I wanted to make her squirm after I’d spent the entire week trying to drive her half-naked body from my mind. Except she didn’t squirm; she undid her seatbelt and laid one on me. She called it platonic, while I had been one second from losing my grasp on self-control and touching her everywhere she’d let me.

Shit, was she irritating—a little nuisance that had wiggled beneath my skin. She was supposed to be wallpaper, but I couldn’t stop my gaze from finding her whenever she was in the room.

In the library the night before, she’d stared at me unashamedly, and fuck if it hadn’t made me feel itchy as shit. When I couldn’t take it any longer, I’d called her out on it and she hadn’t even said a word, only continued to watch me with the softest brown eyes I’d ever seen as pink tinted her cheeks.

Never thought a blush could get me so hard.

Watching her with Tyler made me wonder if he was the man she was in love with. She hadn’t hesitated to kiss me to protect him. My teeth clenched. The ring on her finger was from a man. I’d bet money on it. Tyler? Or the man she’d run away to be with?

Jesus, why did I care?

I wasn’t going to worship Elena with the rest of the male population of New York. I’d stand on the sidelines and watch the idiots pine for her attention. I ran a hand across my face, pulled the cigarette from my lips and dropped it in my shirt pocket.

As I twisted the cap on the gas tank, my attention coasted up to see Elena walking toward the car, her steps quick and her eyes toward the concrete.

My gaze narrowed. I’d learned how to read body language over the years. It was good to know when someone was going to shoot at you in the middle of a meeting. And Elena’s posture raised all my alarms. Avoiding eye contact, tight shoulders—she was stressed.

“Elena,” I said, trying to get her to look at me.

She didn’t stop at my voice. She climbed in my Audi and slammed the door. My chest burned, and without realizing how I’d gotten there I stood on her side of the car.

“What happened?” I demanded as soon as I opened the door.

She shook her head. “Nothing. Can we go?”

Maybe I’d believe that if she wasn’t such a fidgety mess. But nah, not even then. Everyone knew that when a woman said nothing she was fucking lying.

“Yeah.”

Her gaze shot to me, and now I had her. Now I could see the turmoil swimming in those eyes.

“Yeah?” she whispered.

“Yeah. After you tell me what the fuck happened.”

She sighed and rested her head against the seat. “Nothing. I just want to go home.”

I dropped to my haunches, grabbed her chin, and turned her face to mine. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what happened.”

Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip, and she averted her gaze. “I don’t want you to make it a big deal.”

“Won’t.” Depends.

“Promise you won’t do anything.”

“Promise.” Lie.

Those soft brown eyes met mine, working their way into my chest. “The cashier . . .” She swallowed. “ . . . Well, he told me I had to buy something because I used the bathroom. And then I told him I didn’t have any money on me, and . . .” She hesitated.

“Jesus, spit it the fuck out,” I snapped. Anger crept beneath my skin, slow but searing. “Did he touch you?”

“No!” she responded too quickly. “It’s not that big of a deal . . . he just threatened he would if I didn’t leave.”

A deathly stillness fell over me. “You’re lying.”

She tossed her head, trying to shake off my hand.

My grip tightened. “Where?”

Her eyes came to mine with a spark. “He smacked my ass and told me I could pay another way, all right?”

I had to take a second to swallow down the burning rage so I could form a coherent sentence. Could this woman go anywhere without men losing their goddamn minds? The irrational part of me grew agitated, pounding at my chest and shaking the bars of its cage.

I ran my thumb down the indention in her chin. “Which hand did he use?”

Her gaze widened. “No,” she breathed. “You promised!”

Her voice was distorted by the rage rushing through me, drumming in my ears. Red crept into my vision, until she was covered in it. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath of gasoline fumes, and then stood.

“No, don’t. Please, please, don’t, Nicolas,” she pleaded.

“I’m just going to talk to him.”

“No, you aren’t—”

I slammed her door.

A frustrated noise came from inside.

One lone black man was at the pump, filling up his old beater. A gas can sat on the oil-stained concrete; the one I had watched him fill while Elena was inside getting fucking groped. I grabbed the container and headed toward the station doors.

“What the fuck you think you doin’, man?”

“Some friendly advice,” I said without turning around. “Might get the fuck out of here if I were you.”

It took him two seconds to put it together.

“Aw, hell no,” I heard from behind me. A door slammed shut and a car drove off.

The ‘P’ on the Pronto sign flickered in and out. A bell chimed as I entered the harshly lit gas station with dirty, peeling laminate. The cashier stood behind the counter reading a magazine. He looked to be in his forties, with a balding head. His red, starched t-shirt said “David” in yellow.

“You the only one here tonight?”

The clerk flicked a gaze up, the end of a pen bit between his teeth. He pulled it out before saying in a heavy Long Island accent, “Yeah. What’s it to you?”

I ignored the question and looked around the dump. “Nice place you got here. You own it?”

The clerk glanced at the gas can in my hand. “Yeah.”

“Must be your livelihood, I imagine.”

His expression turned stiff. “I don’t know what you want, but I’m not interested.”

“Can’t afford new floors, nor to replace your sign out front. I’m sure all income is going straight home. Wife . . . kids, maybe.” I undid the cap, and then sloshed some gasoline on the dirty laminate.

The clerk dropped his pen, taking a step back. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“The girl that just came in here?” I gave my head a shake. “Wrong girl, David.” Gas splashed a shelf of postcards.

“I’m calling the cops.” The clerk’s voice shook. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed he didn’t reach for the phone. I glanced at the man to see he was focused on my forearm—on the ace of spades tattooed on the inside.

An amused breath escaped me. “I swear, this lack of anonymity ruins all my fucking fun. Should’ve never gotten the tat.”

“I didn’t know,” the clerk blurted. “I didn’t fucking know who she was!”

“I wanted your hand,” I said, walking down aisles, sloshing gasoline on shelves, cooler doors, the rack of porn mags. “But that’s a fucking mess, really. Don’t have the right knife on me to do a good job.”

The clerk stood, frozen and sweating.

“You got insurance, David?”

He swallowed. “Of course.”