Chapter 35 Faith
FAITH
“Brett wants to see you in his office.” Chloe’s voice carried that particular note of dread reserved for root canals. “Now.” The sympathy in her eyes told me everything I needed to know. Another female bartender had been summoned to the lair.
Shit.
Or maybe Ryker was right; maybe people had seen the news story.
I could not lose this job. Not now. If Brett fired me, no other employer in the city would touch a murder suspect. Local Bartender Charged with Murder doesn’t exactly scream reliable employee.
I took a deep breath, the familiar scent of expensive whiskey and leather failing to calm my nerves.
Brett Fontaine—forty-two, divorced twice, and possessing all the charm of a backed-up sewer—had been promoted to head manager a year ago. When I first got hired, I’d convinced myself someone like him couldn’t last. Leadership would see through his bullshit eventually.
File that under Things I Couldn’t Have Been More Wrong About.
Instead, they’d given him more power. I could only assume he excelled at the parts of his job that didn’t involve actual humans. Because people skills? The man had the emotional intelligence of a brick wall. With mold.
The thing was, I needed this job. High-end clientele meant high-end tips. Flexible hours let me search for day work. Work I planned to use to supplement my income so I could open a second home for aged-out kids.
Or do more with the one I had …
If I even had a future outside a cell.
My stomach churned as I walked down the narrow hallway.
The old Faith would have already been crafting her mask, figuring out exactly what Brett wanted to see. Apologetic? Grateful? I’d spent thirty-three years shapeshifting into whatever kept me safe.
But maybe it was time to stop running from who I was.
I knocked on his door, the sound too loud in the quiet corridor.
“Faith.” Brett leaned back in his leather chair, slapping his Italian loafers onto the mahogany desk like he owned the world. “Take a seat. Shut the door behind you.”
The click of the latch felt final.
“I know I missed work,” I said, settling into the uncomfortable chair across from him. The old me would have groveled at a level one hundred. Would have made myself smaller, more palatable. But I was tired of shrinking. “I apologize. I did—”
“That’s not what this is about.”
I bit my lip, waiting. Brett loved his power plays, loved making people squirm.
The way he savored the silence, letting it stretch like taffy, reminded me of my third foster father.
The one who’d make us kids stand in the corner for hours, waiting to find out what we’d supposedly done wrong.
Power was a drug to men like them, and watching people cower was their favorite high.
“Do you know why I want to see you?” he questioned.
“I assumed it had to do with my absence.”
“Why else might I want to see you?”
My pulse kicked up. He knew. Of course he knew. Maybe my mug shot had made the rounds on every true crime blog in the state.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me.”
After a few theatrical swipes on his phone, he turned the screen and slid it across the desk. The headline hit me like ice-cold rain on a windy day.
MAN FOUND DEAD, SUSPECT NAMED: 33-YEAR-OLD FAITH MORRISON
“That’s you.”
My mouth went dry. “I can explain.”
“Can you?”
“However, unfortunately, I can’t discuss the details. My attorney insists—”
“I don’t give a fuck what your attorney insists.” He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell the heavy scent of scotch on his breath at four in the afternoon. “Do you know what this looks like for our clientele?”
“Like you employ someone who hasn’t been convicted of anything?” Apparently, facing murder charges had obliterated my filter.
His eyes narrowed. “Like we employ someone who brings scandal to our establishment.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could say more, but—”
“Why should I keep you on?”
I straightened my spine, channeling every ounce of professionalism I had left.
“I assure you, this won’t affect my work.
I’ve been here two years. Before this week, I never missed a single shift.
I stay late for cleanup, cover for sick coworkers, and our regulars specifically request me. In fact, many of them—”
“What reason would I have to keep you?” His voice dropped lower, and something shifted in his expression. Something that made my skin crawl.
I blinked. “Pardon?”
He stood, circling around the desk. “You know, Faith, you’re smart. Capable.” He stopped behind my chair, too close. “I want you to stay. I really do.”
His hand landed on my shoulder, thumb making strokes that made my skin crawl. “But you need to work with me here. Show me you’re … a team player.”
