“Just do it, angry girl.”
Sloane reaches out and accepts the handle of the sledgehammer. She’s way stronger than I give her credit for, though this shouldn’t come as a surprise to me anymore. I know exactly just how fucking strong she is. With one last mildly concerned look at me, Sloane hikes the sledgehammer onto her shoulder and then swings.
The thin layer of plaster cracks and explodes in a shower of dust and debris, and there it is—a huge hole in the wall. “Oh my god. I just did that,” Sloane says, excitement creeping into her voice. “Here,” she holds the hammer back out to me. “You try.”
“No.” I take a deep breath. “You do it.”
She frowns at me, then. “Why?”
“Because if I start hitting things, Sloane, I’ll never stop. And right now, I’m trying really hard…” That’s the truth of the matter. I’ve been calm. I’ve somehow managed to maintain this delicate, fragile calm, but I have no idea how. I am still consumed by a rage I’m too worried to even think about—the very depth of it scares me. If I give in to that rage for even a second, I will sink into it and I don’t know how long it’ll take me to climb back out again. And I need to be here, right now. For Sloane. For me, too.
She nods, understanding like I knew she would. It takes her seven more clean swipes at the wall to create a hole big enough for me to reach inside and pull out the bags I left behind there.
“Duffel bags? Tell me you didn’t make me smash down a wall so you could retrieve some sex toys?”
I smile, testing the weight of the duffels, one in either hand. “No. Not sex toys. Open it.” I hold one out to her.
She scoots down and unzips the bag slowly, as though there might be a bomb inside. Her eyes grow wide when she sees the stacks of money.
“What the hell is all this?”
“This is eight years’ worth of pay from my last job. My boss was an asshole, in case you were wondering why I quit.” I’ve never needed much to live; I was always very careful with what I spent. Eight years’ worth of pay from Charlie is a shit ton of cash.
“That…that’s just obscene. That’s an obscene amount of money, Zeth.”
“Yes, it is. And right now we have to hurry. We’re gonna be late.”
No matter how hard she questions me—girl could give fucking Lowell a run for her money—I don’t tell her where we’re going after that. I throw the bags of cash into the trunk of the car I still have on loan from The Regency Rooms, and then I drive Sloane over to the western part of the city, in the direction of the hotel. That’s not where we’re heading, though. When we reach our destination, I come to a halt, wondering what the hell she’s going to say when she realizes what I’ve done.
She takes one look out of the window and then spins on me. “A fighting gym? You’ve brought me to a fighting gym?”
I take the keys out of the ignition and press the teeth into the palm of my hand. Maybe this was a stupid idea. “Yeah. Not just any fighting gym. My fighting gym.” I glance at her out of the corner of my eye—does she think I’m fucking crazy?—to find that she’s not looking at me at all. She’s looking back up at the building, squinting at it like the two-story structure is getting harder and harder to see. Perhaps she just can’t imagine it—me owning a legitimate business. Doing something aboveboard, making it work.
I stare at the car key in my hand. I should put it back into the ignition. Drive away. I’m about to, but then Sloane’s hand rests on my arm, and she looks like she’s on the verge of tears. “So we’re not going to leave Seattle?”
“What? Fuck no. I’m not running from my home, Sloane.” It hadn’t even crossed my mind that she’d expect us to leave. Not now. “There’s no reason for us to go. We’re staying right here. And if anyone’s stupid enough to wanna come fuck with me, they’ll know exactly where I am.” I point at the building outside: the cracked, crumbling brickwork in desperate need of repointing, the faded wooden board, complete with peeling green paint that reads O’Shannessey’s Irish Boxing Club For Boys.