Текст книги "Uncaged"

Автор книги: Emilia Kincade

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Chapter Twenty Three

My blood is boiling. I can’t believe these cocksuckers came to my fucking house. I can’t believe that Penny was here when they did.

The only thing I can think about right now is whether or not they’re interested in using her to bargain with me. These fucks are above nothing.

That, and the huge fifty mil wager they’ve put on me. I have a feeling that this isn’t exactly an offer. More like a request… and the mob requesting something typically means they have something on you, something they can use.

I open the door again, and watch the two goons while they stand. Neither of them look uncomfortable. Two pairs of neutral eyes are fixed on me. That they are so comfortable speaks to their confidence, and that tells me a lot about this Lev Fallon, who up until this moment I only knew vaguely of by name.

Down the hallway, the elevator dings, and the man who steps out is one I recognize from my last fight. He was in the stands. He’s even wearing the same clothes.

Imagine the cliché of a mob boss. Impeccably dressed, expensive suit, gold rings, the works, neat hair. Well, he’s the opposite of that. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, sandals, and his hair is pulled messily back into a pony tail.

My mind reels for a moment before I am able to fully appreciate that though he looks like a fucking dork, he kills people, runs prostitution rings, and deals drugs for a living.

I could take all three of them, but I’m no fucking idiot.

“Pierce,” he says. His voice drips with congeniality. “Pierce, my boy. Good to finally meet you, mate. I’m a huge bloody fan of yours.” He takes a moment to look up and down my topless body. “Fuck me, you have the body of a Greek god. I’m part-Greek you know, on my mother’s side.” He pats his paunch. “No Godly genes in me, though.”

I level steely eyes at him. “I’m not your boy. How did you find out where I live?”

“Oh, I have connections,” Fallon says, gesturing ambiguously into the air. “May I come in?”

“No.”

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes.”

“So I think you should invite me in.”

I step outside, and shut the door behind me. “I think not, asshole. You think your fucking intimidation tactics scare me? Like I told your shit-heel meathead, I’m not interested.”

Fallon sucks in a long breath of air before he pushes his lips together. “I like you, Pierce,” he says. “You’ve got fire.”

“More than enough to burn you right now.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to your sweet little girlfriend, though, now would we, mate?”

I want to explode, wail on him, crack his fucking skull against the fire extinguisher.

“Have at her,” I say. “She’s nothing but a fucking lay. A shitty one, too.”

“Nice try,” Fallon says. He’s got this smile on his face that I want to punch off. “But I don’t buy it, considering you drove her home after your last fight. You don’t strike me as the gentlemanly sort of bloke.”

I narrow my eyes. They’ve been following me.

“Ah, he understands,” Fallon says, leering at me, and then exchanging grinning glances with his two goons. “Now, you ready to talk business? Or do I need to prove myself to you even further?”

“Why are you keeping tabs on me?”

“Like I said, I’m a longtime fan. Seen every one of your fights for two years straight. But if I’m going into business with somebody, I need to know what they’re about. I need to know that they’re reliable. I need to know they don’t have a bad habit or two on the side. As it stands, up until now your habit has been girls. That’s fine.”

“I’m not interested in fighting for you,” I say.

Fallon sighs, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do we need to go over the girlfriend thing again?”

With difficulty, I force myself to calm. “You want me to fight in your own little grudge match with some Russian mafia family and his boy. The thing is, I don’t give a fuck about your cock-measuring.”

“And?”

“And I ain’t fighting for you. I don’t fight for anybody but me.”

Fallon rocks on his feet, before he claps his hands together in front of him. “Penelope Wordsworth, father Michael Wordsworth, engaged to… Isabelle Fletcher, mother of Pierce Fletcher. She may be a shitty lay, but you and I both know she’s not just some nobody.”

“Fuck you,” I growl.

“This bloke I know, he runs a travel agency. It’s a front, naturally, but he’s some kind of hacking wizard. I’ve had the equivalent of an APB out on your name in the digital world for a while, now.”

“You’ve been tapping my fucking internet?”

“You’ve got good taste in porn, mate. Surprised you need it with all the chicks you screw.”

I lick my lips. “Get to the point.”

