Page 6 of Isaac

All the fucking blood.

On my hands.

It's never going to wash away.

"Fucking fuck," I hiss under my breath, clenching the black counter. My knuckles turn white with the force of my grip, but the pain is a welcome distraction. I actually welcome pain now. It means there are still moments I can feel. It's better than being constantly numb.

The cold marble of the sink bites into my palms as I lean against it, struggling to regain my composure. My reflection in the mirror is a stranger–dark circles under haunted eyes and sweat beading on my furrowed brow. The carefully styled hair and the strategically unbuttoned shirt underneath my leather jacket don't really hide all the ugly inside.

"Focus," I command myself through gritted teeth, gripping the edges of the sink tighter. "Remember who you are. You're fucking Blade."

But my thoughts are no longer my own, dragged away by the relentless tide of memories that threaten to swallow me completely. Fragmented flashes of darkness, pain, and fear claw their way to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged.

The bile rises in my throat as my stomach twists violently, and I stumble toward the stall furthest from the restroom entrance. Flinging the door open, I barely have time to drop to my knees before my stomach convulses, discharging its contents with ruthless efficiency. The acrid stench of vomit fills the air, but I can't tear myself away from the filth. I'm filth. My body is wracked with spasms long after there's nothing left to give.

I don't know how much time passes before I'm my own man again and before I realize I'm still in the stall.

I push off the floor and lean back against the stall wall, my skin slick with cold sweat and I'm in desperate need of a shower. In prison, those were a fucking luxury and the first couple of years they were a nightmare too.

I'm gasping for air, trying to find my cool when I hear the door to the bathroom swoosh open, shattering the fragile sanctuary I'd sought.

Irritation surges through me.

I pride myself on my ability to keep my temper in check.

But today isn't a good day and this piece of shit—whoever he is—is bothering me.

Fumbling for the gun hidden under my jacket, I peek out from the stall and see some fool. Immediately, I assess him. Or at least what I see from my spot. Late twenties. Maybe early thirties. Lean. Fit. Decent suit. No wrinkles. Black hair just past his shoulders tied at the nape of his neck.

I don't know him.

And he seems to be fascinated with the tile because he is taking fucking forever before he finally opens the faucet and slips his hands under the stream of water.

CHAPTER 3

DALLAS

My shoes thud against the polished floors as I step into the main room of Purgatory.

Attired in a suit and dress shirt–borrowed fashion cues from Cody Smith's playbook for job interviews—I try to keep it cool. But it's hard when every pore on your body is working overtime fighting against Vegas' suffocating hundred-and-nine-degree heat.

You can take a guy out of normalcy, but you can't make him love Sin City's weather if he’s not from around here.

It's early afternoon and the place is almost empty except for a few workers and a bartender—a tall, muscular man with tattoos covering his arms. He wipes down the counter as he preps for the night ahead. His movements are deliberate, almost hypnotic, like a snake coiling around its prey.

I single out his name from the list of names I'm keeping in my mind.

Caleb Wesley.

He is an ex-military too. He doesn't partake in any criminal activities.

At least from what we know.

And it's my job to find out.

"Mr. Smith," a deep voice beckons from behind me while I stare up at the second floor. I turn to see a heavyset security guard in black pants and a matching T-shirt with a small bright-red Purgatory logo. His face is carved from stone, eyes dark and unreadable. "Manager is waiting for you in the back office," he says.

"Lead the way," I reply, my voice low and gravelly, the personification of Cody "Hawk" Smith taking hold of me.

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