Page 124 of Dirty Damage

“It’s five o’clock somewhere, brother.”

I huff out a laugh as I leave, head filled with thoughts of bribes and snitches.

I’m so lost in thought I almost miss the flash of movement around the closest corner.

Sutton.

She’s supposed to be at her spa day with Faye. It’s the only reason I hadn’t bothered closing my office door, the only reason I’d been so loud with my plans.

But she’s here now.

She stands frozen in the dim light, face pale as milk. Those big, blue eyes are wide with something that looks too much like fear.

“Sutton.”

She flinches like I’ve struck her. “Got back early,” she mumbles. “I’m tired. Excuse me.” She scurries backwards down the hall and disappears into her room.

Blyat’.

The innocent little daycare worker was never supposed to know the ins and outs of this part of my life. She’s not here for power plays and betrayal, the bloody business of staying alive in a world where trust gets you killed.

I’ve kept her carefully walled off from all of it—but I just inadvertently dunked her in the deep end.

On the heels of regret comes annoyance.

Whether she was eavesdropping on purpose or not, I need to know whether she can keep her mouth shut.

Whether I can trust her…

Or whether she’s just another problem I’ll have to take care of.

36

OLEG

Tap, tap, tap.

I hear the sound of Sutton’s heels as she paces the bathroom floor.Mybathroom floor.

It still feels strange to think of her here, in my space. How easily I let her into my life.

I should have seen the signs when I first saw her at Pavlov Industries in that ridiculous princess dress, all sunshine and innocence packaged in curves that could bring a man to his knees.

The kind of woman who could make you forget yourself.

Make you forget everything.

But I’m the kind of man whoremembers. The kind who catalogs every detail, analyzes every angle.

Like how perfectly timed it all was—her arrival, those photos, the way she blazed into my life as if it was planned.

Maybe it was.

My hand hovers over the bathroom door handle as doubts swarm like hornets in my skull. Could she be a spy? It’s the precise kind of move my uncle would make, dangling the perfect bait and waiting for me to snap at it like a hungry shark.

Or maybe the old bastard is only succeeding at making me paranoid.

Fuck, he’d love it if he knew he was in my head, pulling strings that I’ve attached to myself.

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