Page 57 of Unholy Obsession

I yank my gloves off and toss them, then snap a new pair on. Hell, I’m practically dancing as I move on to stall four.

Because yeah, the messes will always be there.

But maybe so will Bane?

I push open the fourth stall, expecting the usual grime-and-regret combo, but instead?—

“Jesus!” I yelp, stumbling back a step.

There’s a woman perched on the toilet tank, knees tucked up, boots planted on the closed lid. Long brunette hair spills over the collar of an oversized Bad Bunny shirt, tight jeans tucked into scuffed combat boots.

She glances at me, completely unfazed, and blows a lazy stream of smoke out the cracked open window.

I thought I smelled something earlier, but stall three’s backup situation had been an olfactory apocalypse. Guess my nose needed a minute to recalibrate.

She rolls her eyes like I’m the inconvenience here. “Lemme guess, I’m in trouble now?”

I lean against the grimy tile wall, pressing a hand to my chest, still catching my breath. “Not from me, you’re not.” I let out a laugh, adrenaline mixing with amusement. “You must be new. Skipping Life Skills class, huh?”

“Life skills,” she snorts, taking another slow drag. “They don’t know shit about my life.”

Fair point.

I nod, crossing my arms. “So, what’s the plan, then?”

She exhales a plume of smoke, squints at me like she’s sizing me up, then shrugs and holds out the joint. Not just a cigarette. Yep, definitely a joint.

For a split second, I hesitate. But then, fuck it. I’m already in the shit with Marci, and impulse control’s never been my strong suit. I take it, inhaling deeply. The smoke burns warm in my chest, blooming like a rebellious little fire, and I blow it out the same window.

She nods like that seals something between us. “My sister’s got me covered,” she says, all bravado. Then she shrugs. “Unless her dad or my boyfriend kills me first when I get out of here.” Her head wobbles in a casual, it-is-what-it-is kind of way. “Which is probably more likely. So no real point in Life Skills class, ya know?”

She winks. Like it’s a joke.

But it doesn’t feel like one.

“Well, shit,” I mutter, the words hitching somewhere between my lungs and my heart. My instincts kick in, bulldozing over the whole maintaining healthy boundaries thing. I glance at my janitorial cart, grab a stub of a pencil and a clean square of toilet paper—it’s the industrial kind, practically laminated cardboard—and scribble my number on it.

Turning back, I hand it to her. “If you ever get in over your head—like, really over your head—call me. My brother’s got… resources.”

Resources like fists and favors and connections nobody talks about in polite company. He may not be speaking to me right now, but Anna’s got a soft spot for girls tangled up with bad guys. And I guess I do, too.

She frowns down at the makeshift note, squinting like it’s written in code. “Look, that’s real nice and all,” she says, voice dropping into something softer. “But these guys? They’re not just assholes with anger issues. We’re talking cartel-level trouble.”

Oh.

Shit.

My pulse kicks up, but my mouth moves faster. “Doesn’t matter. Help’s help.”

Then, maybe because the weed’s hit me just right, or maybe because I’m feeling stronger lately and more pissed off at guys who hurt women and get away with it now that I’ve finally found one who’s actually kind, I lean in, lowering my voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone, but my family just buried the body of another bad man where no one’ll ever find it. If you catch my drift.”

Anna’s father was a monster, and the only reason I can sleep at night is because I know he’s six feet under.

Her eyes go wide, the kind of wide that says she believes me.

“Well, shit,” she says, folding the toilet paper and carefully tucking it into her pocket. “I’ll keep your number, then.”

“Moira,” I say, tapping my chest.

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