Guns: The Spencer Book (Rook and Ronin Spinoff 4)

It kicks back.

Or actually, it knocks back. “Veronica?” Bobby Mansi’s muffled voice comes through from the other side. “Are you OK?”

“Shit,” I say, frantically wiping my eyes and standing up.

“I heard that. Open up, I just want to apologize.”

I turn the handle and open the door. “Apologize for what?” I sniff.

He smiles a warm smile. “Interrupting. I’m sorry. I can tell you two are an item, even if he won’t admit it.”

“We’re not,” I insist.

He shoots me a doubtful look. “I’m not stupid, Veronica. May I come in?”

I wave him forward. “It’s your place, why are you asking me?” He walks into the little foyer area and I close the door behind him. “Are you really keeping the penthouse?”

“Yeah,” he says, turning. “I really am. I like it. I wasn’t going to stay here. Normally I live on the West Coast. But I got some new business here that requires my personal attention.”

I don’t have anything else to say. I don’t even know this guy. I don’t know this place and the only familiar things I have right now are the clothes on my back. All of which remind me of the one man I desperately want to forget about.

Bobby waves me into the living room. “Want to sit down?” he asks.

I walk forward and stop when I get to the couch. It looks nice. But I’m not sure if it’s comfortable. I’ve never even sat on it before and now I’m supposed to think of it as mine.

A hand is placed gently on the small of my back. “Sit, Veronica. There’s actually a bottle of wine in the fridge. It was purely for looks, when people walk through the model. But it’s not a bad year. We’ll have a glass, how’s that sound?”

I sigh and sit. The couch is comfortable. And then I look up at Bobby’s expectant face and nod. “That sounds nice, actually.”

Bobby walks into my new kitchen. It’s an open-concept floor plan, so the kitchen is separated from the living room only by a granite island. Not quite as spectacular as the one I was just f**ked on upstairs, but still a very nice specimen of stone. He uncorks the wine and there are even wine glasses in the cupboards. In fact, I think the cupboards are just as stocked with stuff as the rest of the place.

He comes back out and hands me a glass, then takes a seat on the chair opposite the couch and leans his elbows on his knees, expectantly, turning his wine glass. Like he’s waiting for me to do something. Or say something.

I take a sip of wine instead. It’s good. I take another. Then I guzzle the whole damn glass.

Bobby laughs and sits back in the chair, satisfied that I’m OK.

When I come up for air he gets up, exchanges my empty glass for his full one, then goes back to the kitchen and grabs the bottle. He sits on the couch this time. Not next to me, but not far away either.

My eyes dart back and forth without looking at him.

“Are you and Mr. Shrike dating?”

I take another long sip of wine. God, I so, so f**king need more wine.

“Because it looked to me like you two were having a romp in my kitchen.”

Holy hell, what do I say to that? Wine makes it all better though, so I continue sipping.

“I asked him if he minded me taking you out to dinner.”

I do look up now. I look him right in his brilliant green eyes.

“He said, ‘Be my guest.’”

My eyes drop and I give myself a refill and guzzle that glass too.

“Would you like to go to dinner, Veronica? Tomorrow night? Or is Mr. Shrike lying and the two of you do have a thing?”

My sigh comes out a lot louder than I expected. In fact, it’s kind of a tipsy sigh. “No, we used to date. But it’s been over for a long time. What we do…” I look Bobby in the eyes again and allow myself to swallow down the humiliation. “Everything we do… everything we ever did… was a mistake. That ship has sailed.”

“But you still work for him?” Bobby asks.

Shit. I forgot about that. I’ll probably have to quit, won’t I? “It’s a new thing. Do I need references to stay here?” I ask.

He hands me a small chuckle. “No, Veronica. I’m not interested in your credit score or your past landlords.”

I nod. “Good, because that apartment was my first place. I’ve only got my dad as a reference. Or my brothers. And I’m pretty sure they don’t count to a guy like you.”

“Hey.” He holds up his hands. “Don’t judge me and I won’t judge you. How’s that?”

Is he sincere? I study him for a few seconds before deciding he is. “Well, in that case, I think I’ll quit my job with Mr. Shrike and go back to the only thing I’m good at. Tracing line drawings on people’s skin. But I won’t be able to pay for this apartment.” He puts a hand up like he’s gonna tell me it’s not necessary to pay, but I stop him. “I get it. The place is free. But it’s not free forever. I’m not trying to discount your kindness or anything, but everything about my life since I left home has been one big mistake. I can’t afford shit in the real world.”

These words affect me in a way I never expected. Because I just admitted defeat. I went through all that soul-searching to come up with something I could do besides tattoo art. Even if I was never really serious about a flower shop in the first place. Even if I just used that as an excuse to move on, move forward. It still stings that I dated a banker to try to get a loan. I sold my car to buy a motorcycle that is more sentimental than practical. And I spent all my savings on that cruddy apartment, only to have all my worldly belongings locked up and inaccessible. Probably irrevocably contaminated with fibers that will give me cancer just by breathing in their general vicinity.