Page 52 of Velvet Betrayal
I found her at the parking garage, in the shadow of her SUV, clutching a pharmacy bag and digging for her keys.
She saw me, then saw me again—took in the torn shirt, the blood painting my temple, the way I held my face like I was trying to keep my head from falling off. She didn’t scream, didn’teven flinch. She just straightened, jaw set, and waited for me to close the distance.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” she said.
“Just a scratch. Are you okay?”
She looked me up and down, and I saw it—the flicker of her lawyer brain, cataloging every fresh wound, every inch of damage, then shelving it because there was nothing to do but keep moving. “Get in,” she said. No questions. Just action.
We dropped the act once we were on the Pike. The air in the car was metallic, hot, and under the cheap car-freshener was the smell of copper—raw and close. She didn’t say a word for a few exits. I fished a napkin from the glovebox, held it to my ear, and let my head swim.
At the Brighton off-ramp she finally exhaled. “Tell me.”
So I did: the muscle, the Crew, the job, the app, the gig economy of violence. She listened, hands white-knuckled on the wheel, never missing a beat even as I walked her through the fight, every ugly detail. When I finished, she let out a long, controlled breath.
“So,” she said, staring at the streaked, sodium-lit rush of cars along the Charles. “You’re telling me that someone is crowdsourcing my death on the internet.”
“And mine,” I said. “But you knew that, right?”
She barked a laugh, then pulled the SUV onto Memorial Drive and switched off the radio. “Is it wrong that I’m comforted by that?”
I grinned, fractured lip stinging. “Not wrong. Just pragmatic.”
She said something else. I didn’t catch it. I was staring at the blur of tail lights ahead of us, the sway of headlights on the river. My vision kept narrowing, like a camera lens winding down. Every bump in the road rattled through my ribs. I pressed the napkin harder to my face and watched it turn the color of rust.
“Hey,” she snapped. “Stay with me.”
I blinked hard. Managed a nod.
“Just tired,” I said, voice low and slurred. “Couple aspirins. Nap in your driveway. Good as new.”
She didn’t answer. Her foot pressed harder on the gas.
And I let my head fall back, staring at the ceiling like maybe it had answers.
Ruby
Kieran was bleeding all over my passenger seat, but I’d seen him worse. Once, a lifetime ago, he’d shown up for a hookup with a knife wound in his shoulder, and I’d patched him up with Walgreens gauze and half a bottle of whiskey before he fucked me until I couldn’t see straight.
This was different.
He wasn’t talking, wasn’t filling the space with that smart-ass bravado he used to keep the world at arm’s length. He just stared out the window, eyes glassy and unfocused, like he was watching the city from underwater.
The napkin he’d been using was soaked through, rusty and limp in his hand. Every time we hit a pothole, his whole body jerked, like his brain was running a system check and coming up short.
“Don’t you dare pass out,” I said, white-knuckling the wheel. “If you bleed out in my car, I’m sending your family the dry cleaning bill.”
He tried for a smirk, but it was more of a grimace. “I’m fine. Just need a nap.”
“You’ve lost enough blood to stock a Red Cross drive. That’s not tired, that’s trauma.”
He pawed at the window switch, missed, then just let his hand flop onto the dash, fingers splayed like he was bracing for impact.
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” I said. “Or at least a minute clinic. Or, hell, a mob doctor.”
He made a sound that was half laugh, half cough. “Don’t need stitches. I’ve had worse from my niece. She’s a maniac with silverware.”
“Kieran, this isn’t a joke.”
