Chapter 36 Ryker
RYKER
I charged through the front doors, taking in the establishment. Crystal chandeliers cast amber light over leather booths and a mahogany bar. The air reeked of money and scotch. Staff in crisp white shirts and black vests moved between tables, but no one in a suit. No one who screamed management.
“Excuse me.” I interrupted a bartender filling the ice bin, her movements freezing mid-pour. “Is there a manager on duty?”
“Is there a problem, sir?” Her eyes widened, taking in what I’m sure was not my friendliest expression.
Bigger than you can imagine. I scanned the room again. “How many managers are on duty tonight?”
She shook the bucket until the last few ice cubes clattered into the bin, buying time. “Two scheduled, but one hasn’t shown up yet.”
“Where’s the one who’s here?”
“Brett’s in his office.” She set the bucket down slowly.
“Great. Thank you.”
“Wait, sir! You can’t go down that hallway. That’s for employees only!”
I was already moving.
The narrow hallway smelled like industrial cleaner. I checked each door. Janitor’s closet. Bathroom. Supply room. And then, at the end: OFFICE—brETT FONTAINE, MANAGER.
Jackpot.
I didn’t knock.
The door slammed against the wall hard enough to knock a frame off its hook. The man who I could only assume was Brett jolted up from his desk, his face going from annoyed to alarmed in record time.
“What the fuck? Who are you?”
“Are you Faith Morrison’s manager?”
His face went pale. No, not pale. Translucent. Like a ghost who’d seen a bigger, angrier ghost.
I’ll take that as a yes.
I slammed the door behind me with enough force to rattle the blinds. “We need to talk.”
“Get the fuck out of my office before I call the police.”
He grabbed for his phone. I was faster, yanking it from his soft fingers and slamming it onto the desk. Then I grabbed him by his five-hundred-dollar shirt collar and introduced his back to the wall. Hard.
“What the fuck!” he wheezed, hands clawing at my grip.
“You laid your hands on her.”
“Faith?” he spat, as if shocked any person would ever stick up for her. “She’s a psycho killer.”
Wrong answer. My grip tightened. “Her shirt was torn.” She didn’t even realize it, but it was torn. Three inches down from the collar.
His eyes darted toward the door. “I’m going to call the cops!”
“Please do.” I leaned in close enough to see the capillaries in his bloodshot eyes.
“Because my guess is, she’s not the first woman you’ve put your hands on.
And listen to me very carefully, you piece of shit.
I’m your worst nightmare. I’m a lawyer with virtually unlimited resources and absolutely nothing better to do than destroy you. ”
His Adam’s apple bobbed against my knuckles.
“I will spend every waking hour digging through your past. Every skeleton, every dirty secret, every woman you’ve ever wronged.
I’ll find them all, and I’ll bring them to court to point their fingers at you.
I’ll build a civil suit so comprehensive, so devastating, that they’ll be garnishing your wages until you’re ninety.
You’ll be living in a roach-infested studio apartment, crying into your dinner of expired ramen, wondering where it all went wrong. ”
I pressed my forearm against his throat, just enough to make breathing difficult. “And just when you think it can’t get any worse? Just when you’re about to break? I’ll find a new way to fuck with you. Because that’s who I am. I’m the guy who doesn’t give up. Ever.”
The mistake came next. Brett shoved me back and swung, his fist connecting with my jaw. Pain bloomed across my face, copper flooding my mouth.
I touched my lip, felt the blood, and smiled.
“Now, that wasn’t very smart.” I rolled my shoulders, something dark and satisfied unfurling in my chest. “Virtually everything I do now can be deemed self-defense.”
My first punch hit his eye socket. The second slammed into his jaw. He went down like a sack of worthless shit.
But I didn’t stop.
My foot connected with his ribs. Once. Twice.
His whimper was music.
The image of Faith’s torn shirt flashed through my mind. The tears on her face. This strong, fierce woman reduced to running away because of this piece of garbage.
I’ve hit him enough. Why aren’t I stopping?
I’d spent my entire career insisting I could never take a life, no matter the circumstances. But standing over Brett Fontaine’s bleeding form, watching him curl into himself like the coward he was, I understood something new about myself.
Maybe we’re all capable of shocking violence under the right circumstances.
I crouched down, grabbed his hair, and yanked his head back. Blood ran from his nose like a faucet. “If you ever look at Faith Morrison again, if you even think her name, what I just did to your face will feel like a kindness.”
I let his head drop, stood, and straightened my shirt. My knuckles throbbed. Possibly broken.
As I walked toward the door, I heard him wheeze, “You’re … you’re insane.”
I paused, hand on the doorknob. “No. I’m just tired of no one fighting for the people who need it most.”
The hallway was empty when I emerged. I made it halfway to the exit when that same bartender appeared, her face pale at the sight of my knuckles.
“Should I call an ambulance?” she whispered.
I knew in that moment that she wasn’t surprised someone had kicked her boss’s ass. She’d expected it would finally happen one day, and based on her body language, she didn’t hate it. That told me Brett was an even bigger douchebag than I’d realized.
I pulled out my wallet, handed her five one-hundred-dollar bills. “For your discretion. And, yes, call an ambulance.”
She nodded, tucking the money away with shaking hands.
I pushed through the front doors into the cool night air, flexing my damaged hand. The pain grounded me, pulled me back from that edge I’d almost crossed.
What did that mean? That I’d wanted to keep going?
I looked down at my knuckles, already swelling and split. Blood—his and mine—stained my shirt cuff.
For Faith, apparently, I was capable of more than I thought.
The realization sat heavy in my chest. Not just what I’d done to Brett, but how hard it had been to stop. How much I’d wanted to keep going.
Which made me wonder … whatever happened that night with Daniel Kearns—whatever Faith did to end up charged with murder—maybe it went down exactly like this. Maybe someone pushed her too far, hurt her too deep, and she simply … didn’t stop.
The parallel should have disturbed me. Should have made me question everything about taking her case, about getting involved with her.
Instead, all I felt was understanding.
Sliding into my car, I dialed the one person who would be just as pissed about what Brett did to her.