He exhales. “Normally, you kick the shit out of them. Fine. But not like this. You’re spiraling down. No one else might see it, but I do.”

“Nothing’s wrong. I’m not spiraling anywhere.” My voice is rough, the lie tasting like shit on my tongue. I clench and then open my fists, feeling the rawness in my knuckles. The hands hold a lot of tension, and mine feel tight.

“It’s time to take a few days, yeah? Get off the rez. Eve and I want to visit Utah on Wednesday. Chill on Lake Powell. Why not come with us?”

“Third wheel? Nah.” My throat is sore. I turn my face away from him.

“Don’t worry; we won’t share a room.”

He laughs, but I don’t make a sound.

It dawns on him that I’m not playing.

“Truth is, there is only one goddamn answer to this question. You’re coming. After the stunt you just pulled? You need to clear that head of yours. A change of scenery is good.”

“I’m in control,” I reply, straightening the muscles in my face.

If he only knew I was at the shooting in Vegas, he’d be dragging me to the VA hospital to get my ass committed. No way that’s happening, not to me. Luckily, Rob and Mike agreed with me that Vincent didn’t need to know the details of our night.

I’m trained to stay straight in the face of mayhem. I refuse to allow a few difficult months to break me down. I’ve spent years building my barriers, and with a little time, I’ll have them reconstructed. This is a dark phase. I’ll get through it on my own.

“No”—he slowly shakes his head—“you’re not. I know what control is. And that”—he points to the man crumpled on the floor—“isn’t control. That shit is bad for business.”

“I’ve beaten up plenty of guys down here before.” I sound defensive.

“Yeah, but not close to death. Christ. You’re supposed to rough ’em up and scare ’em. Not actually commit murder.”

With a hard scar running down from his eye to his jaw, jet-black hair, and eyes so dark that they’re practically black, you’d think people would see Vincent and run. Not the case. He is the only motherfucker I know who, even damaged and dangerous-looking, still gets more come-ons by women than any man I’ve ever met.

I clear my throat. “Listen, GQ—”

“Not the time to divert. I see you, Slade.” He points a finger at me. “I know you put the mask on every day. Don’t hold that shit inside, or you’ll burn. Why don’t you speak to a doc—”

I turn my face, unwilling to listen. He puts a hand on my shoulder, and my body stiffens.

“Don’t fucking lecture me.” I throw his hand off, standing up to my full height.

He rises, too. It’s a standoff.

“I’m fine. I did twelve years in hard combat. I don’t need a goddamn shrink prodding at my psyche. Or you.”