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"There were these two guys who worked for my main employer. Punk-ass little kids. Nearly a dozen assault charges against them they paid to have go away. Countless girls they attacked without an ounce of remorse. Entitled brats. I left them to bleed out and rot in an alley."
My heart skips a beat. Did he…no…that can’t possibly be…Jared would never, not after what his father did to us—to our mother?
Tears roll down my cheeks without a care in the world that I don’t want them to be there.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Savini reaches across the table and latches onto my hand.
I pull it away from him and stand. "I have to get out of here. I can't do this." I latch onto my clutch and storm out of the secluded room we've been playing pretend in. I march my way through the restaurant, furiously wiping at my face. Why can't I stop crying?
My expensive heels click loudly against the polished floor of the lobby.
A doorman opens the door as I approach, and I burst out onto the sidewalk, blinking at my surroundings. The ground glistens with what must have been an evening rainfall. With not a car in sight, I reach into my bag and pull out my phone, poking and swiping and desperately wishing for a nearby ride-share.
There’s a three-hour wait on one. Four on another. I click the first, but then it flashes unavailable.
“What the fuck!” I yell out.
Savini rushes out onto the sidewalk with me. “Banks, I’m sorry.”
“Stop fucking saying that.” I shove my phone in his face. “Why are there no fucking cars available? Where the hell are we? Fucking Narnia?”
“Calm down.” He shoves his hand into his pocket and pulls out his own cell.
“Don’t tell me tocalm down.”
“I’ll have my driver take you home.”
I shake my head. "No absolutely fucking not." Rule number whatever the fuck: don't let them find out where you live. It's bad enough that he knows my name, where I work, and my fucking childhood trauma. Not all of it, but enough that I can never take back.
“Okay.” He lowers his phone. “What can I do then? What will make things better?”
I rake my hands through my hair, turning and realizing I’m standing in front of a hotel. Duh. I’ll get a room. Hide away in a comfy robe until dawn, and then catch a ride when they’re available. I’ll fucking hitchhike if I have to.
"You don't have to fix anything, Savini. You've done enough." I march back to the door, the thing opening wide with my approach. I say a borderline aggressive, "Thank you," to the man no doubt wondering what the fuck is wrong with me and head straight to the front desk. "I'd like a room, please. Anything, I don't care what it is."
The straight-faced, tall man clicks away on his computer. “I’m afraid we have no available reservations for this evening.”
With my debit card in hand, I stare blankly at him. “That can’t be possible. Can you check again? Please? Put me in a broom closet for all I care.”
Footsteps approach from the same direction I just came.
Still looking at the clerk, I say, “There’s a big, scary, yet incredibly attractive man standing behind me isn’t there?”
His gaze flits to Savini and then to me. He nods. “Mmhm.”
“Banks,” Savini calls out with a strange sort of tenderness to his voice.
I turn on my heel. “Yes?”
“I have a penthouse upstairs.” He holds his hands up in front of him. “Not expecting anything, and surely you know by now what kind of person I am.”
Do I though? Do I really?
At the end of the day, he’s still a murderer.
But does that change because he claims to only kill bad guys?
There’s no way Jared would do the things he said. His friend maybe, but not him. Not when his mother was a victim. His sister. Him. How could someone ever do what our father did to us, to another person?
