Page 7 of Heartfelt Pain (Ruling Love #3)

Ren

Ren: Are you almost here?

I peer out my window like I’ll somehow magically spot Isolde walking up to the building.

Isolde: Please don’t hate me. I’ve caught someone.

I frown at the phone. It’s a euphemism of sorts but not in the way most would think.

“I’ve fucking told you,” I whisper as I type the same words.

Ren: I’ve fucking told you. Stop with the vigilante shit!

My best friend is going to get fucking killed if she doesn’t calm the fuck down.

Ren: You have paying customers.

I’m not stupid enough to type out what those said customers pay her to do.

Ren: Focus on them and not the randoms!

Isolde and I rehash this conversation often enough that I know her response before she sends it.

Isolde: If I don’t focus on them then no one will.

That’s not quite true. There are a few people out there like Isolde.

People who stare down the barrel of a gun and try to make the world a better place.

Who kill sex offenders and pedophiles and men who beat women to death.

They’re not heroes by any standards, but they do make the world a safer place.

Because the truth is this world we live in is nothing but shades of gray. There’s no good and there’s no bad. It’s a pendulum. Sometimes it goes too far in one direction so someone has to make the hard decisions.

I’m not mad at Isolde for making hard decisions. But I will be if she gets herself killed in the process of doing so.

The frustration mixes with disappointment. She takes her wingman duties seriously. She wouldn’t leave me hanging if it wasn’t someone bad she needed to take out.

It’s not her fault I’m dying to have sex.

But the night gets worse when Lennie texts.

Lennie: Hey. . .

Ren: You’re not coming.

Except I know for a fact she is. Elijah probably has her trapped and is fucking her within an inch of her life. It’s rather considerate, allowing her time to text me.

Lennie: Please call me if you need anything! Have fun, but be safe!

The message is followed by a slew of emojis. Hearts and sparkles and smiley faces.

She’s cute and precious but something claws inside me.

The black material of my dress cages me in, but it’s not enough to fight back the raging monster inside me.

I know Lennie fought for her love. And I’m not mad at her for finding it.

I am jealous, though.

It’s a miserable feeling. And now that I’m aware of it and aware of why I’m suddenly so upset—because I’m a touched-starved fool—it won’t go away.

The sky outside is dark, lit up buildings dotting the skyline. I catch my reflection in the window.

I’ve got a hand to my stomach and I look too solemn. The dress is designer. I spent a godawful amount on it.

The dress is skintight, the bodice dipping down and cupping each breast. My heels are six inches and my hair falls down my back in thick glamorous waves. I even winged my eyeliner out.

It wasn’t like I needed Len and Isolde for the whole night. I mean, eventually, I’d want some one-on-one time with whoever caught my eye.

And Ren fucking Callahan isn’t afraid to go to a sex club by herself.

Which is why I find myself in the bar at Hartright’s.

I pass a couple on one of the couches. A woman sucks a man off, but I ignore his glazed eyes following my figure. I’m not down for sharing and I’m not after seconds.

I am, however, surprised to see Tyler Mulligan behind the bar.

He’s good-looking with a square jaw and short hair. The suit he wears doesn’t properly show off his muscles, but the cut against his broad shoulders certainly looks good.

“I thought you quit.”

He glances up from his work. “Dirty martini?”

“Yes, please.”

He shakes his head. “That’s the nastiest drink.”

“That your professional opinion?”

Laughing, he nods. “Fuck yeah.” He slides over a drink to another customer, before making mine. “You alone?”

I’ve had five years to hone a blank face. I show nothing as he gazes questioningly at me.

There’s no judgment in his eyes, though. “You come to play?”

Working here means he’s seen an awful lot of shit and I can’t imagine a day where he slut shames anyone.

I nod in response to his question. He slides a dirty martini over, flashing a bright smile.

“And here I thought you and that Brit were codependent.”

Under no circumstances does he need to know about the underwear story.

“Where is she at?” he asks, his gaze dipping around the room.

“You suddenly straight?”

His arms stretch against the bar as he leans. He’s powerful and deadly. I know because his mother, Nancy, is like Aunt Macy. A legend to fellow triggermen. And she taught her son everything she knew.

“You ever worry about her?” Tyler asks and I feel my brow wrinkle.

Tyler and I know one another, but I wouldn’t say we’re best friends. There’s been times I’ve shown up asking for information. He knows a lot, thanks to his mother and her connections. He’s wise and street-smart. But he never comes across as a snoop .

So I don’t know why he’s suddenly worried about my friend.

