“Come in here,” she barks out the command, and I follow her to the kitchen. If you could call it that.
The apartment is a studio, long and narrow. A large velvet green couch covered with pillows and blankets faces a wall full of old windows overlooking the city. Not a bad view, actually.
To my left is a kitchen space with one small counter, a mini-fridge, and a sink. No oven. No range. She has a tiny microwave next to the coffeepot, leaving her about ten inches of usable counter space.
I find myself staring before she snaps at me, and I direct my attention to her. She has some mismatched chairs around a table that looks like it came out of an old diner. She points to one of the chairs, and I meander my way over, wincing at the stabbing pain in my rib cage.
“Sit.”
Bossy.
As I sit down, the chair squeaks, and Sage positions herself between my legs, tilting my head back and taking a look at my nose. When she makes a pained expression, I know the diagnosis.
“I have good news and I have bad news,” she mumbles quietly.
“Let me guess. It’s broken.”
“Afraid so.” When she pinches the bridge, it hurts so bad I flinch, yanking my head out of her grasp.
“So, what’s the good news?” I ask. My eyes are tearing up from the pain in my nose.
“I’ve done this before.”
“Done what?” I barely get the words out before her fingers are back on my face, and she’s popping the cartilage back in
place. She might as well have torn my nose straight off my face for how bad it hurts.
“Fuck!” I shout as I grab my face.
Sage steps away from where I’m sitting, and by the time I blink the moisture out of my eyes, she’s roughly tilting my head back again and wiping it clean with a warm, wet washcloth.
I stare up at her, feeling a good deal more sober than I was at the club.
“You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”
“Mm-hmm,” she replies with a flat expression.
“I was an asshole at the club,” I confess.
“You’re all assholes.”
At that, I nod. She’s right. We are all assholes.
“Where did you learn how to do that?” I ask as she presses on the cut on my cheek, which stings as she does it.
She responds with a shrug. “My stepdad taught me when I was a kid because he had a habit of running his mouth and getting punched for it.”
Well, that’s depressing.
“Where was your mother?”
“Half the time, she was the one who did it,” she replies with a snicker.
Thinking about her mother instantly makes me think of mine. She would never lay a hand on my father. And yet, with what I know now…she should.
Nausea builds in my stomach, and pity for my mother makes me want to throw up. Does she know what he’s up to every night?
Definitely not.
Sage’s hands drift away from my face, and she pulls up a chair to face me. And as my gaze trails to her face, not bothering to hide the melancholia I’m feeling inside, she
doesn’t say a thing. Instead of a snarky, sarcastic comment, she just shows me a sympathetic expression and rests her hand on my knee.
It’s so strange how comforting and unexpected that is. Not a single word. Not a lecture or a line of questions. No lies or words of wisdom. Just empathy and her presence.
“I have a butterfly bandage for your cheek. Stay here.”
When she stands up and disappears into the bathroom on the other side of the apartment, my eyes follow her. I try to find the warmth toward her I felt the last time I saw her, but it’s gone. In its place is only bitterness and resentment, and it goes both ways.
If I had it in me to apologize for being such an ignorant brute, perhaps I could fix it. But I don’t, and not because she doesn’t deserve it. But because she does—and I’m just a prideful dick.
Instead, I point out the obvious when she returns from the bathroom.
“Your boyfriend didn’t tell you he sold the club.”
She glances up at me, a glimpse of confusion on her face before understanding. “Technically, he used it as collateral.
For a loan from your dad.”
“He’s not my dad,” I reply, my tone dripping with resentment. “Not anymore.”
Sage takes a deep breath, looking sympathetic. “Well, it would seem Brett got a loan from Truett,” she says, correcting herself.
I laugh. “Your boyfriend isn’t getting that title back. When my father has the upper hand, he keeps it.”
She lets out a sad-sounding chuckle before shrugging her shoulders. “Oh well. Not my business anymore.”
“Did you just find out tonight?” I ask.
“Shortly before you came in. Yes. He said he was using the money to hire some sex club consultant. Which is ironic
because he’s never listened to me, so I don’t know why he would listen to her.”
I stare at her with scrutiny while I silently wonder what the fuck that Brett guy had that was worth so much heartache and pain.
“It seems we were both betrayed tonight.” She says it very casually, but I can see the hurt in her eyes. Just two weeks ago, I saw the pride on her face when she gave me the card to the club. Now, it’s all been ripped away from her, and I’m curious if that hurts worse than the lost relationship.
“He’s so busy taking care of your dad that he hasn’t even texted me to see if I’m okay.”
I want to tell her I’m sorry, but I don’t.
She opens the bandage and stretches it over my skin. I wince from the sting, but after it’s in place, I feel like a new man. No more aching nose or dripping blood.
But with my focus no longer stolen by the pain, I’m left to picture the whole scenario again. My father grotesquely tongue fucking some random woman right there in the open at the club.
“It doesn’t make any fucking sense,” I say, and Sage stares at me in confusion.
“What?”
“How he can go there and do that where anyone can see.
After he’s been so vocal about closing them down. Why hasn’t anyone outed him for that?”
She laughs. “Oh, you mean the VIPs? That good-ole-boys’
club? Your father isn’t even the most prodigious man in that group of snakes.”
“You’re joking,” I reply, stunned.
“I wish. Your dad feels comfortable in there because as long as he holds everyone else’s secrets, his are safe.”
“And Brett wouldn’t ever use that against him?” I ask, trying to piece it all together.
“Not now that Truett Goode holds the deed.”
“Brett is an idiot,” I reply before I can stop myself.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re right. But to all of them, it’s a game of power over each other. They probably get off on that more than the sex, to be honest. They think they have each other by the balls, but what they really have is a roomful of powerful men just holding balls.”
I let out a laugh.
Once the tiny apartment grows quiet, I look up at where she’s sitting across from me. “I should go. I can catch an Uber.”
“It’s late,” she replies softly. “You can take the couch. It’s really comfortable. I sleep on it almost every night.”