Free In the Shadows (The Club, #10) by M.A. Grant

night together. Instead, he kissed her cheek and headed back toward his car.
    Maybe it’s better this way, the rational side of her pointed out as she stepped into the apartment and locked the door. You’ve been with men who didn't communicate before, remember? It’s one of the reasons you left Napa to come here. You barely know this guy, so it’s not like you’ll miss him when it’s over.
    She dropped her keys in the dish by the door and continued on to her bedroom, kicking her heels off into her closet and slipping out of her dress. She’d almost convinced herself that getting over Zeke wouldn’t be too hard when she noticed the tiny blinking light of the window alarm.
    An alarm he’d put up to make sure she was safe.
    “Damn it,” she muttered as she yanked the curtains closed. “This one’s going to hurt.”

Chapter 7
    L ike shit rolling down hill, Zeke thought as he scrubbed himself one last time and rinsed off in the locker room shower. This damn week gets better and better...
    Three days after the dinner date, he’d finally gotten the balls to call Vivian. She hadn’t called him back yet, even though he’d been desperate enough to call again and leave a more obvious “I’d like to talk and make up for being such a dick” message. And now he wasn’t going to be able to work for a few days and would be tempted to visit Divine Twins like some love-struck idiot so he could see her and try to apologize in person.
    He would understand if she told him to take a flying leap off the nearest bridge. He'd really screwed up. Maybe tonight was his karmic comeuppance.
    The night hadn’t started craptastically, but it had gone there with a skip in its step in no time flat. Two hours into his shift, a drunk group of college boys with too much of their daddies’ money decided that they wanted to crash The Club. Zeke had been sent to support Luis, their bouncer. Smart move, considering the escalation punctuated by a beer bottle thrown at Luis.
    He’d ducked, but the glass shattering against the brick wall sent shrapnel spinning out. Zeke, who’d been dealing with a different prick, caught a chunk of it with his forehead, in addition to getting splashed by the brew. Once the blood started flowing, two of the kids jumped in the car and took off. The other three tried to get into the building by force.
    Zeke enjoyed putting them down. Due to Mr. Mak’s reputation, it was necessary to do that quickly, quietly, and with the least amount of fuss possible. There was no need to involve the police once the young men were lying comfortably on the ground; Preston simply called their fathers and the problem resolved itself.
    The cut he’d gotten, not so much. The bar towel one of the waitresses brought to him kept him from dripping while he disappeared back to the Suits’ building. Once he was safely out of sight of the patrons, a concerned Beebee had descended on him. It had taken too much of his time and energy to convince her that he didn’t need to go to the hospital. Okay, so he may have threatened to tell Mr. Mak he was quitting if she didn’t leave him alone, but how could he explain to her that this little injury was hell and gone from the torture he’d endured as a POW?
    She backed off once she realized his threat was serious. She still called Mr. Mak, but it was determined that Zeke wouldn’t have to go to the hospital unless he couldn’t handle the injury himself. It only took five minutes for him to close the cut with butterfly bandages and superglue. The cluster came from the cut’s placement. Right above his left eyebrow, slicing back toward his hairline. It must have been too much to ask that it could be hidden by his hair. At least three days away from work to see if it healed up. Once he didn’t look like he’d been in a barroom brawl, he’d be back in the rotation.
    “Irish? You in here?”
    Preston coming down from his celestial throne? The world must be ending.
    “Showering,” Zeke called