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I grab his hand, and he tugs me up in one easy motion.

“Before you suggest laying charges, I’ve considered it,” I say as I adjust my bag on my shoulder. “Not at first, but later. The statute of limitations is up, though, so I couldn’t if I wanted to.”

He exhales heavily, then pops the top button on his shirt as if he needs the air. “In that case, let’s go home.”

I don’t argue with his choice of words.

19

HARRISON

Rae didn’t protest when I brought her back to my place or when I fumbled with the kettle to make tea. In truth, I felt more shaken than she looked. We spent the evening watching South Park, half my brain trying to understand the statistical likelihood of a boy named Kenny being plagued by such obscure, violent threats week after week. The other half of my brain was simply grateful to have Raegan curled against my side.

The next morning, I look at her in my bed. My chest twists like there’s a knot of muscle deep in my torso. She’s too fucking young to have gone through what she has. Too brave for me to taunt her about being weak.

She will never go through it again and the man who hurt her will beg for a fate like Kenny’s.

Leaving her in bed, I close the door before I pad barefoot out to the kitchen and start coffee. The smell might wake her, but I don’t want my sounds to.

I ignore the dozens of notifications on my phone as I pull up her social profile, going right back to the post she never deleted, reaming me out this spring. I watch it again, emotions colliding in my chest.

Now I understand why she’s so fixated on ensuring women are protected in clubs—mine or anyone else’s. It’s not only an issue that matters to her—it’s one that shaped her.

It’s shaped me through her.

I swipe a finger up the screen, and the feed scrolls, dozens of images. From Ibiza and since. Plus the live feed she did from Beck’s last week, fresh and grinning.

Thanks to that, she’s at number three on the Wild Fest fan vote.

I’m beyond proud of her.

The way she glows on stage. The way she tries. The way she’ll fight for other people but hides her heart because she doesn’t want it trampled.

The most recent photo is a poster for her gig in New York this week—her last push before the organizers decide. I can’t attend thanks to an important meeting in London later this week.

I want to be there for her.

What I want more, though, is to kill the man who hurt her with my bare hands.

The hearing is scheduled for tomorrow. The fate of my club rests in the balance, but suddenly there’s something even more important at stake.

I click out of social media and into my contacts list, dialing a number I rarely use.

“You don’t need to handle this,” Leni insists. “We have lawyers and petitioners who can do the heavy lifting.”

Hearings are a place for the general public to trot out their objections and for officials and the committee to ask questions. They’re not something I’d deign to participate in if it weren’t important. And since the head of zoning is the man who raped my girlfriend, it’s fucking important.

When I show up at the meeting, there’s a modest crowd. My lawyers handle most of the conversation on my behalf. There are some ridiculous questions and pressures from a local interest group that make me sit up.

“Mr. King has a reputation for taking over clubs only to mismanage them. We don’t want a large venue in our community.”

“Those claims are unsubstantiated,” my lawyer says.

“I have reports dating back years.” He holds up a stack of papers, takes them over to the commission.

“Give me a copy,” I demand.

The man does.