Page 77 of Power
His quiet calm is freaking me out so badly as he kills a person right in front of me, and I’m just standing here letting him do it.
Move, Bailey. Make him stop.
I stumble forward, forcing myself into action, but then I stop. Why should I make him stop? So she can continue to come after me with hurtful words, knives, and who knows what else next time.
“Everything okay in here?” Archer asks, pushing the door open and striding in with Owen close behind.
They evaluate the situation as quickly as Finn did, and then he pierces my eyes with a gaze that I cannot avoid even if I wanted to.
“Bailey? Everything okay in here?”
I gulp and take the responsibility of my next words onto my darkening soul as my breathing steadies and my brain quiets down.
“Yes, Archer. Everything is fine.”
ChapterForty-Three
Archer
Her steady gazemeets mine and doesn’t waver. Not even for a second.
“You sure?” I ask to be certain.
“Absolutely,” she says, and without looking at Finn again, she turns to pick up her bag, with everything stuffed inside haphazardly, and brushes past me, exiting the bathroom without a look back.
Finn turns his head and watches her go, removing his hand from Trish’s face, which means she’s dead.
“Go,” I say, turning to Owen as I pull my phone out. “Clear the club and make sure she doesn’t go into a meltdown.”
“On it.”
He follows Bailey out of the ladies’ room as Finn stands up.
I hit speed dial, and when it connects, I mutter, “Clean up at Rabbit Hole,” and then hang up.
“We’ll wait here; make sure no one comes in,” I say to Finn, who is peering at me with that quiet calm that unnerves most people.
He moves in next to me, leaning against the wall near the door.
Facing him, I grip the back of his neck and press my forehead to his. “How did that make you feel?”
“I don’t feel anything.”
“Not Trish. What you did with Bailey.”
I pull back to stare into his eyes. He returns it, confusion clouding the hazel depths that hold so much darkness.
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s put it this way. Did it make you want to embrace it or run from it?”
It takes him a few seconds. He lowers his gaze, but it’s not in submission. It’s avoidance that tells me everything. “Run.”
“You have to turn back around and face it.” I bring my hand up to cup his face, unable to resist running my thumb over his lips.
He doesn’t flinch; he doesn’t even blink.
“Are you scared?”
