Page 97 of Her Ruin

I opened the cupboard and pulled out the first aid kit. “Stop whining.” In five minutes, I had him cleaned up and patched up.

“Crazy night,” he murmured as he watched the monitors, pouring us both a Scotch.

“Why tonight?” I asked him softly.

“In my defense, I didn’t know Angelo was going to goReservoir Dogson Mercutio in the back room.” He heard my grunt and carried on. “I saw her come in, all fuckingwholesomeand righteous, and man…she just doesn’tfithere.”

I hated that he was right. I hated that I wished he wasn’t.

“Not your call,” I reminded him, still not looking at him.

“Was my call,” he said gruffly. “You sure as hell weren’t going to do it.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes until he tossed the forgotten ice pack at me. “For your knuckles.”

I beat his ass. I had to stitch him up. He still brought me an ice pack. I fought the smile. “You’re still a dick.”

“I know.”

We watched the lower monitors. The club was half full; the screams of a dying man were more than people wanted with their whiskey. Angelo had finished with Mercutio about an hour ago, but the cleanup was still happening.

“We should have cleared them out.” I downed my Scotch. “Why was Julian here?”

Rye turned to look at me. “Never saw him.”

I chewed the inside of my cheek. “Rewind the film from tonight. I want to see what he’s doing.”

“You think he’s suspect?” Rye asked me with surprise. This had been his argument ever since he met Julian.

“I think he’s caught up in something that he’s going to need me to bail him out of, and the way he spoke to Isla this evening about me”—I huffed quietly—“I may not be inclined to help him.”

Rye stood to get the laptop that controlled the surveillance, and I pretended not to hear him mutterfinally.

Soon, we watched as Julian had a short conversation with one of our irregular guests. The town official who, thankfully, had left before Angelo had gone allMr. Blondon Mercutio.

“Why does Turner look like Zeper just pissed on his parade?” Rye asked, leaning forward.

“Use the facial recognition. Let’s see who else has been ruining his evenings.”

Rye found three more encounters in which Julian left looking frustrated, each time looking wilder and wilder around the eyes.

“He using?” Rye asked dubiously, looking between me and the still shot on the monitor of Julian looking panicked.

“No.” I stood. “Worse.” I headed to the door. “He’s gambling.”

Rye hurried after me. “I thought you said he was a shit poker player.”

“He is.”

Few people in the lower club looked up from their conversations. I looked to Jayden, who nodded slightly. That was good. Everyone was behaving. Hearing someone be tortured to death would make the loudest patron humble this evening.

One of my regular servers, Hayley, was behind the bar. She was easy on the eyes, took no shit from anyone, and was tighter lipped than a nun’s cunt. I beckoned her over with one finger, and she sauntered over to me, the sway on her hips exaggerated and for show for the benefit of the customers who watched her.

“What’s up?”

“Julian Turner. What’s he been speaking about to my customers?”

Because people were stupid, a good bartender watched the bar for any sign of pouring their next drink. They were discreet, didn’t interrupt the flow of conversation, and heard more than they should.

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