Page 8 of Restore Me

I’m not crazy enough to believe it will happen for me twice, and I certainly don’t deserve it, not after the way I hurt Eric—letting the poison bubbling inside of me spill out and into our lives, eating through all of our happiness and joy until there was nothing left. Not even him.

Less wallowing, more moving.

I bolt before the smiling man can take another step in my direction. My legs are steady and sure as they carry me off the dance floor and deposit me on the edge of the room, right in front of the black leather booths Mal likes to sit at when she comes here. Walking the length of the wall, I search for anything that might indicate which one she laid claim to before I arrived.

My answer comes in the shape of Dominic’s large frame folded awkwardly over the small table where he’s sat our drinks and purses. The hard lines of his face are pulled into a grimace as he stares down at his phone. I can’t tell if he’s reading an email or having an issue upgrading his Pornhub subscription, and I don’t care as long as he isn’t focused on me. Mal asked for a fun night, and I’m doing my best to give her that, but if he starts with his smart-ass comments I can’t be held responsible for my actions.

“Had enough of the dance floor already?” He doesn’t even look up from his phone. Thick fingers flying over the keyboard in rapid succession.

I pick up one of the three bottles of water on the table and crack it open before putting it to my lips and taking a long pull. The cold liquid is refreshing, reminding me of how draining dancing and drinking can be.

“Sure,” I say coolly. “I can rest easy now, knowing everyone in this club has had their eyes on me. You know how us attention whores need to be seen.”

I’m not sure why those specific words come tumbling out of my mouth. Maybe it’s the memory of his first insult so fresh in my mind or the frustration from him butting into my project with James, but for some reason, I want to bait him. To remind him that even though I agreed to play nice tonight for Mal’s sake, I haven’t forgotten that he didn’t.

That in all the years I’ve known him, he never has.

But the reward for my unprovoked jab is exactly what I didn’t want: his full attention on me. The steely, midnight stare with a barely contained fire raging in its depths, the full lips pressed into a sharp, flat line. And of course, the tick-tick-tick of the muscle in the hard set of his jaw. Elements for a perfect storm that make my heart start to smack against my rib cage.

I’ve woken the beast.

.

6

Dominic

Now

There are three things you need to know about Sloane Kent.

One: She’s annoying as fuck. No, really. Everything about her is annoying. From the superior cadence of her voice to the way she scrunches up her nose when she’s trying to make a point to the way she insists on calling me Dominic even though no one who’s known me as long as she has does.

Two: She’s good at her job. I’ll never tell her that though cause it’ll just go to her head, and the last thing I need is to hear Mal and Mama crying to me about her head inflating to three times the size of her body and carrying her away Harry Potter style. I mean, it wouldn’t bother me one bit to be rid of her, but they certainly would be lost without her. And even though I’m an asshole, I don’t want to see the women I think of like my little sister and second mom, suffer. Not after Eric.

Three: She likes fighting with me. More than once, she’s accused me of getting some sick satisfaction out of arguing with her, I’ll plead the fifth on that one, but it has always been evident to me that she enjoys the verbal sparring too. Especially in moments like this when she has actively sought me out to pick a fight.

Granted, I probably would have jumped at the opportunity to antagonize her had she not started with me first, but that doesn’t matter. Not when she’s thrown the first punch, spitting my words from a lifetime ago back at me like they were fresh in her mind. Did she remember everything I said to her in the brief moments I’d caught her alone over the years? Maybe. The possibility of my words sticking to her, swirling around in her mind does something to my chest.

You really are a sick bastard, Dom. The voice in my head quips, and I can’t argue with it. Only a sick bastard would get a kick out of insulting his best friend’s widow and take note of all the warning signs of her blazing anger with anticipation swelling in his chest. I know all of Sloane’s by heart: the darkening of her hazel eyes, the curling of her tiny hands into useless fists, the crease between her brow getting deeper, and her cheeks growing red with unleashed heat.

I could push her further if I wanted to, get her so worked up she storms away from this table and leaves me free to breathe air that isn’t filled with her scent, but right now I’ll have to settle for a heated exchange I can’t put my full heart into since Sloane promised Mal we’d have fun tonight and the two of us getting into it in the middle of a nightclub would only be fun for me.

Placing my phone on the table, I turn towards her, noting the hard glint in her eyes and the stubborn tilt of her chin that tells me she’s ready for my response. I run a thumb over the rim of the tumbler in front of me. The dark liquid inside swirls around, and Sloane tracks my movement with her eyes. That surprises me. Usually, she can’t be bothered to notice anything I do unless I’m insulting her.

“I guess your thoughts of me went a little further than plotting my murder. Sounds like you took a nice little trip down memory lane too.”

Her gaze snags on mine. My pulse jumps with something that can only be described as anticipation. She takes another sip of the water she hasn’t thanked me for ordering. Her mouth is pursed in contemplation when she sits it back down.

“Maybe I was just reviewing my list.”

I arch a brow, intrigued. “Your list?”

“Yeah, the one I started to keep track of the many reasons I have for wanting to kill you.” She shrugs as if discussing my murder in a nightclub is a natural thing to do. Considering our history, it isn’t that far-fetched. “I figured it would be helpful…”

“In proving it was premeditated,” I cut in, finishing her statement for her. My interruption wins me an annoyed scowl. I want to laugh, but I can’t trust her not to throw a drink in my face, and I like the shirt I’m wearing.

“Or proving I was driven to the point of insanity by years of verbal abuse and….” She pauses, searching for the right word to describe our toxic banter, which she happily participates in. “Bullying.”

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