The blood roared in my ears. Many of my coworkers had vented about his inappropriate comments, his lingering stares, the way he’d “accidentally” brush against the female staff. None of us were brave enough to go to leadership. But this? This was next level.
And suddenly, I was fifteen again, trapped in the guidance counselor’s office while he explained how “special tutoring” could fix my grades.
I was twenty-two, cornered in a storage room by a manager who promised me better shifts if I was “nice.” I was every age I’d ever been, in every situation where a man with power tried to use my body as part of the negotiation.
Not. This. Time.
“I am a team player,” I said carefully, shifting my shoulder away from his touch.
“Are you though?” He stepped around and rested his hands on the back of my chair, caging me in.
“Because team players understand that sometimes … accommodations need to be made. Especially when they’re in delicate situations.
” He leaned down, his breath hot against my ear.
“I could make this whole mess disappear, Faith. Smooth things over with the owners. But I need to know you’re willing to be … grateful.”
“What exactly are you suggesting, Brett?”
“I’m not suggesting anything.” His gaze flicked to his zipper and back so quickly that I questioned if I’d even seen it right.
“I’m just saying that people who are nice to me tend to find I’m very nice back.
Very … generous with scheduling. With overlooking absences.
With keeping their jobs despite murder charges. ”
My stomach churned. “That sounds like quid pro quo sexual harassment.”
“Yeah?” He loomed over me. “What are you gonna do? Tell someone I propositioned you? Who do you think they’re gonna believe? The respected manager or the bartender accused of murder?”
There it was. The truth I’d learned in different foster homes, from different men who thought vulnerability meant availability. I swear, predators had a sixth sense for people whose credibility had been shredded by circumstance. People whose word meant nothing against theirs.
In foster care, it had been the group home director everyone called Uncle Jerry. Sweet as pie to the social workers, handsy as hell when they left. Nobody believed Melissa when she reported him. They just moved her to another home. A worse one.
Nobody ever believed girls like us.
But maybe that was the thing about being accused of murder. Once you’ve been painted as dangerous, you might as well use it.
His fingers suddenly twisted in the collar of my shirt, yanking me toward him, but I jerked back, shooting to my feet before his mouth could reach mine.
Red slammed through my vision. I imagined taking the crystal paperweight from his desk and introducing it to his skull. Repeatedly.
Instead, I got right in his face, close enough to see his pupils dilate with something between arousal and alarm.
“Careful.” I dropped my voice low, angry. “If even half of what they printed about me is true, a man like you would be well advised not to provoke a woman like me.”
Fear flashed across his face before he masked it with practiced arrogance. But I saw it. That beautiful moment of pure terror.
“Get the fuck out.” His face flushed purple. “You’re fired.”
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds of being a psychotic fucking bitch! Now get out!”
The lump in my throat grew three sizes. Maybe I should have cowered, played the scared little woman he wanted me to be. Maybe then I’d still have a paycheck.
“Fine. Fire the murder suspect—that’s the smart play, right?
” I rose my chin. “But here’s what you didn’t think through: I have nothing left.
No reputation to protect. No career to salvage.
So, I’ve got no reason not to tell the owners everything.
Every woman you’ve cornered. Every ‘accommodation’ you’ve demanded. They’re going to hear all of it.”
His face went slack, just for a second, before the bluster returned. But I’d seen it. I’d finally made him flinch.
I turned and walked out, shoulders back, spine straight, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me run.
I made it to the end of the hall before the tears came. Sobs tore through me in ugly, gasping waves. Two years. Two years of smiling through his comments, pretending I didn’t notice his eyes on my ass, telling myself it could be worse.
And now I had nothing. No job. No income. A murder charge hanging over my head and a future that looked like a black hole.
But at least I hadn’t let him see me break. My whole life, I’d perfected the art of never letting them see me cry. Never giving the Uncle Jerrys and Brett Fontaines the satisfaction of my tears. It was armor, the only kind I’d ever had.
I burst through the front doors into the afternoon sun, moving so fast that I slammed straight into what felt like a wall.
Not a wall. A chest.
Two hands caught my elbows.
“Faith?” Ryker’s voice wrapped around me like armor. “Hey.” He tilted my chin up with one finger, forcing me to meet his eyes.
One look at my face, and his expression rearranged into something lethal.