Fallon drops his voice, and points two fingers at me. “We can get to you, mate. We can get to everyone you love, everyone you care about. Now, you said you’re not my boy. But you are my boy. I own you now, because I know you. I know everything about you. I know that this bad boy bullshit you put on isn’t you. You care. You’re a decent bloke. I can respect that. I even know about Ricky.”

I clench my fists, do everything I can to stop from breaking him in two.

“I know what you do for him and his mother. I know what you did to him. Like I said, I know everything. Like I said, you’re a decent bloke. I like that. The world needs more decent blokes. Me, though, I’m not decent. I’m not a good guy. Some might even say I was a bad guy. Maybe… you can respect that, or at least understand what it means.”

I calm my racing heart, force the anger to evaporate out of every pore on my body. They’ve got Penny in their sights… as much as I want to drop this prick right now, I can’t.

It takes every ounce of willpower I’ve got not to separate his lower jaw.

“Maybe you need a financial incentive. Two million is nothing to scoff at, but let’s say we up it to five percent of the pot. That’s at least five million, easy. That’s retirement money, Pierce. You can disappear with your girl on your arm. You can start a family, give your children good lives. You can spoil the fuck out of ’em, for all I care, turn them into fat little cunts.”

I grit my teeth together. I can hear the grinding enamel ringing in my skull.

“We’ll set up a private location, and tickets will be sold discretely. There will be a minimum bet to ensure we keep the undesirables out. This is all business.”

I’ve heard of these kinds of fights before. Rich gangsters betting on fighters like dogs. I never thought my success would make me a target…

…would make her a target.

“Attendance roughly one thousand, give or take,” Fallon continues. “Sound good?”

I grunt at him.

“You can put money in on yourself, since I know you like to do that. No limit, if you’ve got the stomach for something big.”

I glower at him. “I always win.”

“I know, my boy. That’s why I picked you.”

“I’m not your fucking boy. I want tapes, if you got any, of this Russian fighter. Anton whatever the fuck.”

Fallon clicks his fingers at Baldilocks, and the man puts a hand into his inside jacket pocket, and pulls out a brown paper envelope and hands it to me. It’s got a VCR cassette tape in it, judging by the weight and size.

Where the fuck am I going to find a player for this?

“Sorry about the tape,” Fallon says, shrugging.

“You couldn’t get a fucking DVD?”

“That’s all I could get. He’s a power fighter, uses his legs—”

I cut him off. “Don’t tell me how to analyze my opponent.”

“Just trying to help. It is in my best interest that you win this fight. And what’s in my best interest is also in your best interest.”

“Why don’t you just hop in the cage yourself with this Mogilovich cunt, you fucking wuss? Not man enough?”

Fallon blasts out a hoarse laugh. “You’ve picked up the Aussie vocabulary. You not seen Sergei Mogilovich, then?”

I shake my head.

“All of five-foot-five, and thin as a noodle. He’d never get in the ring with anybody.”

Great, I think to myself. A Chihuahua mobster with insecurities.

“Anyway,” Fallon says. “Enjoy your brekkie.”

“I never want you ’round my fucking house again, got it?”

“Hold up your end of the deal, Pierce, and you’ll never have to. I expect you to win.”

“I will win.”

“And if you don’t, then you’ll owe me.” Fallon steps closer. “And trust me, mate, that’s not something you want. Especially since you’re a bloody yank.”

I grin at Fallon. “Must eat you up, huh? An American being the best fighter in your town.”

“I just want to make some money. I’ll send you a text to let you know the details.”

“You have my number?”

He sneers. “Of course I fucking do.” Fallon gestures at his goons and they walk off. Baldilocks shoots me a glare.

“Asshole,” I say, going back inside. “Penny?” I call.

“What?” she says, appearing from the bedroom. She’s put on some eyeliner, and has corralled her hair.

“We need to talk.”

“We’re not talking.” She spits the words at me, all venom.

“Why?”

“Because you just made a deal with fucking mobsters.”

“It’s only a fight.”

She points a finger at me. “You’re an idiot Pierce, if you believe it’s only going to be one time.”

“Pen, it’s practically retirement money.”

“Oh,” she challenges, hands on her hips. “That’s what this is about, is it? Retirement?”

I grit my teeth, but say nothing.

“I thought so. Retirement. Fuck you, Pierce. Don’t get me involved in this.”

