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FRANKIE
I burst into the office, my chest tight, and find Mateo counting a stack of bills like some kind of accountant on steroids. “Where is she?”
“Where’s who?” He blinks, all fake innocence.
“Your cash flow.” The words taste stupid.
“My what?” Now he’s grinning, the bastard.
“Angel Rose, dammit!” I snap, my control fraying.
It’s been two days. Two days without her face in the crowd, two days of this gnawing, frantic void in my chest. I ended things in a blaze of stupid pride driven by lust, and now the thought of her moving on, of someone else touching her, smelling her, hearing that laugh—it makes my vision tunnel.
“Why didn’t you just say so?” He’s laughing at me now.
“Where. Is. She.” Each word is a bullet. I'm giving him the look that usually makes people back down.
I’