“What the fuck happened?”
“I …” I pulled back, swiping at the tears betraying me. “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are. Tell me what happened.”
“I’d rather not.”
He tilted my chin up again, his blue eyes going dark cobalt, boring into mine with an intensity that should have scared me, but didn’t.
“You tell me what happened, or I go in there and slam every person in that place against a wall until I find out the hard way.”
I shouldn’t have let those words penetrate my defenses. Shouldn’t have let them make me feel protected. Safe. It was dangerous, whatever Ryker made me feel in this moment.
But that was the thing about Ryker. He didn’t see me as prey. Didn’t look at me like damaged goods or an easy target. He looked at me like I was worth going to war for.
Nobody had ever looked at me like that.
I cleared my throat, squared my shoulders, tried to look unaffected. Failed spectacularly.
“I lost my job.”
But Ryker knew me too well to think that was the whole story. His thumb brushed away a tear I’d missed. “You’re a warrior, Faith. If you lost your job, you’d be pissed, sure. But you wouldn’t be running out of here in tears unless someone fucked with you. So, try again.”
His hand cupped my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with a gentleness that undid me more than Brett’s aggression ever could. Ryker made me feel like I could stop fighting for just one second. Like maybe, just maybe, someone else would hold the line while I caught my breath.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“Was it a coworker?”
“No.”
“A customer?”
“No.”
“So, it was a superior then. The bastard that fired you?” A muscle ticced beneath his cheek.
“Just let it go, Ryker.”
“Did he say something to you?” His eyes searched mine, reading the story I wouldn’t tell.
“Nothing worth repeating.”
His gaze dropped to my collar, and I watched his expression change. His whole body went still. That particular kind of stillness that preceded violence.
“Did he touch you?”
The question was quiet. Controlled. The kind of calm that came before devastating violence.
“I handled it.”
“That’s not what I asked.” His fingers ghosted near my collar. “Faith, did he put his hands on you?”
I looked away. “Can we not do this here? Please?”
“Did. He. Touch. You?”
“I said I handled it.”
“You’re shaking.” His voice had gone deadly soft. “And you’re standing here, trying to convince me you’re fine when we both know you’re not.” He stopped, visibly struggling for control. “Faith, if he hurt you—”
“He fired me. That’s all that matters.”
“That’s not all that—” He cut himself off, took a breath.
“I just want to go home.” My voice came out exhausted.
He paused for a minute. Looked behind me, toward the front door, then back at my face. I watched him physically wrestle his rage into submission, choosing what I needed over what he wanted. “Okay.”
“Okay?” The sudden shift from volcanic rage to reasonable threw me. “That’s … easy.”
He wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “This conversation isn’t over.”
I knew it wasn’t. Knew Ryker well enough to understand he was filing every detail away, building a case in his mind. Brett Fontaine had no idea what kind of enemy he’d just made.
And despite everything, that thought warmed me more than it should have.
“Come on.” He walked me to his car like a bodyguard.
“What are you even doing here?” I asked, grateful for the subject change.
“I drove you, remember?”
“Right, but … I thought you’d leave as soon as I went inside.”
“Was taking a call,” he claimed. But I wondered if he’d stayed here longer than necessary to check on me.
“I have to get to a meeting,” he said.
I don’t know why I was disappointed about that. Maybe it was just that I was too tired to sit through a meeting, and we only had the one car.
“Tell you what.” He pulled out his phone and tapped an app. “I’ll head to my meeting and come to your place as quickly as I can. You take a rideshare home. Okay?”
When I nodded, Ryker pulled me to his chest. Wrapped his arms around me and just held me. Like he knew this was exactly what I needed. I couldn’t pull away. Wouldn’t. Not until the crunch of fresh tires pulled up with my ride.
“Lock your door when you get home, okay?” He pulled back and opened the rideshare’s back door for me, watching as I climbed inside.
Truth be told, I was already feeling a little better. Mostly because Ryker would come over soon, and while I waited for him, I would search online for possible ways to earn money. Maybe some place would still hire me.
As my vehicle drove away, I glanced through the rear windshield. Ryker stood exactly where I’d left him, still watching my car, making sure I got safely onto the street.