Page 76 of Ace

"I don't—That's not—" I stop arguing with her because it doesn't seem like she's paying me any attention to begin with.

"If you're not going to eat your breakfast, at least dispose of it properly," she says as she walks past, glancing at the sink.

"You made that breakfast for Chris," I argue, finding that I'm annoyed that she is accusing me of something I didn't do.

"I think I'd know if I saw your brother. He always put me in a bad mood, hateful thing that he is."

I tilt my head, further confused.

Maybe her mind is slipping. She doesn't remember making breakfast? She's getting William and sweet Christopher confused.

"I'll take care of it," I assure her just as she leaves the room with her morning glass of whiskey.

As I scrape the food into the garbage disposal and wash the plate and silverware, I wonder if it isn't time to seek out someone to come and help her. She seems to need someone here to look after her. I worry she'll end up hurting herself or possibly leaving the stove on and setting the house on fire, and isn't that just what this family needs, another tragedy?

Chapter 33

Ace

I knew by the time I made it back to Gatlinburg that I needed to take a breather. Showing up at the cabin in the middle of the night wasn't the best of plans in the first place, but it's also not easy coming to terms with what I'm struggling to accept.

I'm a compassionate person. I empathize with many of the people we work with. I feel bad for the women who have had to make the difficult choice to earn money using their bodies because they can't see a different way through a bad situation. I feel bad for the women who do it because they wholeheartedly believe they like it because they can't see the way they were groomed by people in their lives from a young age. Hell, I hate that the women who do get involved in the sex industry because they really want that in their lives, not because of the judgment they'll get from others who don't understand being able to disassociate sex from emotional feelings.

I was always in that camp. I could get physical with a woman and it just be a good time. I could walk away feeling good from the interaction and not have connected with them on an emotional level. I've lived my entire life that way.

Every woman, every encounter, was simply a way to relieve the pressure that builds up that only a good roll between the sheets can sate.

Until Cora fucking Preston.

Every womanbefore her meant nothing. I never gave them a passing thought. We entered into a situation knowing what it was, and I never felt guilty holding up to my end of the bargain. If they happened to catch feelings, that was on them. I never once lied or pretended to care more than I did just to get something out of them.

Only once did I have something that carried on a little longer than it should've because it was convenient, and when that blew up in my face, I vowed that I'd never again put myself in a situation where the woman I was having sex with would confuse what it was we were doing.

Until Cora fucking Preston.

I realized that I could take that one night we shared in California out of the equation, and it wouldn't change how I felt about her, and that is what made me get an overpriced hotel room instead of going to the cabin to speak with Hemlock.

That brings me to now, standing outside the cabin with the sun fading behind the mountain. The number of cars out front tells me that more than just Lark is at the house, and I know that some of the others must've made it to the home base. As much as I'd prefer not to do this with an audience, I don't have much choice. There's a shit storm to navigate, and I know from experience this isn't something I can handle on my own if I want a favorable outcome.

I use my code to enter the house, mildly surprised Hemlock hasn't pulled my access. I know my presence with the people wouldn't draw too much attention if I didn't look like something that was run over and scraped off the road, but I know the gash on my cheek and the nearly swollen shut eye are going to be the topic of conversation long past tonight.

I spot Hemlock and Zara, feeling a wave of guilt for how I treated them recently.

"Zara," I say as I approach the couple. "I owe you an apology."

"You need toget to the fucking conference room," Hemlock growls as if he's feral and about to lash out at me. He turns back toward Zara before speaking again. Zara, go to our room, please."

I walk toward the conference room, and it feels like it's been years since I've stepped foot in here rather than a couple of weeks. Nothing has changed with the space, just a lot has changed inside of me since I was here last.

Before Hemlock can get inside the room and rip me to shreds for having the audacity to show up like I have, Jericho steps inside the room and closes the three of us inside.

"What the fuck happened to you?" Jericho asks.

I've worked with the man on several cases, although Mike was his handler for his recent foray into Nathan Adair's life.

"Got my ass kicked," I mutter, resisting the urge to lift a hand to the cut on my face. It hurts like a motherfucker, and I know I should've probably gotten stitches, but the steri-strips I applied to it will have to do. I don't have time to worry about formal medical attention.

"Clearly," Hemlock snaps. "What is this apology shit with Zara?"

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