.
But Doug hadn’t been around long enough for that. And, clearly, he hadn’t exactly been fully on the program either.
Not only that, but he was the worst kind of drunk.
The mean kind.
“Russ!” I shrieked again right before his hand tightened around my throat, cutting off my ability to scream, to even pull in a proper breath.
It was amazing how fast it happened.
The way my chest started to feel tight, my face fuzzy, my lips tingly, and my thoughts sluggish.
