Page 34 of Degrading Her

Sawyer.

Chapter 8

Sawyer

The last waveof vomit rocked through Fiona’s body, her chest convulsing, forcing out her stomach’s contents onto the ground of the parking lot. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, and once I was positive she was fine, I let her hair fall back on her shoulders.Somehow,she still managed to smell like cherries. Sour cherries, perhaps. But sweet, nonetheless.

“Thanks,” she said.

She wasn’t going to protest this time? “Let’s get you washed up,” I said.

I led us back into the nightclub, guiding her with a hand on her lower back. We had done work for the owner earlier that year, and in return, he stepped out of the way whenever I needed his club. The bouncer removed the rope, and I took Fiona to the private bathroom. Elegant, branded toiletries were situated on the counter. The ceiling stretched up, the walls silencing the music. Fiona splashed water on her face, rubbing the makeup away. She dried her face, glaring at me.

“Why did you leave that note on my car?” she seethed. “I know it was you. No one else would know that stuff about me. Or what car I drive.”

I never left our locked eye contact. “What note?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

“What did the note say?” I said, my voice stern.

She blinked her eyes, trying to focus. Then she looked at the ground, realizing I was being honest.

“That I dropped out of med school. That I’m studying at Pacific State.”

“That information isn’t hard to find.”

“Thanks,” she said sarcastically. “Whoever it was, wrote that I would probably drop out of Pacific too.”

That hurt. But I wasn’t interested in harassing her like that. If I wanted to humiliate her, there were much better ways of doing that than ridiculing her through a note. I preferred to watch her melt in person.

“Where’s the note?” I asked.

She rubbed her thumbs under her eyes, wiping away clumps of makeup, focusing on the mirror.

“I don’t know.”

The Feldman Farm certainlyhadthe capabilities to pester someone like that. But our specialty didn’t reside in the hunt. We focused on capturing the torture on film. Leaving a note wasn’t in our protocol.

But for a brief moment, I wondered if Hatchcom Focus had anything to do with it. Though their elimination tactics relied on bullets, they sought their targets in a variety of ways.

But there wasn’t any reason for Hatchcom Focus to target Fiona. She wasn’t anyone to them.

Or to me.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” she asked. “Why are you even here?”

“My brother wanted to check on his wife.”And I knew you’d need someone to save your ass.

“Right,” she said, smacking her forehead like she was stupid for even asking the question. She propped herself against the wall, then groaned, putting her face in her hands.

“Why did I even go to medical school?” she mumbled. She slid down the wall until she hit the floor, her dress bunched around her hips, exposing the trimmed hair on her pussy lips. She was too lost in her own mind to notice. “If I hadn’t gone—maybe if I hadn’t even applied—no one would know that I failed.”

I raised a brow. “You say that like you’re unique.”

She studied me. “I can’t tell if you said that to be nice or to be mean,” she said.

“Explain.”

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