Page 144 of By A Thread

My neck flushed hot and splotchy in the mirror.

“Hi, Charming. It’s, uh… me. Ally. I’m sick. I can’t come in today. But I swear I’ll make up the time. I can work late tomorrow or on the weekend or… whatever.” I remembered to cough, but it came out more like the honk of a wounded goose.

My neck was on fire with lies. I bobbled my phone, dropping it into the sink. “Damn it!” I hissed, making a grab for it and disconnecting the call.

I really needed to work on my lies. But for now, I had moisture-resistant Sheetrock to hang.

* * *

I spentthe day hanging and taping Sheetrock in the bathroom and not answering my phone. Dominic called three times, and I let it go to voicemail each time. And, of course, listened to the messages immediately afterward.

He sounded concerned, asking if I needed soup, then annoyed because who the hell was supposed to do all the work I was supposed to do? Very on-brand for Dominic Russo.

I didn’t respond. But guilt at missing a full day of work started to eat away at me. I tried to stuff it down with a turkey sandwich, made just the way my dad liked—with thin slices of apple topped with sharp cheddar. It was nice to have cheese back in my life.

According to the nurse at the desk, it was a good day for Dad, which meant I couldn’t see him.

Not with my face looking like this.

Not if there was a chance that he’d realize the bruises came from him.

By early evening, I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d watched my inbox overflow with its usual frenetic energy all day, but I hadn’t been there to take care of anything. Looming responsibilities made me feel itchy. I decided I’d put in a few hours of work tonight and start fresh tomorrow… if my face cooperated.

I showered, dressed, and headed into the city. The night air was cold, crisp, and felt like snow. It was after nine by the time I let myself into the office with my keycard. The floor was dark and quiet. A ghost town compared to the daytime productivity.

In a nod to the overwhelming quiet—and, okay, to make sure Dominic wasn’t pulling an all-nighter in his office—I tiptoed to my desk.

The office was empty, and I was alone. I breathed a sigh of relief and flopped down in my chair. My desk had a stack of new files. My email inbox was demanding my attention, and I had nothing but a few uninterrupted hours to make some headway.

I put in my earbuds, cranked up one of my favorite dance playlists, and dug into the work.

The hand that clamped down on my shoulder half an hour later scared the ever-living shit out of me.

“Oh, sweet Jesus!”

“Who the hell did this to you?”

The demand, growled over the volume of my music, nearly shocked me out of my chair and onto the floor.

But he caught me.

I was staring into the eyes of one furious Dominic Russo.

I clutched at my heart to make sure it was still functioning. He yanked my earbuds free.

“Who the fuck hit you, Ally?” He enunciated each word with a burning fury that was both terrifying and touching. None of that rage transferred to the fingertips that gently tilted my chin so he could get a better look.

“No one,” I lied, trying to slip out of his hold. My neck wasen fuego. This was so stupid. I should have just stayed home. “I had a little home renovation mishap. Not that it’s any of your concern.”

“That’s a fucking handmark on your face, Ally. Don’t lie to me.” He sounded pained.

My neck was a pulsing beacon of hives proclaiming my lies.

“Dom, it’s none of your business,” I said, trying to wheel back to put some distance between us, but he held my chair by the arms, and my feet skittered uselessly on the carpet.

“Don’t pull that shit with me, Ally,” he said darkly.

“Don’t ask questions about things that don’t concern you.”