Page 117 of Fury

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“Ilove howyou cut thedress. It looks so much better now, Lenore,” said Kelly, my assistant. We were on the set of a music video for an all-female alternative rock group, Sugar Dip.

“Molly has incredible legs. They need to be shown off.”

“And that slouchy boot is sheer genius,” Kelly whispered in my ear as filming began. “The corset showing just right underneath? It’s perfect. I can’t believe you made it yourself. I need one.”

I bumped her hip with mine. “I’ll make you one,” I mouthed, winking at her.

The band performed on a set designed like an old playground where all the rides were broken. Jamming on her guitar, Molly belted out the first line of her new single as she wandered through the broken swing set. The new, improved dress floated perfectly over her knees as she swayed and jerked her hips to the music playing over the speakers.

Kelly took a few notes as we both watched the performances and the choreography carefully, studying how the clothing moved on the women, and how the patterns and colors were working with the set pieces. I smiled to myself. We’d done a good job.

Filming wrapped, and I slipped out the security doors, down the hall back to wardrobe. Kelly would collect the clothing from the band, and then we had outfits to review one last time for tomorrow’s shoot with another singer, and more clothes to choose and inventory for three assignments next week.

I pushed open the door as I checked my phone for messages. The door slammed shut behind me on its own. My head snapped up, and I froze before the reflection in the large vanity mirror, my eyes hooking on his.

Finger stood against the wall, a large, tanned hand splayed against the door. He was bigger, his shoulders and arms bulkier, his chest pronounced under a tight tee stretching across his upper body. His hair was shorter, barely touching his shoulders, his beard fuller. A faded red bandana at his neck. Dressed in black leather, coated with dust and dirt, probably from miles of riding, his thick boots splashed in mud.

He flipped the lock. “Hello, Lenore.”

My pulse screeched to a halt, my mouth dried.

Three years. Three years of him in jail, me on my own. Three, three, three years…

“Got nothing for me? No hello? No how’s it going? No, I missed you, so good to see you?”

I only stared at the vision before me, unable to move, to breathe, to think. But he was no vision. He was a man—rugged, virile, coarse, larger-than-life.

“Huh.” He cocked an eyebrow, slanting his head at a slight angle, the grooves on his face prominent. “That’s too bad.” He was amused.

“How did you find me?” I asked.

“I’ll always find you.”

My stomach clenched at those words. I had tried to do the right thing, and it was a painful thing, but I’d done it. And instead of leaving a clean cut behind me, I had left a trail of blood, flesh, and bone.

And misery.

That’s what I saw in his big metal-brown eyes. Sheer misery repressed and now rising, steaming, mingling with mine.

“Nice new name, I like it,” he said.

“It was as close to my grandmother’s name as I could get.”

“Is that what you ratted out to Turo DeMarco for?” he spit out.

“You here to kill me for going against the bro code?”

“No.” His lips curved up slightly at the ends, and my heart squeezed. “No, I’m glad you did it. I’m here to take you home with me.”

“No.”

His chest rose and fell sharply, his eyes piercing mine.

A chaos of panic and emotion gripped me. Tentacles of wild feeling curled in my chest, pulling and twisting on my heart, bruising it. The tagged clothes hanging on the racks all around us listened, waiting. All the colors and textures in the dressing room faded, and there was only Finger. My Finger.

“I’m here to take you…”

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