“The fight is next Friday. I need you there, Pen.”

“I don’t care.”

“Pen,” I say. I walk up to her, but she pushes me violently away. “Pen, I need you there. I’ll fight better if you’re watching.” What I tell her is partly true. But the other part of it is that I want her where I can see her. I don’t want them getting their hands on her.

“Well, this is a fight I’m not watching.”

“Why?”

“Because you didn’t listen to me. You didn’t even consult me before accepting whatever shady deal they gave you. I don’t care how much money it is, it’s all dirty.”

“Consult you?” I ask. I can feel my temper starting to flare. “Why the fuck should I consult you?”

Penny stops her exit, and turns around. “Because you want me there. Because you want me.”

She leaves, and slams the door.

And God fucking damn it if she isn’t fucking right about that.

I do want her.

It might just be that I need her.

Chapter Twenty Four

The whirlwind enters my tattoo shop. All swagger, smug cockiness. But it means nothing to me, now. He’s just a whirlwind of trouble, scooping up all the shit he can into the eye of his storm.

Like I need that fucking turbulence in my life. Like I need all that damn collateral.

It’s been one day since I found out our parents are getting married. It’s been a day since he agreed to fight in some shady mob setup that is sure to land him – and anyone connected to him – in trouble.

There is no way I want to see him, and I already told him that.

But, still, there he is, pissing me off.

“We need to talk,” he says.

“About what?” I ask, pushing him into the small supply room in the back so Tina won’t hear us. Vials of ink, spare tattoo machines, books, and medical supplies sit on shelves. There’s a vacuum and a mop and bucket, too. We barely fit in.

“You already know what I think about this. You and I are over.”

This annoying grin parts his lips.

“It’s not funny.”

“It is funny.”

“It’s not,” I say. “Plus, now you’re involved with the mob.”

“Christ, Pen, I’m not involved. It’s one fight and I’ll win it.”

“Oh, you’re sure of that, are you?”

“I watched the tape. The guy’s powerful but slow. I’ll dance with him until he’s gassed, and then hold him. Easy.”

“You’ve got it all figured out, haven’t you?”

“All of it.”

He steps closer toward me, I notice that the veins on his arms are sticking out more, and that I can see muscle fibers under his skin.

“What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?”

“No. Just getting ready for the fight.”

I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. Growing exasperated, I shake my head at him. “So? What are you here for? What do you want to talk about?”

“I need you at the fight, Pen.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ll get to see me in tiny shorts.”

Despite myself, I laugh.

“Hey, it’s me. You’ll take what you can get.”

“No,” I say. He has a great way of ruining a joke. “No. We can’t do this.”

“Yes we can.”

“On top of the fact that I don’t want to watch you fight, it’s too weird. We can’t keep being together. It’s too awkward. We’ll be family soon.”

“So? Cross that bridge when we get there.”

“No,” I say firmly.

He steps closer to me, takes my hand in his and pulls it up over my head. He begins to kiss the underside of my arm, moves to my neck. I don’t want to, but I turn my head to the side, let him kiss me, let him smell me.

“Don’t tell me it wasn’t fucking unbelievable. I heard you.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t still want it.”

He presses my hand hard against the wall, pushes his body into mine. I can feel his hardness against my stomach.

“Pierce—”

“What good would it be for you to sacrifice something you want for the sake of your father?”

“It’s not about that?”

“Oh? Because I could swear you’ve got a guilt complex about it. About leaving him.”

“Shut up,” I say.

“Isn’t that what you told me at dinner?”

“Shut up, Pierce,” I say.

I’m angry, but he’s too strong; I can’t pull my arm down, can’t get out from under him. He pushes his forehead against mine, stares into my eyes. I see his wolf eyes.

“You’re telling me you want this to end?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit. I make you feel alive. I make you feel dirty. I make you feel good.”

His hand is sliding down the front of my body, and when I feel his fingers touch the skin beneath the button of my jeans, I jolt.

“I want you, Pen.”

“Why?” I ask.

He pushes his hand inside my underwear, plays with me, teases me. He squeezes my lips together, then spreads me. I feel it all, and I’m already so sensitive that when he rubs my clit, I let out a soft moan. Appalled with myself, I try to get out, try to get away, but his whole body is against me.

