he’s unaware that no one is able to change Justine’s mind once it’s decided,” Florence said.
Mamie’s voice softened. “You love him, don’t you?”
Justine couldn’t answer past the lump in her throat. She concentrated on breathing and the tiny spider crawling on her ceiling. How appropriate.
“Oh, Tina.” Florence hugged Justine’s arm even tighter. “This is exactly what I was afraid of.”
“You did the right thing,” Mamie said on her other side. “Though I realize it’s little consolation at the moment.”
“Eventually you’ll move on from this,” Florence said. “You shall meet someone else and Mulligan will be a distant memory.”
The problem was Justine didn’t want anyone else. How could any man ever compare? Furthermore, why would she ever risk her heart again? This was unbearable. “I never really understood when you two were going through your man troubles. I thought you were exaggerating. I was so cavalier with my advice when I had absolutely no idea what you felt like.”
“One doesn’t need to experience tragedy to offer help or sympathy. And you were never cavalier,” Mamie said.
“Agreed.” Florence rolled off the mattress and came to her feet. “And I think we should stop talking and start wallowing in our misery as men do.”
“By doing what?” Justine asked.
“By getting drunk.”
Jack thrust both arms in the air as sweat ran in rivers down his body. His opponent lay at his feet. “There’s another one down. Who else thinks they are able to best me?”
The men in the room exchanged wary glances. Over the last two days, sixteen men had climbed into the ring with Jack. None had emerged victorious. Onlookers from the neighborhood had gathered outside the club’s windows, watching as Jack pummeled opponent after opponent.
It had started as a way to burn off his rage, exhaust himself into a dreamless sleep each night. A bonus was that it likely would draw out the man who’d shot at Jack. O’Shaughnessy could not let the failure stand. Sooner or later, Jack would come looking for answers . . . and he wouldn’t come alone. The only play was to make another attempt on Jack’s life—a successful one this time.
So Jack made himself as visible as possible. He let Cooper and Rye worry about scouting the crowds and watching for pistols. Part of him hoped the assassin prevailed. At least then Jack would cease to pine for a woman who thought of him as poison.
This is not my world—it’s yours. And I do not like who I am becoming by remaining in it.
“Come on, fellows,” he shouted. “Won’t one of you cowards crawl in here to fight me?”
A throat cleared to his right. Rye, and he wanted Jack’s attention. Jack went over and collected the towel he’d hung on the ropes and began wiping down his face and neck. “What is it?”
“The boys ain’t too keen on fighting you in your current mood. How about you climb out of there and we’ll—”
“One more, Rye. Just one more match.”
“No, not today. You’re near exhausted as it is, not to mention that fresh scar still healing on your side. And when was the last time you tended to the books?”
Five days. He hadn’t stepped foot in his office since she left, the sight of the room like a swift kick in the stones. Returning to Bond Street was also out of the question. Probably time to find a real estate agent and sell it because he’d never sleep there again.
“Don’t worry about the books,” he said. “And I can’t stop. We haven’t seen the shooter yet.”
“It won’t matter when you drop dead here on the floor.”
“That’s ridiculous. I am in excellent health.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you could see yourself.”
“Stop nagging me. If I’d wanted a wife, I would have married a long time ago.”
“No, you wouldn’t have because nobody’d put up with you—nobody except her. And you’ve kicked her out.”
I didn’t kick her out. She left me.
“Mind your own goddamn business and find me another fighter.”
“I’m busy watching for O’Shaughnessy. If you’re so eager to kill yourself then you’ll have to do it without my help.”
Rye walked away, leaving Jack alone in the ring with his thoughts. That didn’t improve his mood. Quite the opposite, actually. He’d rather face down ten O’Shaughnessys than ruminate on her. There was no changing the past.
Qui n’avance pas, recule. He would advance or die trying.
Spinning toward the crowd in the main room, he yelled, “One hundred dollars to whoever gets in the ring with me!”