“It’s my job to worry about her.” Professionally and personally.

Tyler’s chest heaves with a sigh. It’s just the start of his shift.

“Are you worried about your friend?” I ask. The one that goes around wearing a mask. The Ghost is even more active as a vigilante than Isolde.

“Every day.”

His seriousness takes me aback.

Tyler reminds me of Russet and Ben. Hardworking, practical, and just trying to pay the bills. He flashes smiles and jokes easily. His good looks help him bring in the bartending tips, but he’s also kind.

He doesn’t say it, but a current runs between us. If he’s worried about his friend, the Ghost, then I need to be worried for Isolde.

“What shit do you know?” With my arms crossed over my chest, and my martini glass lifted to my lips, this is starting to feel like a work meeting.

Tyler shakes his head, his attention grabbed by a server coming over. He’s got actual work to do.

“Have a good night.” He’s nice enough to hand over another skewer of bleu cheese-stuffed olives, knowing it’s my favorite part about the drink. I only have a chance to smile in thanks before he walks away.

Red lipstick stains the rim of the glass as I survey my options.

Men and women stare back at me. I should feel satisfaction, knowing I have options. I’m wanted.

But being a wanted woman in my line of work is never good.

Wariness settles over me and the night’s just begun .

Don’t do this , I beg my brain. Just turn off for once. It’s okay to enjoy something.

In some ways, this should be easier than dating apps. Every person in this room is here for the exact same reason. And they’re all vetted by the exclusive club.

It’s safe to play.

I’m having a full-on pep talk with myself at this point. My limbs are already tired. I put so much effort into getting ready but the anticipation has fizzled.

I could grab someone. All it’d take is a look. We’d find ourselves in a private room. I could satisfy all my urges and go home before I turn into a pumpkin.

Or I could just go home now.

A server is by my side offering me another dirty martini. I decide to give myself one more drink before making a decision.

“Your dress is really pretty,” a soft-spoken female says, passing me on the way to the bar.

I ignore her and drink a little faster. Probably would’ve helped if I’d eaten more today.

“She’s right.”

A man leans against the bar, his suit impeccable and his body hot as fuck. His voice is smooth. It’s not smarmy, though, depending on the next few lines of conversation, my opinion might change.

“Your dress is pretty,” he purrs.

I lift a brow. “Is it?”

Pretty implies floral sundresses. I picture Lennie with her constant smiles and chattiness about books. I think of sunsets and the beach.

“Not the type of compliment you like?” He’s got dark hair, a curl swooping down his forehead. Despite the opulent setting and the expensive alcohol, I can’t get past the idea that this conversation could take place anywhere. A dive bar sees plenty of men hitting on women .

I remind myself this is exactly why I came here, though. I wanted a man’s attention.

“I’m wearing a three thousand dollar dress”—I don’t bother to smile or make niceties—“and I’m not wearing any underwear. I didn’t come here for pretty.”

His blue eyes scan my body. I sip my drink, uncaring. Unfeeling. “What’d you come for?” he asks.

Myself . To prove a point to myself that I’m ready to move on. I should have moved on a long time ago.

“Cock,” I tell him, flashing a sardonic smile.

His own grin is feral in response. At least until another voice cuts in.

“But not yours.”

My skin flushes.

The man glances over his shoulder, frowning at Roma Zimin. “I’m sorry, mate.”

Roma sighs and I can hear the exasperation. “She’s not here for your cock, mate. So kindly fuck off.”

“Because she’s here for yours?” he questions, looking my way. Couples getting into fights before they fuck is certainly a thing, but that’s not what’s going on here.

I straighten my spine ready to bitch Roma the fuck out when I catch his face. I throw back the rest of my martini instead.

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re playing at,” I mutter. My irritation grows when the handsome stranger leaves, only slightly put out. I honestly thought he’d put up more of a fight. “I liked him.”

Roma snorts. “You could barely stand to look at him.”

Rage, deep and unbridled, festers in my belly. Slamming the empty drink on the bar, I step away.

“Len’s not here,” I call over my shoulder, striding away.

“Elijah’s fucking her. ”

I tamper the urge to let out an unladylike temper tantrum. “Did you come all the way here just to announce that?”

It hits me then, he’s not wearing a tux like most of the men here.

“Who the fuck do you know here?” I ask.

“What?” He stays on my heels, following me down a long hallway.

“You’re wearing a T-shirt under your leather jacket.” It’s the same beat-up one he’s worn forever. “They’re pretty strict with the dress code.”