Page 25 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
Beck watches me a beat longer, and something about the way he’s studying me makes me feel…exposed. Not undressed. Not sexual. Just kind of seen. The sensation is weird and damn, emotional. Or something.
“Go home, Jules,” he says finally, voice quieter now. “It’s late.” He turns to face the expanse of the city below him and I move for the door, not rushing, but not lingering either. Myheels are loud on the hardwood. Just before I reach the exit, I pause, not sure why really, but maybe hoping he’ll speak again.
So why am I surprised when he does?
“Why doesn’t Bob pick you up when it’s this late?”
Confused, I frown and glance over my shoulder. His eyes are on me. I can’t see them, but I sure as hell feel them.
“Bob?”
“Your boyfriend.”
My mouth is dry, my legs like noodles, and I force myself to speak. “Bob is, um, my cat.”
He stares at me but says nothing more. After a few moments I head downstairs, then out into the night. It’s nearly two a.m. and I’ve called an uber because I don’t want to walk home alone. The city feels dangerous tonight, or maybe it’s just the cause and effect of working around a bunch of men with enough testosterone among them to make any girl feel off balance.
The moment my apartment door clicks shut behind me, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for hours.
The silence hits hard. Familiar, comforting. No low jazz humming from the speakers, no drunken laughter or clink of poker chips. Just the old radiator hissing in the corner and the dull thump of Bob leaping off the window ledge to greet me.
He trots over with his usual saunter—three legs moving smooth as silk and that ridiculous half tail twitching in indignation. He meows once, like I’ve kept him waiting too long for dinner.
“Hey, trouble,” I murmur, crouching to scratch his scruffy chin. “You wouldn’t believe the night I had.”
Bob purrs like he’s been here all along, waiting to make things make sense again.
I kick off my shoes, shimmy out of the blouse that still smells like smoke and anxiety, and swap it for an oversized hoodie.My sweatpants are too worn and too soft, but that’s what makes them perfect.
While Bob winds himself around my ankles like a question mark, I open a can of food and dump it into his bowl. He eats like a king, loud and unapologetic.
The place is small, but it’s mine. All of it. Creaky floors and mismatched furniture I thrifted or inherited. The couch sags. The kitchen tiles are cracked. But there’s art on the walls and plants in the window, and it feels like home even when the world doesn’t.
I wander over to the small window. This place bears zero resemblance to the life I used to live. A part of me is okay with that because my life was a lie. I had money. Privilege. Expensive cars and clothes and jewels. But I had no love. I had men who wanted me either as a pretty accessory, or as a prize. And that included my father. No one in that old world was real. Everything was transactional.
I don’t miss it, I think. Then slowly smile.But man, what I wouldn’t give for a fraction of my old bank account.
I wash my face at the bathroom sink, watching the smudged remnants of mascara swirl down the drain like ink bleeding from the corners of my eyes. My reflection looks tired. Paler than usual. My lips are pinched, my eyes too wide.
Braedon’s grip. The slick, smug way his hand wrapped around my wrist. It was all too familiar. He was so like Alexander, the man my father thought would save him. As long as I fell in line, of course. Men with that kind of money use power to control those underneath him. I barely made it out with my sanity intact.
God. I grip the edge of the sink until my knuckles ache, then look at my reflection once more. I touch my lips and think of Beck.
I don’t know what to make of him.
He’s cold, unreadable. Power wrapped in a tailored suit and zero emotion. He’s like David and any other man from my past. And yet… tonight, he stood between me and Braedon like a wall. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t ask if I was okay—he just made itclearthat Braedon wouldn’t try that again.
And then he called mehis. Not in a romantic way. Not tender. Not even sexual. It was more than that.
Possessive.
Protective?
Dangerous.
Take your pick. I can’t figure him out yet. I wonder what he would think if he knew that my father had once owned the building that houses his club. That I’d been there many times as a young child.
But like my old life, my father is yesterday’s news so I doubt he’s even a blip on Beck’s radar.
