“It’s okay, right? We’re cool?” He’s so soft right now. Warm.

I want to believe him so badly.

I don’t answer because I can’t. I turn mindless from his lips; he erases my dark thoughts with the rhythm of his tongue. The trusting side of me gives in. I want this. I want him. And he’s sorry. That’s enough, right? My chest softens as his kiss deepens and slows. We’re okay, cool, just like he said. I raise my hands, dropping them to the back of his neck. He lets out an audible groan of relief.

I’m here, I tell him with my body language.

He pulls me closer, up into his lap. I open my eyes to see his are shut tightly.

His mouth is at my neck when I see the time flashing on his dashboard.

“I’m late,” I grumble, wishing he’d dragged me into the backseat of his car.

He pulls away with a flushed face. “Later?”

“Yes.” One more closed-mouthed kiss, and I open the door to leave.

When I’m at the front of the Center, I turn back, finding him staring at me through the passenger window. My breath stops. From this angle, Slade looks almost white. It’s as though I’m staring at him, but I can see through him as though he were a ghost. A twisted shiver moves through me before I turn myself away, entering the clean building.

At first, I’m still in the post-make-out haze. But, within an hour, the mind fog clears. Hours begin to move in a warped speed, the fear over Slade this morning plaguing me.

When he first opened his bloodshot eyes, my gut told me it was drugs. Drugs! The word zings through my head, but I push it out. I won’t think it or say it because Slade is too smart and too good to get wrapped up in something like that. Right? But, holy shit, he pulled an actual gun on me. Was it loaded? I feel ill.

My throat tightens. Me, a girl who has never even seen a gun before the shooting in Vegas. And I slept next to one all night. This is so fucking bad.

The file of Jane Simble sits on my desk. I need to review it before calling her for a check-in, and I don’t want my personal shit interfering with this job. I read through her history, getting my mind in order. I dial her number, pushing my own emotions back. Eve insisted follow-ups were necessary, and I agree.

Jane answers on the fourth ring, and I put on my happy face.

“Hello, this is Lauren Amini, assistant to Eve Petrov. We’re just checking in to see how you’ve been doing. How are the children?”

She replies, and I listen intently, jotting down notes.

I continue burying my feelings within the work. The load is unimaginable but also incredibly fulfilling. These women need help, and it’s amazing to be able to play a part in their safety and freedom.