Page 62 of The Fixer

“Ouch!” I gasped as Zee’s thumb slid over a cut on the back of my leg.

“What is it?” Jet asked, stepping forward, his entire body so menacing I was worried he’d pull his gun on Zee.

“Just a cut,” I tried to soothe quickly. “I nicked it when I shaved earlier. It’s fine, just a little tender.”

Jet’s scowl returned. “That’s enough, Zeno.”

Zee paused, hands still cradling my calf, the man lifting his face to Jet. “I’m not done.”

“You’ve done enough,” Jet snapped, baring his teeth.

Zee loosened his grip, pulled his hands back and held his palms up. He rose to full height and the two men faced off. “It’s your turn.”

“Like hell it is.”

“Giraldo.”

Jet seethed, anger bubbling and boiling as he stared the man down. Without taking his eyes off the doctor, he rolled up his sleeves. The arms I’d been entranced by back in my father’s office were exposed, and this time, the blue tip of the tattoo that had been peeking out then was further uncovered. It’s not like I hadn’t seen it before. Jet was often shirtless when we worked on the mats, those three blue stars inked on his skin like they belonged with the moonlit glow of his eyes. But now, for some reason, the single star peeking out from the sleeve of his shirt caught my attention, and I knew where I’d seen one just like it before. Paulo D’Angelo, a man who was as dangerous as he was kind, had a star inked on his left arm, too.

“Get it over with,” Jet hissed once he’s sleeves were rolled up. Zee looked him over, checking his hands, prodding at his shoulders and gently touching the back of his neck. He walked around him, eyeing the back of his crisp white shirt.

“No blood,” Zee muttered beneath his breath, head shaking as he continued to look.

The fact that my dress, the beautiful green silk dress that Jet had procured last night, was covered in wrinkles while his shirt looked freshly pressed, had the frustration that I’d been holding in for the past week climbing into my throat. I drew my gaze away from the men, peering out the windows to where the lights of the city glowed.

Zee took a step back and Jet crossed his arms over his chest. The doctor’s face twitched, as if he, too, had something on his mind that he needed to let out.

“Need to tell him,” Zee murmured, his voice so low I only just caught the words.

“Don’t.” Jet closed his eyes, then sucked in a deep breath. “I need a little time. Please.”

Zee’s hand came to rest on the outside of Jet’s arm. One of the few spots I knew was a safe place to touch. A place that wouldn’t have his mercurial moods shifting from the soft, gentle man I’d grown to adore to the hard, gun toting man whose words cracked like a whip. “I’ll check in on Santini. I’ll let you know what’s going on as soon as I can.”

“Thank you.”

The doctor looked down at me on the couch, dipping his chin as he gave a tight smile. “Take care.” With that, he walked out the door, leaving me alone with the brooding Jet.

“Go to bed, Eliza,” he said without looking at me. His words were clipped, the snap in them barely hidden in his tired voice.

Flinching, I fingered the collar of my dress. Raised my chin as I rose from my seat. Silver moons narrowed on me as I stood before him, the scowl he’d been wearing earlier back in place.

“Go to bed.” His hand whipped out, and it took everything in me not to recoil. There was no blow, no pain across my face. There was no hit as the man pointed toward the hall.

“No.” It was quiet, that word. Born from a place deep inside me. A place I’d kept hidden for far too many years. Defying those in power had never come easy. But I was tired of being the whipping boy. So tired of being cast aside when I was no longer needed.

Silver eyes flared, reflecting the lights of the city, shimmering with blues and reds.

“I don’t understand you,” I told him, hand raising to his chest, every muscle in his body tensing until he shook. “Your moods change so quickly I can’t keep up. One minute,” I said, tracing the seam of his shirt up his chest, “you act like you might want to kiss me. The next,” I whispered, fingering the edge of his bow tie, “I’m worried you’ll do more than hurt my heart.”

Before I even saw him move, my wrist was locked in his hand, four inches from his chest.

“I want to know why, Jet,” I said, voice as shaky as a newborn pup. “I want to help you.”

He scoffed, dropping my hand and taking a step back. “There is no help for me, Eliza.”

He walked away from me, toward the kitchen. Pulled out a glass tumbler and a bottle of whiskey and poured himself a drink. I shook my head and moved to the window, placing a hand on the cool glass as I wished for a way to get him to open up.

“You don’t have to hide from me. You don’t have to pretend you’re not hurting. I see it in you just as clearly as I see your face. I’m sorry about your friend. I’m sorry about Santini. But you shutting me out like this—”