Page 18 of Judge's Mercy

As if she knows it’ll take more energy to fight than she has available, she wraps her hands around my neck, her eyes welling up with another round of tears. “Yeah, ’cause that’s worked out so well for me.”

“It’s true that most people don’t deserve your honesty.” I hold her with one arm as I drape my cut over her lap and tuck it under her legs, mindful of where the armholes lie. It occurs to me that all I’ve been thinking about is what it would feel like to hold this woman in my arms, and here I am, her floral yet woodsy scent all around me, not enjoying even a second of it. This is my punishment for being lustful.

“So maybe it’s better to only trust myself.”

I keep talking to her, hoping to distract her enough to get her out of here without incident. “Maybe, but imagine how good it would feel to find your people. The ones you can say who, without a doubt, would never betray you.”

“I don’t think that exists.”

Mary leads me down the residential hall to a room where a woman is waiting with what I assume are the clothes Myla came to work in. I set her down but keep an arm around her just in case. “I assure you, it does. Why don’t you get dressed so we can get out of here?”

She hands me my cut. “Okay.”

Mary and I step out of the room to give the girls some privacy. Judging by the way Mary’s features harden, I know I’m about to be the recipient of her anger.

“I don’t want her here anymore. Not working security or anywhere else.” She folds her arms. “I’m not saying that asshole didn’t deserve what he got, but we have clients here, and all this was a huge disruption.”

“Understood, but you have to take some responsibility too.”

She sighs. “I know, and I’m sorry about that, but that girl needs some help.”

“Do you know how long it takes a barrel cactus to flower? Ten years. During that time, they aren’t much to look at, and if you try to touch them, you’ll end up with a painful spine in your finger. But it’s more than worth the patience and energy when they bloom with the most beautiful and vibrant flowers.”

“If you got something to say, just say it.”

The door opens, and Myla emerges. Any emotion she was displaying just minutes ago is gone, and she’s back to the steely woman she was before.

“Ready?” I ask, not bothering to answer Mary.

“Hold up.” Golden jogs down the hall and hands Myla a black leather purse. “You left this in the security room.”

She takes it and without another word, we walk out of the building.

“I’ll have one of the prospects pick up your car,” I say.

“I can drive, but I’m all out of energy, so just tell me now: do I have any chance of winning this argument?”

“Can’t say you do.”

“Fine.”

“Can you ride?”

She perks up the smallest amount, but I see it. “I guess.”

I walk her out to my bike and climb on, offering her a hand. “Just keep your feet on the pegs.”

“Okay.” She tentatively climbs on and rests her hands on my hips.

I stiffen. This is the first time I’ve ever had someone on the back of my bike. Not because I have some antiquated idea about only allowing an ol’ lady that honor—I don’t give a shit about that—but for reasons more personal and private, I don’t allow anyone to get this close.

Briefly, I debate changing my mind and taking Myla’s car instead. I can blame it on my lack of helmets since I left the clubhouse in a rush and didn’t plan ahead. She’d believe me, and it’d be fine.

“Are you okay?” she asks, probably wondering why we haven’t moved.

Why are we still sitting here? I already have an excuse to get off the bike on the tip of my tongue. All I have to do is open my mouth and say the words. She wouldn’t think anything of it, and I could avoid the anxiety I feel when someone is close to the healing wounds and scars on my back.

Her barely-there touch over the top of my belt disappears, and I realize I’m making her nervous. After what she’s been through today, the last thing she needs is me acting like a lunatic, so I say a quick prayer, asking for strength.

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