Page 16 of Reckless Obsession

“Does his family know you’re fucking their son?” he says casually.

I stop.

Slowly, I turn.

“I wonder,” Jake adds lightly, “what they’d think of that.”

My voice drops. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” he says, standing now, eyes hard with defiance. “You fucked Maksim the night of our divorce. Did it keep going after? Is that why he looks like he wants me dead every time he sees me?”

He doesn’t give me time to answer.

“And why do you get all soft with me when he’s around,” he continues, “but turn into a cold bastard the second he’s gone? Why can’t I figure you out, Tristan?”

Something in me snaps like a clean, internal break.

“You don’t want the attention?” I ask assertively. “You don’t like it when I’m soft with you?”

His breath stutters. “Tristan—”

I don’t let him finish. In the next instant, my hands clamp around his throat. He stumbles, and his back slams against my desk. My grip hooks him like iron; for one vicious second, I want to squeeze until those manipulative green eyes dim forever. He’s poison. Always has been.

“I don’t know where you got the bullshit idea that I’m fucking or have ever fucked Maksim.” Gravel rips from my throat, pinning him. “Spread that lie anywhere, and I’ll tear you apart, piece by piece. I swear, you won’t escape me. Do you understand?”

He glares back, a rebellious spark igniting in his eyes, prompting me to tighten my grip on his throat. His eyes turn red, veins protruding.

“Fuck, okay.” He croaks.

I release him and step back, smoothing my suit jacket as if nothing happened. My pulse is loud in my ears, anger still coiled tight beneath my ribs.

Without another word, I leave the office.

❧

The address Kelly sent drops me on the edge of the city, where the streets stop pretending they’re still alive.

The building squats between two cracked sidewalks, looking tired. Its concrete is stained like old rain, windows foggy with grease and dust. The sign above the entrance is missing half its letters.

I stand across the street and take it in. That’s always been my habit. Observe first. Decide later. On the ground floor, there’s a restaurant. One flickering fluorescent light buzzes above the door, illuminating a handwritten menu taped to the glass. Next to it is a watch repair shop. Or what’s left of one. A small sign promises repairs while you wait. Further down, there’s a pawn shop. The building smells like oil, damp paper, and regret.

Julian Spencer’s office sits at the very end of the structure, almost hidden with no sign and no window display. Just a narrow door with peeling paint.

Of course it’s at the end.

Men like Julian don’t put themselves at the center of things. They stay tucked away, watching from the edges, letting the city rot around them as they take notes.

I slide my hands into my coat pockets and keep my eyes on the door. Kelly was right. If someone wanted to disappear while still being close enough to cause damage, this would be exactly where they’d go.

And judging by the state of the place, Julian’s been doing both for a long time.

I check my watch. 6:45 p.m.

I step off the curb and head toward the building; Julian’s office door appears even worse up close. It’s a sliding door with a cracked frame and a buzzer taped together as if someone gave up halfway through repairing it.

I tap the glass twice with my knuckles.

For a second, nothing happens. Then the door slides open with a reluctant grind, and the first thing I see is grease.