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I close my eyes, breathing steadily until the door slams shut.
I’m outside the Never Say Never offices, gripping the steering wheel hard, thinking of earlier. It’s been a few hours since my woman—no, Evie—left my apartment, no tattooing completed, and our relationship ended before it could begin.
I remind myself that’s a good thing, but this rage has to go somewhere. I shouldn’t be here. This isn’t war. I can get into serious trouble for doing the right thing in civilian life. Then I think of Evie’s face when she told me what he said, calling her fat. There’s no harm in seeing if he’s in the office. Well, there is or could be A LOT of harm, but I’m already striding across the street.
The office lobby is bright, with many windows and a marble floor. The ceilings are tall. It looks more like a successful venture capital office than a startup. The receptionist is a blond woman with gleaming white teeth and artificial cheeks. Botox, I’m guessing. Evie will never need plastic surgery. Her natural beauty will always shine through.
“Hello, can I help you?” the woman says.
“I’m here to see Keith.”
The use of his first name, combined with my confidence, has her nodding already. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Tell him I’m here on behalf of Evie Black. Tell him…” I think for a moment, then decide on something that will appeal to his douchebag ego. “I’m here to make amends for her.”
“One moment, please.”
I can tell Keith has made derogatory comments from how she laughs. Her laugh is the sort I remember from school, the way the girls would giggle when their jock boyfriends, sometimes five years older than me, would kick my ass—weak, cuddling up to somebody they perceive as powerful.
Damn, I’m in a bad mood. Keith better keep those comments to himself when I see him. It’d be a shame to smash one of these fancy windows.
“He said he’d love for you to head right in.”
Without asking for directions, I walk through the office, my suspicion rising when I see how many employees there are, rows and rows of desks, at least thirty, and all for a company that sells digital art? Maybe I’m too old to understand, or something else is going on.
Keith’s office is easy to spot. It’s a giant corner unit, a statement of a room. When I push the door open, he leaps up from his desk. He’s a short man, balding, his hair combed over. He’s got a scar on his forehead, a crescent shape, pink and knotted. I don’t like how he smiles, peeling across his face, his glassy eyes gleaming as though the world is a big joke, as though what he said, the f-word, is a punchline, not an unforgivable insult.
“You’re a friend of Evie’s?” he says, gesturing at the chair opposite. “Please sit.”
I rest my fists against the desk, staring at him, saying nothing, waiting until he shows a flicker of fear. It doesn’t take long for him to swallow audibly, then step back as if he thinks I’m going to hit him. The urge is there, almost overpowering, the desire to grab his open collar and smash him against the desk, over and over, until his teeth scatter across the floor.
“You saw her today,” I say.
“I… Yes, I did.”
“And you’ll admit to saying something very stupid, Keith, at least, if your safety concerns you.”
“Is that a threat?”
I laugh savagely. “It was hardly veiled. Yes, it’s a goddamn threat. You called her fat. Why do you enjoy hurting her? Does it make you feel tough?”
With each question, my voice gets darker, my violent intentions closer to the surface. It’s taking all my effort not to grab, hurt, and make him cry like he made my woman Evie cry, and I might have made her cry when I kicked her out.
I’m walking around the desk, not thinking, seeing red for the second time today.
“Wait,” he gasps, backing up against the wall, hands raised. “You really don’t want to do this.”
“No? Why’s that?”
“Because if you do,” somebody says behind me, their voice gravelly and deep, “we’ll have to stop you.”
It’s weird. Being around violent, capable men for so long, I’ve got a radar for when people are faking it and when they’re the real deal. Turning, looking at the men standing at the door—two of them, wide-shouldered and muscular—I know they’re capable of violence.
It’s something in the way they stand. They’re criminals, I sense. It’s not just their slick leather jackets and the teardrop tattoo on the bald one’s face. It’s the casual calm in their expressions like it doesn’t matter if it ends in bloodshed or peacefully.
Keith laughs, more confident now he’s got backup. “See, tough guy? If you try anything, you’ll end up in the hospital.”
“Is that right?” I stare at the men. “Are you going to put me in the hospital, fellas?”
