The cabby comes to a stop before I’m ready. The memories play on a loop in the back of my head of all the years I spent wasted. I can still feel the crunch of bone from the last fight I got into not three blocks from here.

“Here we are,” the cabby states, turning in his seat, but before he can say anything else, I jam some cash into his hand and grab my bags on my own.

“Have a good day, sir,” I hear him call out as I shut the door, the patter of rain already soaking through my collar at the back of my neck.

I have to walk with my head down to keep the rain from hitting me in the face. The door opens easily and I drag my luggage in, tossing it to the right side where the coatrack and desk are meant to greet clients. This condo’s been converted into an office space. It’s blocks from the nightlife and blends in with the community. A perfect location for client drop-off.

The high ceilings and intricate crown molding make the already expensive building feel that much wealthier. It’s all been done in shades of white and cream, without an actual color in sight. It makes the bright neon sticky note atop a stack of papers sitting on the edge of the welcome desk stand out even more.

Sterile, but rich.

“You were supposed to tell me when you landed.” I hear James’s voice before I see him, his heavy steps echoing in the expansive room.

“I did,” I tell him flatly, not bothering to take out my phone and check. I’m positive I did, as I always do, and he ignored it. That seems to have been his preference for the last two weeks. The air about him has changed; ever since that night, things have been tense between us. As if we’re in a silent war, each waiting for the other to show weakness.

I’m not interested in this shit. The only thing I give a damn about is my Kat, keeping her safe from the cross fire. So I’ll play nice. I’ll do what he says. But I’m not his bitch and I don’t play games.

“I didn’t get it,” he says, stopping in front of me in the foyer. He has to tilt his head back slightly to look me in the eyes since he’s a few inches shorter.

I shrug as if it doesn’t matter, not bothering to confirm or deny whether a text was sent. “Well, I’m here now,” I tell him as I slide off my jacket, soaked from the usual London rain, and hang it on the coatrack.

“You look like shit,” he comments and an asymmetric grin tilts up my lips.