Chapter 8
Adam
“Y ou live in a Laundromat?”
“I live above a Laundromat,” she replies as she unlocks the front door and ushers me in. This would be the strangest part of my day if not for that moment back there when my father had someone hold me down while he broke my nose.
I can only assume it’s broken by the way it keeps bleeding and has gone completely numb.
In the truck, Sage tore off her shirt and handed it to me to stop the bleeding.
Now she’s prancing around in a bra, and I’m doing my very best to keep my eyes off of the tattoos scattered around her torso and chest.
My eye being swollen shut helps.
I don’t object as she pulls me through the dark and empty Laundromat. There’s a door in the back that she opens and pushes me through. Then we’re walking up some cement stairs when my ears are assaulted by a sound that feels like nails being driven into my already pounding head.
“Roscoe, hush!” she whisper-yells as she unlocks the door of her apartment.
As we enter, she scoops up the small dog, but he doesn’t stop his incessant yipping. When I try to pet the tiny demon, he snaps at my hand.
“Jesus,” I say with a wince.
“That’s not a good sign,” she says with a judgmental glare, carrying him away from me. As if dogs can sense evil, and I’ve just failed the test.
“In my defense, I’m bleeding profusely and I smell like a dirty sex club.”
She mumbles something as she walks away, and I realize I should probably feel bad for insulting her club, but I’m too irritated to care at the moment.
The pleasantries and chemistry from that morning we met are long gone, and at this point, I’ve lost the energy to care.
If I wasn’t covered in blood, I’d turn around and order a ride home.
“Come in here,” she barks out the command, and I follow her to the kitchen. If you could call it that.
The apartment is a studio, long and narrow. A large velvet green couch covered with pillows and blankets faces a wall full of old windows overlooking the city. Not a bad view, actually.
To my left is a kitchen space with one small counter, a mini-fridge, and a sink. No oven. No range. She has a tiny microwave next to the coffeepot, leaving her about ten inches of usable counter space.
I find myself staring before she snaps at me, and I direct my attention to her. She has some mismatched chairs around a table that looks like it came out of an old diner. She points to one of the chairs, and I meander my way over, wincing at the stabbing pain in my rib cage.
“Sit.”
Bossy .
As I sit down, the chair squeaks, and Sage positions herself between my legs, tilting my head back and taking a look at my nose. When she makes a pained expression, I know the diagnosis.
“I have good news and I have bad news,” she mumbles quietly.
“Let me guess. It’s broken.”
“Afraid so.” When she pinches the bridge, it hurts so bad I flinch, yanking my head out of her grasp.
“So, what’s the good news?” I ask. My eyes are tearing up from the pain in my nose.
“I’ve done this before.”
“Done what?” I barely get the words out before her fingers are back on my face, and she’s popping the cartilage back in place. She might as well have torn my nose straight off my face for how bad it hurts.
“Fuck!” I shout as I grab my face.
Sage steps away from where I’m sitting, and by the time I blink the moisture out of my eyes, she’s roughly tilting my head back again and wiping it clean with a warm, wet washcloth.
I stare up at her, feeling a good deal more sober than I was at the club.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
“Mm-hmm,” she replies with a flat expression.
“I was an asshole at the club,” I confess.
“You’re all assholes.”
At that, I nod. She’s right. We are all assholes.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” I ask as she presses on the cut on my cheek, which stings as she does it.
She responds with a shrug. “My stepdad taught me when I was a kid because he had a habit of running his mouth and getting punched for it.”
Well, that’s depressing.
“Where was your mother?”
“Half the time, she was the one who did it,” she replies with a snicker.
Thinking about her mother instantly makes me think of mine. She would never lay a hand on my father. And yet, with what I know now…she should.
Nausea builds in my stomach, and pity for my mother makes me want to throw up. Does she know what he’s up to every night?
Definitely not.
Sage’s hands drift away from my face, and she pulls up a chair to face me.
And as my gaze trails to her face, not bothering to hide the melancholia I’m feeling inside, she doesn’t say a thing.
Instead of a snarky, sarcastic comment, she just shows me a sympathetic expression and rests her hand on my knee.
It’s so strange how comforting and unexpected that is. Not a single word. Not a lecture or a line of questions. No lies or words of wisdom. Just empathy and her presence.
“I have a butterfly bandage for your cheek. Stay here.”
