Page 112 of The Broken Note

Vi scrambles out of the car, not sticking around for the aftermath.

I grip the car handle too. The last place I want to be right now is here in this car with him, trapped in the memories of what he did to my body. What I did to his.

Space. It’s the only way I can recover from Dutch Cross.

“Cadey,” he says in that way of his.

I stop.

“I’m not going to let you run this time.”

“I’m not running. I’m going home.”

His amber eyes meet mine and he cracks a smile that doesn’t quite land. “Home. Right.”

I don’t understand that look. I don’t understand the worry creeping into his expression.

“Is something wrong?”

He sidesteps the question. “I’ll send someone with breakfast.” He smirks. “Don’t worry. It won’t be pancakes.”

“I don’t need you to do that.”

“You burned a lot of calories last night.”

“Jerk.”

“I want to.” His voice is smooth and low. “I want nothing more than to take care of you and Vi.”

My heart slams against my ribs.

I turn away from him, crack the door open and hop out.

The car drives off and I stare at it as it rounds the corner. I can’t decide if I just won that argument or if I lost tragically.

My phone buzzes.

Jarod Cross: I’m waiting for an update, Miss Cooper.

I squeeze my eyes shut and blow out a shaky breath. I’m starting to think that getting involved with these Cross men was my biggest damn mistake.

* * *

DUTCH

The coffee shop where Tina asks me to meet is in an even worse side of town than Cadey’s apartment.

I can see the bullet holes and shattered windows covered with garbage bags and duct tape long before I park in front of the poorly maintained building. Graffiti lines the outside walls and it’s hard to believe this is a functioning store.

I stalk forward, pushing the door aside and bending slightly to fit through. I’m surprised when I step into a fully functioning dive bar. There are skull decorations. Mismatched scone lights, probably won from a garage sale or fished out of a dump. People with shifty eyes, tattoos and motorcycle leather.

I’m clearly younger than them, but no one bats an eye when I stalk past the tables. Guess my tattoos and jacket help me blend right in.

I search the room, my eyes settling on the one and only woman who reminds me of Cadence. She’s sitting all the way at the back with dark hair past her shoulders, a tank top and jeans.

The family resemblance is unmistakable.

She smiles when I sit across from her. Up close, the makeup starts to crack and the lines etched into her skin are clearer. She’s probably around mom’s age, but something about the way she carries herself makes her look much older. Or maybe it’s that she seems more weary. Traumatized.

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