Page 5 of Splintered Security
“I hate you,” she seethes in a whisper.
“No, you don’t. Now, can you walk out of here on your own? Or do I have to carry you?”
I don’t have to tell her that carrying her out guarantees a trip to the emergency room. No first responder—much less the entirety of the Denver PD—is going to forego medical care if she needs to be bodily removed from the rubble.
Her muffled sniffles are my only reply.
3
shrapnel and debris
Anni
How the hell Ren convinces the police, EMS, and all the firefighters in the metro area to let us simply walk away from the burned-out shell of that building is beyond me. Voodoo maybe.
It’s the only explanation for us emerging from the wreckage and grabbing a cab a block away.
He always seemed to get his way when we were kids. Punishments glanced off of him. Anything that could go his way did. It was that simple. He was the golden boy.
Only he was the golden boy with a shadow in his eyes that I couldn’t quite understand.
Walking into his house in the Bonnie Brae area of Denver, seeing the rich browns in soft leather sofas and crisp whites of the walls and ceilings, I find myself trying to recognize the boy in the man before me.
“Want a shower?”
I start at his question and shake my head to clear it.
“’Kay. I assumed you’d want to wash away the bathroom floor of the club.”
“No, I mean yes. I was somewhere else.” Please don’t ask me where. Wantashower and wanttoshower sounded too close in my head.
He squints his eyes as if I’m a puzzle he can’t solve and, without a word, walks through the great room and down the hall. Lights flick on and doors open and close before curiosity gets the best of me, and I follow.
The shower runs, and steam billows from the bathroom. Ren sets a towel on the counter beside a t-shirt and a pair of black boxer briefs already there. Maybe I wasn’t too far off with my confusion.
“Um…”
“Leave the door open. I’ll be working in the office, but I need to hear just in case.”
I nod, not willing to argue when I’m going to do whatever I want anyway.
He stalks out of the room and is halfway down the hall when he doubles back, tapping on the door jamb. “Do you need help? I?—”
I hurry to stop that thought. “No, I’m good. Promise.”
And I am.
Physically at least.
Ren
My computer comes to life, and I navigate to its messaging app.
Me: I survived. My phone did not. The club is a total loss, and I need to check on the team. I’ll get a new phone in the a.m. and text then.
I don’t check for Christian Barone’s response.
My boss is the proprietor of Queen City Wine Bar and owns the building it’s in. Hell, he owns half of Denver. Working for him is the bane of my existence, but the job is easy and the pay is worth the trouble.