When she stands up and disappears into the bathroom on the other side of the apartment, my eyes follow her. I try to find the warmth toward her I felt the last time I saw her, but it’s gone. In its place is only bitterness and resentment, and it goes both ways.
If I had it in me to apologize for being such an ignorant brute, perhaps I could fix it. But I don’t, and not because she doesn’t deserve it. But because she does—and I’m just a prideful dick.
Instead, I point out the obvious when she returns from the bathroom.
“Your boyfriend didn’t tell you he sold the club.”
She glances up at me, a glimpse of confusion on her face before understanding. “Technically, he used it as collateral. For a loan from your dad.”
“He’s not my dad,” I reply, my tone dripping with resentment. “Not anymore.”
Sage takes a deep breath, looking sympathetic. “Well, it would seem Brett got a loan from Truett,” she says, correcting herself.
I laugh. “Your boyfriend isn’t getting that title back. When my father has the upper hand, he keeps it.”
She lets out a sad-sounding chuckle before shrugging her shoulders. “Oh well. Not my business anymore.”
“Did you just find out tonight?” I ask.
“Shortly before you came in. Yes. He said he was using the money to hire some sex club consultant. Which is ironic because he’s never listened to me, so I don’t know why he would listen to her.”
I stare at her with scrutiny while I silently wonder what the fuck that Brett guy had that was worth so much heartache and pain.
“It seems we were both betrayed tonight.” She says it very casually, but I can see the hurt in her eyes. Just two weeks ago, I saw the pride on her face when she gave me the card to the club. Now, it’s all been ripped away from her, and I’m curious if that hurts worse than the lost relationship.
“He’s so busy taking care of your dad that he hasn’t even texted me to see if I’m okay.”
I want to tell her I’m sorry, but I don’t.
She opens the bandage and stretches it over my skin. I wince from the sting, but after it’s in place, I feel like a new man. No more aching nose or dripping blood.
But with my focus no longer stolen by the pain, I’m left to picture the whole scenario again. My father grotesquely tongue fucking some random woman right there in the open at the club.
“It doesn’t make any fucking sense,” I say, and Sage stares at me in confusion.
“What?”
“How he can go there and do that where anyone can see. After he’s been so vocal about closing them down. Why hasn’t anyone outed him for that?”
She laughs. “Oh, you mean the VIPs? That good-ole-boys’ club? Your father isn’t even the most prodigious man in that group of snakes.”
“You’re joking,” I reply, stunned.
“I wish. Your dad feels comfortable in there because as long as he holds everyone else’s secrets, his are safe.”
“And Brett wouldn’t ever use that against him?” I ask, trying to piece it all together.
“Not now that Truett Goode holds the deed.”
“Brett is an idiot,” I reply before I can stop myself. “Sorry.”
“No, you’re right. But to all of them, it’s a game of power over each other. They probably get off on that more than the sex, to be honest. They think they have each other by the balls, but what they really have is a roomful of powerful men just holding balls.”
I let out a laugh.
Once the tiny apartment grows quiet, I look up at where she’s sitting across from me. “I should go. I can catch an Uber.”
“It’s late,” she replies softly. “You can take the couch. It’s really comfortable. I sleep on it almost every night.”
There’s something in her expression that has me thinking she wants me to stay. It’s the only reason I give her a nod and a tight smile. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“Of course,” she replies, jumping up from the chair. She scrambles around the apartment, putting a new pillow and fresh blankets out for me.
As I stand up to move toward the couch, my ribs scream in pain again. She notices and rushes toward me.
“Let me look at that.”
With her fingers on the hem of my shirt, she waits for me to give her a nod of consent before she pulls it up and inspects the ribs on my left.
I wince as she presses on them. Then her fingers slowly cascade down the length of the bottom rib and my skin erupts in goose bumps. I force myself to swallow as I stare at her.
Maybe I’m still a little drunk, after all, but suddenly I feel like the girl I just met and I have bonded more than I’ve connected with anyone in my life. We were both betrayed, blindsided, and hurt by those we should trust more than anything.
“I think it’s just bruised, but even if it’s broken, there’s not much they can do. Just have to wait for it to heal and hope you don’t have to cough or sneeze for the next six weeks.”
“Lovely.” I groan. As she pulls my shirt down, our eyes meet in a heated and intimate gaze.
She’s standing so close I feel the heat from her skin. As she stares up at me, the intensity between us burns, but not in the way it did before. Not in a good way.