Page 80 of Root

And I don’t think Rose misses that. “You look like you’re healing up.”

“I am.”

I begin to rinse the dishes and stack the dishwasher. I’m going to have to clean because Rush seems to have a special talent for mess when it comes to cooking. Not that I’d call box mac and cheese cooking.

Rose puts the lid on the organic local milk and puts it away.

“Lucky we’re going out. I think Nikolai had plans for that chicken breast.”

Dante meows.

“Not for you, little Nicky.”

I almost laugh. Is she calling him that because of the old Adam Sandler movie, or because of her husband?

Her gaze hits me and the warmth cools slightly as she takes some of the chicken and feeds it to the cat.

“Rush really likes you,” she says quietly.

“I saved his life and he’s a fu—” I stop.

But what I was about to say doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Maybe you did, and maybe you being here has something to do with the gang that owns your bar. I don’t know. That isn’t where my business interests lie.”

“And where’s that?”

“I’ve turned my—a place I own—into a woman-run business that offers ways out of bad situations for women.”

Somehow I manage not to roll my eyes. “A halfway house.”

“No.” She scoots in and washes the chicken off her fingers, drying her hands on the tea towel. “There’s enough of those I support. This is for women in our world.”

“We don’t inhabit the same world,” I mutter, looking for the dishwasher detergent.

Rose goes and opens a cabinet next to the dishwasher. It’s fully stocked with everything you need for dishes and countertops, and of course, the dishwasher itself. I’m betting there’s one dedicated to the floors, one to the stove and oven.

“The same world. The underbelly. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Because of my tattoos? My—”

“My husband’s covered in tattoos, and I’m betting he came from a rougher beginning than yours. But it isn’t a competition. Women get caught up in this world and, unlike other parts, it’s even harder to get out, when stripping leads to prostitution and more. Or being a toy for vile men. For their viewing pleasure. Raped, beaten, humiliated and used over and over.”

She stops.

My blood turns cold.

Unexpectedly, I want to hug this glamorous, beautiful woman whose innocence doesn’t veil her eyes.

“It’s that I want to stop, those women I want to help, and if they want to take care of the men who do things to them?”

I close my eyes, squeezing the sponge I picked up.

“You’ll help bury the bodies?” I ask.

“What bodies?” The tone in her voice makes a reluctant smile form. I could like her, a lot. “So if you need help, tell me or Rush.”

I swallow that down. Not her husband.

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