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the bush for Harvey.

    He straightened and barked orders at the bouncers. The back room emptied as people scattered past me.

    At least no one stuck around to watch the tough girl struggle to her feet.

    Except Martinez. And he didn’t offer a hand to help me up.

    I stood next to him, breathing hard, smelling bad, covered in dirt, blood, and God-knew-what sticky substance from the grungy bar floor. I just wanted to go home, end this awful day by drinking myself into oblivion.

    He picked up my ball cap and tossed it on the bar. “This is your disguise?”

    “It worked. I’m in here, aren’t I?”

    “I’d have recognized you.”

    I didn’t have a snappy response for that.

    “Come to my office. You need a drink.”

    My brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders and a valid excuse to decline his offer eluded me.

    Taking my silence as a yes, Martinez’s warm, rough hand circled my wrist. He unlocked a door between the bathrooms, which opened into a large storage area with three enormous walk-in coolers.

    We moved past floor-to-ceiling metal shelves filled with bar supplies, and stopped at another door—reinforced steel, marked “Private.”

    He ushered me inside.

    The space wasn’t what I’d expected. No posters of scantily clad chicks hawking beer. No neon bar signs. No big screen TV blaring ESPN. No greasy Harley parts strewn across the floor. It was nice. Neater than my house and a helluva lot cleaner than the bar.

    Gray tweed sofas were arranged around a square coffee table. A big black desk took up one entire wall. A small chrome cart packed with liquor bottles was shoved in the corner. It was bizarre to think we were in the middle of a busy biker hangout.

    He pointed to a wooden door off to the right. “Bathroom is through there if you wanna clean up.”

    “Does seeing me covered in Donovan’s blood bother you, Martinez?”

    “I thought it might bother you.”

    Just when I’d decided he was an asshole, he acted . . . well, less assholish. Without responding, I slipped down the short hallway.

    Holy crap. Not only was there a full size bathroom in here, there was a bedroom right next to it.
    His bedroom? Did he live here?

    I shut the bathroom door and paused in front of the black pedestal sink, taking a half-assed glance in the mirror.

    Oh yeah. I looked like shit. Felt like it too.

    I stripped off the raggedy sweatshirt. Scrubbed the blood and dirt from my hands, my arms, my face until my flesh stung. Some small cuts reopened and began to bleed. Scraped skin and a few bruises were trivial in comparison to Donovan’s wounds. I watched pink soap-suds swirl down the drain until the water ran clear.

    Martinez had his back to me when I returned to his office. A bottle of Don Julio sat on the coffee table. I was absurdly touched he’d remembered my drink of choice.

    He turned and gave my bloodstained tank top and jeans a once-over. “Is that all from Donovan?”

    I nodded, feeling oddly exposed, which naturally I hated, so I crossed my arms over my chest and glared at him.

    His gaze zoomed in on my scratched forearms. “Didn’t the EMTs check you out?”

    “They didn’t have time.”

    “I do.” He pointed to the loveseat. “Sit.”

    “Blood and dirt aside—”

    “Sit your ass on that couch, Julie. Now.”

    Grumbling, I perched on the edge of the cushion. I wasn’t giving in, I told myself. I’d just moved closer to the tequila.

    Martinez left, came back with a medical kit. He crouched in front of me. “Give me your hands.”

    I didn’t have the energy to act churlish and refuse.

    He inspected my palms, my forearms from elbow to wrist. When he finished, he poured me a shot and handed it over.

    I knocked it back. Before the first drop lined my stomach, I held out the glass for more.

    Martinez poured another slug for me, then one for himself.

    The silver liquid disappeared without the obligatory toast. After the third mouthful, I set the empty glass on the