“Stop it, Pierce,” I whisper, but he doesn’t. He rubs my clit so deftly, and it’s only moments before I feel my own wetness pressing back against me. I can smell his musk, feel his heat, feel his desperation for me. He wants me… he needs me. He’ll never let me go.

I know it all. It’s not just that he told me. I simply know it.

“Tell me you want me out of your life.”

“I want you—”

“Tell me you never want to see me again. Tell me you never want to scream again, feel the best you’ve ever fucking felt.”

He forces me to kiss him, claims my lips, rubs my clit exactly how I need it. I can’t concentrate anymore. I’m losing myself in it. I’m losing my grip.

I moan, my eyes fall shut. He rubs me so well, so fast, I’m right at the edge so quickly, too quickly.

“No,” I say uselessly. He doesn’t stop. I feel his finger at my entrance, and he pushes it in, and I shut my jaw tight so I don’t make a sound.

I hate myself for opening my legs a little wider. I hate myself for gyrating my hips to the rhythm of his fingering.

He drives me racing forward, brings me to oblivion so quickly. I climax hard onto his hand, bury my face in his chest, and then I’m coming down, panting, shaken, fogged-up.

“Why don’t you care?” I snarl.

“I do care.”

“Then tell me why you want me.”

He pulls back, like he’s confused, or like he’s contemplating something for the first time. I’m left standing against the wall, my arm still above my head, breathless, panting, my sex still quivering.

“Tell me!” I cry. My voice breaks.

His eyes meet mine, and this time there’s something else there. More than just base lust. More than just Pierce Fletcher getting his way.

He turns around and leaves.

“Why?” I shout at his back. The door’s bell ding as it closes behind him. “Coward!”

I’m shaking with a heady mix of anger and disappointment.

Why couldn’t he just tell me?

Chapter Twenty Five

The days blend together, one smudged aching blur.

I’ve never felt this way before.

Penelope isn’t talking to me, and it’s eating me up. I’m not some clingy dick with low self-esteem, but she and I really had something. I’ve never felt more comfortable around a girl before, more attracted to one.

I’ve never wanted to please a girl more than I do Pen.

I’ve never felt the sting of disappointing a girl more than I do Pen.

And I’ve disappointed a metric fuckton of girls.

Usually I just get mine, and I’m fine with that. I fuck them, and leave them. I don’t need any attachments. For fuck’s sake, I fight underground. Attachments get you burned one way or another. Distractions take your mind off the prize, the win.

But now I’m doubting that philosophy. Now Pen has got me going back on my own beliefs, on the way I’ve lived my life.

Because now she’s the prize, she’s what I want to win… need to win. But I need to protect her, too, and that makes my mind go somewhere it doesn’t want to.

Do I need to protect her from me?

She is pissed at me, and rightfully so. I didn’t fucking know that I’d get involved with the mob. They basically gave me no choice but to fight in this pathetic little dick-measuring match. Some local mobster cunt and some Russian mafia cunt want to settle a bet, and they’re using me to do it, and some foreign beefcake fighter.

They’re not just using me, either. They’re using Pen, too. I wonder idly what this Anton fuckhead was threatened with. I wonder how they could make him fly half way around the world just to do one single fight. Maybe they got to him, too.

Nothing is worse than being a pawn. I’m going to find a fucking way out of this one way or another, and then I’m going to make sure Lev Fallon, the cocksucker, goes down.

But five million is retirement money. Five million on top of what I already got saved and invested? Shit, I don’t consider myself motivated by money, but damn, that’s a good life for me and my kids. And, it keeps Pen safe. If I don’t do the fight, they’ll get to her. That much is clear as day.

Wait a minute… My kids? I blink, surprised at myself for the thought.

I’ve never, ever considered having kids before. I’ve never considered settling down before. To me, that was always phony bullshit. Nobody wants to settle down. Nobody wants some boring fucking suburban life with picket fences and flower beds and shitty fake dinner parties filled by passive-aggressive small talk.

Well, imagine it with Penelope, and it doesn’t sound too bad. Waking up next to her every single morning? Making love to her every single morning? Every single night?

Tasting her, smelling her… having her every single day? Seeing her smile, making her laugh… pissing her off? That’s fucking heaven.

That’s what I want. I want her. I want her to be mine. She is mine… she just doesn’t know it yet.

