Page 31 of R Is For Revenge: Part One
My fingers clench against the edge of the leather seat. I let her finish—not because I’m swept away but because I need the release. The distraction. The illusion that I’m still in control of my own fucking mind.
Afterward, I hand her a napkin and tuck a hundred-dollar bill into her palm. She doesn’t ask for more, just licks her lips and vanishes into the crowd, like the entire thing didn’t mean a goddamn thing. And it didn’t.
It was a straight up transaction. The most that girl would have gotten was an invite back to my place for more sex, a couple lines of coke or something harder, then a trip in my car back to wherever she called home.
It’s what I’m used to. All I ever needed before. So what the fuck is different tonight?
Lola returns not long after, flushed and tipsy, giggling as Abel appears at her side. He gives me a look—she’s done—and she throws her arms around him like he’s her personal chauffeur.
“You’re so fucking hot,” she says, laying her head on his chest. “Take me home?”
Abel glances my way. “You coming?”
“Not just yet. Take the car I’ll find my way back eventually.”
Abel’s eyes narrow. “You good?”
“Yeah. Just get my sister home. I owe you.”
Lola was pretty much passed out and the only thing holding her up was Abel’s arms. He shook his head. “And then some.”
I watched him carry her out of the bar. Good. One less thing to manage.
I grab my leather jacket, leave a fat tip for the server, and slip out the back entrance into the night air, sharp and clean and loud with city static. My head’s buzzing, my body loose, but I can’t go home yet. I don’t want the silence.
Instead, I head to Dino’s, a 24-hour hole-in-the-wall diner three blocks south. The booths are torn, the pie is decent, and the coffee’s shit but always hot.
I slide into the far corner, order a burger I don’t need and a coffee I won’t finish, and try to sit still. There is a couple practically having sex two booths down from me and across fromthem at a table, three guys sit and debate the merits of the latest rounds of hockey trades. They’re Islander fans. I’m more of a Ranger guy.
Halfway through my meal, the bell over the door rings. I don’t look up at first. Not until I hear her voice—soft, apologizing to the hostess—and then I do.
Jules. Of all the fucking places she comes here? At this time of night? It’s like the world keeps throwing her into my orbit.
She’s wearing jeans and a bulky sweater, hair pulled back in a messy knot. She’s holding a folder against her chest like a shield, her mouth tight, her eyes tired. And she looks upset.
She scans the diner, and when her eyes land on me, she freezes. Her face is white, save for twin spots of pink on her cheeks. And her eyes look so big and shiny, it’s like they’re not real.
She blinks once, a deer in the headlights, then makes a small move toward the door like she might leave.
But I’m already standing.
“Jules,” I say, loud enough to carry but not loud enough to draw attention. I nod toward the booth opposite mine. “You look like you could use coffee.”
Her jaw tightens. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I come when I can’t sleep.”
She hesitates—then walks over and slides into the seat across from me. The folder thumps softly onto the table. She won’t look at me yet. She’s tense again, like she was in the suite. Braced.
“Want to tell me what’s in that folder?”
She doesn’t answer. But her fingers press harder against the edge.
And just like that… the night gets interesting again.
CHAPTER 10
BECK
