Better When He's Bold
Page 49

The drive into the Point was never fun. It was still sad to see the way things devolved the farther into the heart of the city I went. But now that I was spending more time here, was starting to understand the ebb and flow, the way the city fed off the lives of the people who lived in it, the less terrified I was of every dark thing that moved in the night. I had a moment of almost panic when a set of headlights suddenly shone in my rearview mirror. I squinted at the glare and my hands involuntarily curled tighter around the steering wheel. I picked up the pace, rounded a corner, and breathed a sigh of relief when the metal monolith of the garage came into view.
I wheeled in front of the massive gates and punched in the numerical code that Race had sent me earlier. The car that had been behind me drove on without even pausing, and my heart dropped back from throat into my chest. I settled down even more when the giant metal gates swung closed, sealing me inside. As barren as this place was, as industrial and unwelcoming as the façade was, there was no denying it felt like an iron fortress that could keep the wolves of the street at bay. I took a minute to get my thoughts in order, stripped off my apron, and went to walk inside when I halted because the gates were whining and whirring behind me as someone opened them from the outside.
The Mustang was loud and kicked up a cloud of dust as Race pulled into the lot. He pulled in right next to the BMW and killed the engine. I waved a hand in front of my face to clear some of the debris and walked around the front of the car to meet him. I stopped dead in my tracks and felt my jaw fall open when I caught sight of him. He winced when he saw me, and spit a mouthful of blood onto the ground.
His hair was sticking up all over the place. His bottom lip was split open. He had a gushing cut oozing blood out of one blond eyebrow, and one cheek was puffy and swollen. His button-down shirt was torn at the collar and streaked with pink trails of blood. Both of his hands had ugly abrasions and scrapes all along the backs and knuckles.
“What happened to you?” I sounded like I had sucked on a helium balloon, my voice went so high in alarm.
He spit again and shook out one of his hands. I cringed as little drops of blood went flying with the motion.
“Work happened.”
He was moving pretty slowly, but seemed steady on his feet as he made his way toward me. I reached out to grab him, but he held up his hands and backed away a step.
“Let me clean up first.”
I scowled and stalked after him as he went inside the garage. He didn’t bother to turn on the lights, and when he stumbled a little as we hit the narrow stairway leading to the loft, I reached out and put my hands on his back to steady him, and felt him shudder at the contact. This was a man of contradictions that I didn’t know what to do with. At the moment he didn’t look so handsome or regal. He looked as mad and as furious as I often felt.
“Come on, let me help you.”
He grunted a little bit but didn’t argue as I guided him the rest of the way up the stairs and into his empty home. I kept going straight into the bathroom, flicked on the light switch, and told him to sit down on the toilet so I could clean him up like he had done for me the other night. By the time I had returned with a clean washcloth, he had stripped to the waist, was probing at his face in the mirror, and his expression had turned remote and vacant. It was like he was shutting off his emotions.
“What happened?”
I didn’t know if he would tell me about it . . . I mean, not if it would pretty much implicate him in some kind of criminal activity. But as I reached up to rub the dried blood off his eyebrows, he sighed and slumped down so that he was leaning against the sink.
“I’ll never understand the urge people have to risk what they can’t afford to lose.”
“This was from one of your gamblers?”
“No. From someone that the guy who owes me money hired to try and get out of paying. Probably cost him more than he owed to farm out muscle, and the guy he sent was a joke, but still . . .”
I put my index finger on the cut in the center of his bottom lip and blinked up at him.
“Doesn’t look like a joke to me.”
He made a face and I bent to put my lips on a flowering bruise that was starting to take shape over his ribs.
“It could be worse. It could always be worse. The guy wanted to beat me down, not kill me. I can usually hold my own in a fight, but I wasn’t expecting it. Which makes me an idiot and I hate feeling like a fool. I don’t know why I keep thinking people will do things the easy and logical way. Nothing works like that here.”
“I don’t think things work like that anywhere.”