Fuck.

Of course, we wouldn’t just be some asshole couple with rich-guilt and fake smiles. We’d be cool, do things our way. She’d run her tattoo shop, pick her clients, succeed in her life. She’d do whatever she wanted, because she can.

I recognize the fire in people. The burning will to win, to succeed.

My stomach crunches as I realize that I might just be derailing that.

But Fallon’s threat was clear. I’ll do this fight, win, and walk away with Penelope in my arms. If I listen to her, if I don’t fight, then he’s going after her. Shit, Fallon goes after both of us.

I can beat a man half to death in seven seconds, but I can’t take on the mob, no matter how much I want to. At least, not without a plan.

I need a plan.

All my winning, all my showboating, all my fame, and it just made me a target. Not just me, but Penelope, too.

Fuck them. Fuck them all.

I down a bottle of Gatorade, shake off the brain-freeze, and then start skipping again. I need to get my conditioning to peak level, and I’ve got less than a week to do so.

I’ve got to get Penny out of my mind… for now. Because if I don’t, I might just lose this fight.

Chapter Twenty Six

Tina Azume is beaming at me, and I feel the welcome flutter of pride in my chest and belly.

Before me, she holds up the imitation skin, a bespoke fabric designed to emulate real skin for tattoo artists to practice on.

Of course, nothing is the same as real skin. Nothing is the same as inking a living, breathing human who bleeds, whose temperature changes, who sweats, who feels pain.

But damn it if I haven’t done a good job. Tina had me draw that optical illusion where everybody is walking up and down steps, but there’s no way to tell which way is the right way up. It’s a visual trick; the lines are dishonest, but that we can’t make total sense of that reveals the brain’s willingness to try and interpret anything, and to mold information into something understandable.

Like with spelling errors, the brain can usually skip over them, automatically fill in the blanks. The same is true for perspective.

The point of the exercise was to evaluate my feel for perspective, to see if I easily confuse, or if I can orient myself quickly. The optical illusion is, of course, a cheat. But at first glance, it looks like a window into some weird dimension.

“It’s perfect,” Tina says, grinning. “Even on my first go I couldn’t emulate it right.”

“The needle sometimes stuck a little,” I tell her. “There was some, I don’t know, drag?”

“Well, if people clam up you’ll definitely experience some of that. Different people have different skin, too. You wouldn’t know it on the outside, but I’ve tattooed two people who looked basically the same in terms of their skin, but one was far more difficult than the other.”

Tina gestures for me to sit down, and she comes over to the small sofa we’ve got. When she sits next to me, she doesn’t fall into it like I do. Even the way she sits is precise, practiced, and, fittingly, severe. She crosses a leg, her back is straight as can be, and her shoulders are pulled back.

Tina looks like the kind of woman who never, ever is unprepared. She’s confident, not because she’s cocky, but because she understands… well, everything.

I want to be like that. I want to be in charge of my own domain, successful, judgers be damned. The tattoo industry, like most others, is still dominated by men. Women are only just finding their foothold, only just reclaiming back territory that should have been theirs for the taking.

Tina is the top female artist, and one of the top overall artists in the world, and she knows it. More than that, she has the respect of all the male artists. They fawn over her, defer to her. She’s a fucking superstar.

I want that. My ambition won’t let me settle for anything less.

“Look,” she says, showing me one of her tattoo books. It’s so clients can see tattoos she’s done on others, or otherwise reference designs. Tina flicks through to a girl with a shaved head. There’s a tattoo of a tribal-ish dragon on the back of her neck.

“For some reason, with Claire here—”

“You remembered her name? This photo is four years ago.” I point at the small date stamp.

“I expect you to remember all our clients’ names, too.”

“Right.”

“Anyway,” Tina explains. “The ink just wouldn’t take to the back of her neck. It was the skin type. It took me forever just to get the outline.”

“But she’s so pale,” I say. “And her skin looks really soft.”

“Exactly.” Tina quickly flips through the book. “Now this was another client I worked on. Her skin looks practically identical, right?”

I study the photo, and for all I know it might just be the same woman with hair. Her skin looks the same, her shoulder shape is the same.

“The ink took exceptionally well here. I scheduled myself twice as much time as I needed to do this piece.”

