“Oh, come on!” I laugh. “Which one are you screwing, Olly?”
He looks a little stunned. “None of them!” He does a really bad job of disguising the horrified look that develops on his face. “I’m not…” He shakes his head, letting go of my arm, which allows me to realize how close he’d been standing. “Never mind, Sloane. Have a good night, huh.” He steps back, quickly snatching up a dark shirt from the bench and pulling it on over his head. Well. I somehow managed to really piss him off. Should I say something else? Apologize? Tell him I was only joking? Probably a terrible idea—just make matters worse no doubt. He’s still getting changed, back to me, as I exit the change room.
I slump against the wall, closing my eyes. I need a moment. I’m not good at this. Not good at being friends with people, understanding what I can or can’t say to them without offending them. I was only joking just now, but Oliver probably thinks I consider him unethical, fucking his way through his subordinates. I should just keep my distance from here on in. Keep myself to myself. Focus on saving lives. That would be the smart thing to do. When I open my eyes, I get the fright of my life.
Zeth.
Leaning against the wall opposite me.
Staring.
“What the fuck, Zeth!”
“You’re upset. Why are you upset?”
At that moment the door to the locker room swings open and out walks Oliver. He stumbles to a halt as soon as he sees me and Zeth. “Hey.” With a stiff smile and a brief nod he skirts by me, his gaze lingering a second too long on the strange, dark-haired man loitering in the staffing corridor. Did he recognize him? A tremor of panic lurches through me, but Oliver keeps on walking. No way would he leave me alone with Zeth if he recalled his face from the mug shots. He’d been too busy asking questions to take in those faces properly, anyway.
Zeth doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t shift an inch. Nothing about him has changed from a moment ago, but I can tell he is boiling mad. “I’ve had a really bad day, okay,” I tell him.
“Why?” he grinds out.
“Because a little girl nearly died and her parents are nowhere to be found, and I don’t know whether I’m supposed to call Child Protection Services on them or wait until they show up looking for her. If they ever do. Now I really just want to go home and have a shower and go to bed, okay? I don’t need—”
“Call them.”
“Excuse me?”
“What’s to think about? Call CPS,” he says. His voice is deep and intense, betraying a surprising ferocity. “Some people,” he says, prowling forward, “don’t deserve to have children. In fact, some people should be chemically castrated to ensure they are never allowed the privilege.”
He reaches up and I think he’s going to tuck the messy strand of hair that’s fallen from my ponytail back behind my ear. He doesn’t, though. He rubs it between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. “Blood in your hair,” he rumbles.
“I’m used to it.” I hike my purse back onto my shoulder, doing anything to keep myself moving.
“You have a violent job,” he tells me. A bark of hysterical laughter erupts out of me, echoing off the corridor walls.
“You have got to be kidding me right now? Zeth, you can’t be here. You need to leave. Right now.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
I spin around and jab my index into his chest. “Your face is plastered all over the third floor of this hospital is what’s going on. Archie Monterello, some Italian mob guy, was shot the other night and the cops think some fucking crime lord they’re investigating has something to do with it. And you, apparently, are one of this crime boss’s ‘guys.’ They’re practically expecting you to drop on by, and voilà!” I scowl at him. “Here you are.”
Zeth looks a little puzzled. Nowhere near bothered enough by what I’m telling him. “Archie’s been shot?”
“Yeah. He’s been enrolled in WITSEC or he’s under police protection or something.”
“If he were under the witness protection program he’d be long gone by now. Different name, different history, different life.”
“Huh. That sounds pleasant. I should look into it, see if I can get enrolled in the program.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“Dramatic? Dramatic? Really?” The pitch of my voice is reaching hysterical levels. He just stands there, watching me, taking in my expression and my body language like he can read the truth of things—the truth of me—that way. We glare fiercely at each other for a moment, neither of us backing down. And then he reaches out and takes both my hands, drawing them together behind my back. He does it so slowly and methodically that I don’t even think about struggling until he has me firmly restrained.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing, Zeth?”