Page 4 of Bedding Rose
The fact that she is asking that fucking question sends a flaming bolt of fury through me because it’s as if she can’t even conceive of being worth someone’s time or protection.
God, my best friend deserves a punch to the mouth. And their mother—if I hit women, I’d fucking kick her where it hurts. Why is the idea that someone would take care of her a foreign concept? She’s Rose! For fuck’s sake, she’s precious and fucking innocent as all get out. She's the silly girl who made Quique and me a three-tiered cake from scratch when we graduated high school. Best damn thing I've ever eaten, too. The girl I know loaned her brother the money he needed to get his car fixed on the down low after we wrecked it in a street race so their mom wouldn’t blow her lid. She's selfless as fuck. A small, irrational part of me wants to scoop her up and carry her out of here and bring her to my house. I ignore it and answer her. “Because you deserve it.”
Her brow furrows and her eyes narrow in suspicion. She doesn’t trust or doesn’t like my words. Fine by me. She doesn’t have to. As long as she listens, we’ll be fine.
I’m seething now, though. I want to punch something. I need to finish up and get out of here so I can spend some quality time with my speed bag back at my apartment. Fuck.
I turn to the counter and shove aside several bandages as I search for the antibiotic cream.
“You’re scaring me,” Rose whispers.
“You’re scaringme. Why the hell would you do that?” I whirl back around and point at her leg. At the cut, and the scars that mar her beautiful skin.
It’s the wrong thing to say. I watch her retreat into herself.
Fuck.
Fuck.
FUCK.
I reach up and yank at my hair in frustration, unsure what to say to make this better. The fury I feel—at her family, at the world, at whatever fucking reason she had to hurt herself—is whirling inside my ribs, revving like a chainsaw, cutting me up.
I clench my fists, struggling to get a hold of this sudden rage, because I don’t mean to scare her.. But suddenly, there's an ardent need percolating underneath my skin, scalding me with the need to ensure that nothing like this ever happens to her again. “Promise me you won’t do it again.”
She stands, skirt still bunched in her hand. I’m about to grab her shoulder and tell her to sit back down when she whispers, “I won’t. Okay? I won’t do it because I won’t ever see them again.”
She bolts for the door, yanking it open, and darting across the hall into her own room. I hear the door slam shut and it startles me, making me jump inside my skin because the world stopped two seconds ago with her words.
Them.
Whothe fuckis THEM?
ANGELO
The Next Morning
Idon’t sleep. Every time my eyes close, I keep seeing Rose's tear-glossed cheeks. Then suddenly, she'll transform into the face of my last assignment in Arizona and the memory will play out vividly in my half-asleep state.
"Mr. Walker. Mr. Walker, please! I've got kids! Please!" Dante Ambrose is a terrible beggar. He's so shrill that it's impossible to do anything other than curl my lips in disgust whenever he opens his mouth. Well, that might also have to do with the fact that he's a contemptible little thief who tried to underbid Walker Construction. He tried to weasel in on a deal that took me five months to secure.
But his bid is about to disappear—just like he is.
I lean over the chair he’s tied to, studying the stripes I've already cut down his neck. They're shallow, not too deep. Just enough to make him panic.
"You want cash? I've got cash." he offers, chest heaving as he pants in terror and his eyes dart around looking for something he thinks I want. He’s scrambling.
Some imbeciles think that money is the only driving factor on the planet. But it's not. Power trumps money any day. And power originates from love or fear. Love is something others have to freely give. But fear is a gift you can give yourself, the gift that keeps on giving--more influence, more contracts, more money. If I could wrap up the look in this bastard's eyes and give it to myself for Christmas, I would.
But ... no evidence.
I'll just have to remember it.
I step forward and lean down, watching the tip of my hunting knife as I dig it into his cheek, enjoying the drop of blood that forms on top of it before trailing down the blade, falling with a splat onto his polished shoes. I savor his expression as I blink at him and furrow my brow, as though his offer has me utterly confused.
"Dante, you’ve got me all wrong. No need for bribes. I just brought you here for a consultation." I like lying to their faces—watching the disbelief wash over them as they try to connect my ridiculous light-hearted conversation with the impending truth.
"What?" Ambrose blinks rapidly, trying to process. He doesn't get it.