This time it’s a black eight-ball on the back of her neck. I’m fairly astonished, as that requires a lot of ink. To do it in half the expected time…

“I didn’t realize skin could vary so much.”

“It can, and certain inks do well on some skin types.”

“Has this been studied?”

Tina shakes her head. “Not exhaustively, no. Most tricks and tips you learn are anecdotal, from experience. There is no scientific journal measuring the differences between skin types, and how they pertain to ease of tattooing.”

“Why not?”

“Who would fund such a study? We’re already stigmatized as it is, though it is much better now than ten years ago.”

I nod, and hum. “The imitation skin took the ink well, but it felt sticky.”

“That’s because it’s not real skin. Tomorrow we’ll do another exercise, on imitation skin that doesn’t take ink well. It’s deliberately made more fragile, so you can see how you can damage the skin if you try too hard.”

“That happens to people?”

“Of course it does. If you damage the skin too much, your tattoo may not take at all, you may scar the client, and they’ll certainly feel it for a long time while it heals. Tattooing is not just about being a good artist, it’s about understanding the technique, and the technique is what I would call very technical. It will take a lot of training.”

“I’m ready to train, Tina. I’ll put in all the work I can.”

“Working hard is important, of course,” she says. “Having talent and innate understanding is vital, too. I think you’ve got it.”

I hold back a smile. “Thanks.”

“But we need to turn you into more of a people person.”

I grimace. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. Trust is very important. You are marking somebody for life, and tattoos often have immense sentimental value. How can you get people to trust you if you are not skilled at socializing?”

“I’m just not really a social person.”

“Think about all the women in history who were forced to socialize – likely against their will – hanging onto the arms of men. Are you going to sit here and tell me that being socialable is not a skill that can be honed, like drawing?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Tomorrow we have three clients booked for the afternoon. I want you to sit down with each of them and talk to them.”

“Really? Do I have to?”

“Yes. Talk, get to know them. Ask about their tattoos. Show interest. Don’t be awkward or combative. At least, try not to be. You’ll meet people from all walks of life. Different ages, races, classes, and religions. I hate to say it, but some of our clients are genuinely slow. Some are very smart, quick. Some are sensitive and take offense easily, others can take jokes all day long. It’s imperative you understand how to connect with them all. Especially if you want to run your own shop one day.”

I nod, but stay silent.

“Did you have many friends in school?”

“Not really,” I whisper. “I wasn’t one of the cool girls if that’s what you mean. People thought I was ‘punk’ or whatever because I painted my nails black and had tattoos and wore black t-shirts.”

“What about that tattoo artist you said you were friends with?”

“Well, she was more of an older-sister, I guess? We weren’t really, like, you know, real friends. I liked her because she could teach me.”

Tina smiles warmly. “Okay, well, listen, it may not come easily, but it’ll come with practice, like most things in life. Anyway, I wanted to ask you, how are you doing? Settling in fine?”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” I say. “Still not used to all the slang, and in America you’d never hear the c-word as much as you do here.” I give her a sheepish grin.

“And Pierce?”

I stiffen up. “What… what about him?”

“Is he bothering you still?”

“Not… exactly.”

“Be careful with him,” Tina warns me. “Do you understand?”

I furrow my brow, attempting to shrug it off. “Come on, Tina.”

“No, really Penelope. Be careful with him. He’s a heartbreaker.”

The words come out of my mouth in a whisper. “Right.”

“I assume you know what he does, right?”

“He’s a fighter… underground.”

“As in illegal.” Tina sees how uncomfortable I’m getting, and puts a hand on my knee. “I’m just looking out for you. If you ever need to talk, you can call me, okay?”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Now go on, get out of here. You want a lift home?”

“No, I’m going to walk.”

Tina’s voice grows stern. “Penelope.”

“Okay, I’ll take the tram.”

“Good enough. See you tomorrow.”

I smile, get up and leave the shop wondering at Tina’s slightly maternal behavior. As far as I know, she’s single, and if I had to guess I’d say she was in her late thirties. I’ve never seen her with a guy, and I’ve never failed to notice how she dotes on the children that clients sometimes bring in.

But then my mind moves to Pierce.

It’s like I can only get a few seconds of time to think about something else before my thoughts go back to him.

I wonder what he’s up to.

I’m… I hate to admit it, but I’m worried.