Page 62 of Torched Spades
“I’m late for work,” I mutter, backing away. Owen doesn’t stop me or even offer a protest. Instead, as I turn and make my way toward the berth six warehouse, I hear his SUV roar to life and then fade away in the distance.
As I walk, his warning rolls through my head.“This pot isn’t just simmering; it’s about to boil the hell over.” He’s right; it is. Getting the hell out of Providence would be the smart thing to do, and five weeks ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice or given a single fuck about it. But I’ve stripped Becca defenseless and inadvertently marked her with the most damning of symbols.
The ace of spades.
The ultimate fuck you.
I’ve done some sick shit in my life—things that have secured my permanent place in hell. But skipping town and leaving Becca alone in the line of fire is something I won’t add to the list. I haven’t lured her into a fair fight so much as pushed her inside a ring with no clue how to hit and no knowledge of the game. Because truthfully, as far as rules go, there are none.
Except for one…
All ends justify the means.
And to these people, that’s all Becca is—a means to an end. That’s why I’m severing all access to them. On Tuesday, I’m taking Dr. Brennan up on her offer for a referral.
Our time together has come to an end.
Chapter Nineteen
JOHNNY
Becca hasn’t movedin ten minutes. I’m not even sure she’s blinked. Ever since we sat down, she turned into a tightly wound mannequin with fire in her eyes and glue on her lips. Once her hands gripped the arms of that chair, the temperature in the room dropped, and she’s been locked and loaded ever since.
I’ve been stared down by a lot of women and given the silent treatment by even more. I thought I’d seen the best of the best. Turns out, they were just the silver and bronze medal holders. Because the gold? That motherfucker is tacked up behind me between Edward Scissorface and his demonic sidepiece.
However, while an applaudable and commendable effort, I’m over it. I’m not spending our last moments together in glazed silence.
“What’s up, Doc?” I quip. “Cat got your tongue?”
Unsurprisingly, Becca isn’t in the mood for sarcasm. “I’m waiting,” she says, parting her lips just enough for the words to slip out.
“For divine intervention?”
“For an apology.”
I chuckle darkly. “For what? Not sending a thank you note for letting me get you off?”
“No.” Reaching into the pocket of her jade green suit jacket, she pulls out the ace of spades I left at the diner. Flicking her wrist, she tosses it onto the coffee table. “Forthis.”
I barely offer it a passing glance. “I believe I did that during our second session.”
Her pressed lips tighten. “Not what’s on the card, asshole. Where I found it.”
I smirk. “And where would that be?”
“At Imperial Diner. I could’ve sworn I saw you, but by the time I got to the booth, this”—bending forward, she taps her index finger in the center of the card—“is all that was left. Why are you following me, Johnny?”
That’s a question she doesn’t want me to answer. Not only because admitting I have eyes on every room in her house would cause a chasm in that orderly brain of hers, but because it’d annihilate that plastic world she’s crafted for herself.
“Now who’s doing a one-eighty?” I muse. “You’re acting a little paranoid, Doc. Are you getting enough sleep?”
What little hold Becca has on her composure snaps. Swiping the card from the table, she hurls it at my chest. “You were at the diner, Johnny. I saw you, and I know you saw me. You left that card for me to find because that’s the sort of sick games you like to play. Now explain yourself.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Isn’t thatyourjob?”
Becca’s chin quivers, but it’s not out of fear. I’m draining what little patience she has left, and when the well runs dry, there’ll be nothing but unforgiving concrete.
“You had no right to be there.”
