Page 8 of Flame
His gruff tone differentiates this anger from his usual temper. Rather than rage and shout, he has his jaw clenched, his eyes distant. He’s just as on edge as I am.
Why? His wary glance toward the front of the shop might give me a clue. “Those motherfuckers,” he hisses. “What the fuck are they up to…”
It hits me—if his uncle’s men were behind the attack, he didn’t know. And the prospect caught him off guard. Did the older man leave him out intentionally?
Or was Rafe the one who stayed away?
The questions mount, but all I seem capable of doing is sighing, still clenching his broom.
Eyeing him, I press the bristles to the floor. “When do I start?”
“Huh?” He blinks and shoots me an odd look, only to recover a heartbeat later. His slanted smirk contains a mere fraction of his usual smug persona, however. He’s distracted. “You start now,” he says. “But change first. I’m not running a fucking skin bar.”
He boldly rakes his gaze down to my bare legs before starting for the stairs. I follow him into the apartment and approach the clothing stacked on top of the boxes at the end of the hall. I grab a skirt and sweater only to draw a scoff from my audience.
“I don’t run a nunnery, either,” Rafe says, reaching around me to snatch the sweater away. His breath heats the back of my throat, his voice vibrating through my skin, “Trust me. You look better in my shit.”
Referring to his shirt, I presume. The possession in his words requires further inspection—but later. For the time being, I squeeze past him and enter the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
He retreats, his steps storming toward the living room with a determination that alarms me. At least until I hear his voice, low, strained, presumably speaking into a phone.
“…If I hear you motherfuckers were involved, I swear to God,” he growls. “You’ll answer to me. I told you to keep out of this—I don’t give a fuck what anyone might think. Just be ready when those assholes come calling, because they will.”
Judging from the next few seconds of silence, he must have hung up.
“Hurry up, bunny,” he calls, raising his voice for my benefit. “I don’t got all fucking day.”
“I’m coming,” I snap back.
Approaching the mirror is a grueling ordeal, but in the end, I don’t even look at my reflection. I grab a washcloth from a nearby shelf and wash up blind. Once finished, I tug on my skirt and fresh underwear. I finally exit the bathroom to find Rafe standing near one of the windows in the living room with his back to me.
“What’s the rush?” I ask, crossing my arms. “Are you—”
“Fuck.” His posture alone conveys another alarming shift in his mood. Gone is the mocking, playful aura. “Shit’s about to get real, bunny,” he says coldly, his gaze riveted on something taking place below.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
As I inch closer to the window, I spot the problem for myself—a parade of three, flashy cars parking alongside the curb across the street. As if in some rehearsed motion, the driver’s side doors open in sync, and the occupants stream out. They’re dressed in suits—and I instantly recognize their leader.
Gino.
The other men with him are unfamiliar, but they approach the shop with a clear intent made obvious by their posture—clenched fists and rigid spines. Nothing good.
“Fuck.” Rafe barrels into the kitchen, speaking to me from over his shoulder. “Can you shoot?”
“What?” I gape as he wrenches open a cupboard drawer and rummages through the various random items inside it.Shootcould apply to a milieu of different things—or so I try to convince myself.
At least until he slams an object onto the counter, leaving nothing to the imagination. A part of me knows what is inside the slim black case before he lifts the lid.
“Rafe…” I back away, but my alarm doesn’t prevent him from curling his fingers around the hilt of the weapon and raising it—a gun.
I’ve seen one before—my brother’s service weapon. This one looks to be a similar model, black and no less intimidating.
“What’s going on—”
“You hear shit going down, you take this, and you run,” he says as if I’ve never spoken. “Get the fuck away—but if you can’t, get on the roof. Do you hear me? Listen!” He smacks the counter with his free hand. “Do you remember that place you brought Zhang’s payment? Do you?”
I nod, picturing a musty warehouse on the outskirts of town, by the docks.
