Free Grit (Dirty #6) by Cheryl McIntyre Page B

machines. Stacking the mats is supposed to be a two-person job, but there are certain days when I need the repetitive and strenuous activity all to myself.
    Some people meditate, some people drink, some people make themselves sweat. I fall into the latter category.
    This is how I try to control the urge to pay Garrett’s place of employment another visit.
    When I’m finished, I hit the shower, knowing it wasn’t enough to keep me away. As I soap up, I justify this by telling myself I’m only keeping tabs on him. Checking in to make sure he’s where we think he is and that he’s not hurting anyone. I’m doing it for Rocky.
    It’s a load of shit.
    I do it to feed my sick obsession. Revenge was my only purpose for such a long, long time. Without it, I don’t know who I am. I watch Garrett because I need to. Because I have to. And because if he ever did it again, I’d feel responsible.
    I couldn’t stop what happened to Livie—I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t understand how cold and cruel some could be. I know better now. I know evil lives inside monsters disguised as people. It’s my responsibility to do something with that knowledge.
    I’m also aware roles can easily reverse. I’ve become the monster before. It wasn’t difficult to do. The only thing separating me from the others was my disdain for it. I don’t like to hurt anyone—even when I should. Regardless of how well warranted it is, I still have a conscience. I just don’t know how far that inner voice can be pushed before it disappears all together.
    Still, I test it.
    It’s getting late. I should be at Rocky’s, preparing us a late dinner. I didn’t feed her lunch, and she probably didn’t make herself anything.
    Shit .
    I turn off the water and towel myself dry in a hurry. Once I’m dressed, I stop in the office to shut everything down and clear my Styrofoam coffee cups from the desk. My sexy secretary doesn’t like a messy workspace.
    Before I power down the computer, I pull up Garrett Marshall’s profile picture from the dating website he belongs to. I wonder how thorough these sites’ background checks are. They can’t be that great. He may not have been convicted of Rocky’s rape, but it made newspaper headlines.
    I clench my fist, feeling the anger seep through my veins. He shouldn’t be allowed on a dating site perusing women. Possibly looking for another victim. He shouldn’t be allowed to walk around free. The injustice of it sits like a ball of fire in my stomach, burning and burning.
    There he is. I click on the picture and send it to the printer.
    Next time I go to Gillian’s Restaurant, I’ll be able to tell exactly which one he is.
     
     
    ***
     
     
    The apartment appears dark when I pull up, but Rocky’s car is parked out front. I assume she must be sleeping, so I use the key she gave me for this kind of situation. I’m surprised to find the refrigerator door open, dimly illuminating the kitchen.
    She’s seated at the table, hands folded, gaze trained on the unopened bottle of vodka in front of her. She doesn’t look away when I flip on the light and close the fridge.
    “Hey,” I say, running the back of my finger down her arm.
    Her head shifts, watching the slow movement of my hand. I wait for her to reply or acknowledge me in some way, but that one small gesture is all I get. I slip my hand under her chin, lifting it so I can see her face. Her eyes are bloodshot, and I can’t tell if it’s from drinking or crying.
    I glance at the bottle again, confirming it is in fact unopened. Though she could have finished off another one before this. Other than a drink or two here and there, she hasn’t drank much in a while. A long while . I lean in to kiss her, knowing if she has been drinking, I’ll taste it on her, but she turns her head away.
    I freeze, bent halfway toward her, unsure how to proceed. She’s never once turned away from my kiss. I’m confused and surprised. My stomach rolls. Adrenaline spiking,