then she slowly reveals herself to me, her hands on my shirt where her fingers twiddle. “I tried to leave.” Her voice is rough and croaky. How long has she been locked in the bathroom? And why?
“And you didn’t.” Everything inside of me wants to believe she’s still here because she wants to be, but there’s something more, and it’s making me feel uneasy. Her eyes drop, but a quick hold of her chin soon brings them back to mine. “What’s going on?”
“I tried.” She homes in on my scar, taking a finger and tracing the full length of it, from my eye to my lip. “I didn’t want to go, but I tried.”
She didn’t want to, but she tried. “So why are you still here?”
She shakes her head and swallows, looking away, and I feel my patience start to fray. I take her chin, my hold harsh, and bring her face close to mine. “Tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“One of your men . . .” She fades off, and I recoil.
What. The. Fuck?
My bloodstream is already on its way to boiling, and I haven’t heard much yet. “One of my men what?”
Her bottom lip wobbles. “I know I’m a whore. I know what I am and what I’m good for.”
I’m starting to heave, her body moving up and down on my thighs. “Shut up, Rose,” I spit. “One of my men, what?”
“He wouldn’t let me leave before—”
“Did he touch you?” I breathe in slowly, dizziness distorting my vision.
Rose looks away. It’s all I need.
Holy fucking shit, I’m burning. I try to swallow, to breathe, to talk myself down. Fail. I get up and set her on her feet. “Who?” I demand, bending and getting up in her face. “Tell me who the fuck touched you?” She flinches when I grab her jaw, threatening and desperate.
“Watson,” she whispers, reaching up and taking my clawed fingers from her face.
I straighten, searching for some calm and reason in my chaotic head. No calm. No reason. I grab Rose’s hand and pull her out of her room.
“What are you doing, Danny?” she asks, jogging to keep up with my long strides. I can’t talk. Can’t focus on anything other than making my feet move. “Danny!”
We reach the stairs and Brad looks up to us as I pull Rose down them, halting his conversation with Ringo. His eyes jump from me to Rose, his forehead heavy. “Everything okay?” he asks, following our path as we round the bottom.
“Where are the men?”
“Playing cards in the dining room,” Brad answers, coming after us as I stalk off, sweating pure rage. “Danny, what the fuck?”
I shove the double doors open and find five of my men sitting around the table, each with playing cards fanned in their grasps. My eyes zero in on Watson. “Stand up,” I order, aware of the confused looks being tossed around by everyone here. Everyone except Watson. He knows.
Slowly, he rises to his feet, tossing his cards on the table. “She was asking for it.” He throws Rose a curled lip, and my anger ramps up, feeling Rose moving behind me, like she can hide.
“Did she actually ask for it?” The other men sit back on their chairs, moving as far away as possible without fleeing the room, and Brad curses under his breath from behind me.
“She didn’t need to.” Watson’s initial hard front is denting. He must be able to see my unbridled rage.
“Did she say no?” I drop Rose’s hand and approach Brad, reaching past his suit jacket and pulling his Glock free. He doesn’t stop me, but his eyes ask me if I know what I’m doing. I know exactly what I’m doing. I turn, and Watson starts backing up the second he sees what’s in my hand. “Whoa, Danny.” He laughs shakily, nervous as shit.
“Did she say no?” I repeat, releasing the safety.
His hands come up in surrender. “I don’t remember.”
I look at Rose. She’s staring blankly at me, her eyes empty. “Did you say no?” I ask her.
She nods.
Watson curses loudly. “You’re gonna believe a whore over a man who’s worked for you for ten years?”
I lift the gun, aim at his leg, and fire. Watson squeals and drops to his arse, clenching at his splattered kneecap. “Call her a whore again,” I demand. “Go on. Call her a fucking whore again.” He starts dribbling with the effort it’s taking him to keep his painful cries back. I put my hand out to Rose