A man in a dark suit stops us with a neat smile as we make our way across the floor. He’s shorter than Slade with hair trimmed to his skull. The men comfortably shake hands, like old friends.

“You coming from the club? Just heard about the shooting. Got a call from Rob a few minutes ago. Your boys are on their way back here, too.”

“Sounds good. We’re going up to my room.”

After pounding their fists, we move on. Sanam’s face plunges into my brain, and I stop moving.

“Hang on, babe. We’re almost upstairs.”

“My friends—”

“I know. When we get up, you’ll call ’em.”

Entering the elevator, he slides a white card through the reader before pressing the number nineteen. Walking to the end of the corridor, we stop at room 1952. He swipes the card again in a reader on the door, and the light flashes green. Pushing it open, he holds the door for me to walk through. I don’t. Instead, I wait for him to go before me. His brows turn down.

I swallow hard. “C-can you go in first?”

“No problem.” His body softens in understanding.

He circles the room. Rationally, I know everything is fine. I mean, the shooting wasn’t even here. Still, I need this reassurance.

“We’re all good,” he calls.

I step inside. He holds the door as it shuts, avoiding a slam.

Waiting in the middle of the room on gray wall-to-wall carpeting, I’m awkward and upset, wishing I had a sweatshirt or something. I’m freezing in this tiny outfit.

“Come here.” His voice is so strong and sure. Bending down toward a small duffel, he takes out a white Hanes T-shirt. “Wash up and change. Bathroom’s there.” He points to his right.

“I can’t.” I touch my arm, and suddenly, it hits me. I’m in pain.

His eyes move straight to it. “Let me take a look.”

He presses his hands against my bicep, and I wince as he massages from my shoulder down to my elbow.

“You’re going to bruise pretty badly. Nothing feels broken though.”

He moves to the bathroom. The sound of running water comes through the door. Moments later, he’s back with a glass full of tap water and two pills. “Just some Advil.”

He hands them to me, and I swallow it down.

Are people back at the club, still waiting for help, while I’m here in a hotel room, drinking water? I stare at him, open-mouthed. I feel like I should apologize for thinking he was a monster in the club. How could I have thought that of him? He left more quickly than he should have, and it’s my fault. He should have stayed. I’m a terrible person. I need to thank him. I need to say a lot of things. But, most of all, I want to roll into a ball and cry. As I stare down at the blood splatter on my calves and thighs, my stomach rolls. How am I going to clean myself up? Whose blood is this? I feel dizzy.