Bad Decisions

chapter 1

She pushed the door open with her shoulder, the alley hitting her with cold air and the reek of wet cardboard. The door sighed shut behind her, sealing off the bass and laughter. Marcus was already there, leaning against the brick wall, cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling past the scar through his eyebrow. He watched her with that slow, patient appraisal that had followed her all night.

She knew what she’d been doing—leaning too far across his table, letting her fingers drag across the napkin. When he dropped the cigarette and crossed the distance in three strides, her back hit the brick before she realized she’d moved. His hand gripped the back of her neck, thumb on her pulse, the other braced beside her head.

“You’ve been looking at me all night,” he said. “Say no now, or don’t say it at all.”

She should say no. She didn’t. She tugged lightly on his jacket. “I didn’t come out here to say no.”

He kissed her—hard, hungry, taking. She kissed him back with the same urgency. His hands moved over her body, rough and demanding, and when she said his name, he paused only long enough to hear it again before biting her below the ear.

“Last chance to walk back inside,” he said.

“I’m sure.”

He lifted the hem of her dress, fingers brushing her thigh. “Not here. My place is ten minutes.”

She followed him to the car, legs unsteady, lips swollen. The ride was silent but charged. He drove through darker streets until they reached a converted factory building. Inside, his apartment was sparse—brick, leather, steel, nothing personal.

He kissed her again, slower now, deeper. His hands slid up her sides, thumbs brushing under her breasts. When she told him she knew exactly what she’d been doing, something sharp flickered in his eyes.

He stripped her dress away, looked at her like he’d finally caught what he’d been hunting, then told her to turn around. She braced her hands on the cold brick. His touch was heavy, deliberate. His voice at her ear: “You’re going to feel me for days.”

He found her wet, laughed under his breath, and then he was inside her—slow, deep, stretching her until she couldn’t speak. His pace turned punishing, each thrust driving her against the wall. She was close too fast, wound tight from the night.

“Don’t come,” he said, strained but commanding.

She couldn’t stop. He pulled out before she finished, turned her, lifted her, entered her again. “Look at me.” She did. When she came, she came on him, holding his gaze. He followed with a rough sound, forehead pressed to hers.

Afterward, he steadied her, told her where the bathroom was. She felt his hand brush her lower back—light, almost tender.

In the bedroom doorway, she hesitated. He stood half-undressed, watching her with something quieter than hunger. She didn’t know why she stayed there, only that she wasn’t done.

“First time someone bit me hard enough to leave a mark,” she said.

He laughed, softer now. He noticed her shaking and led her to a chair, crouching to clean the scrape on her knee with a damp cloth. “Hold still,” he said. “You’ll want the grit out before it heals.”

He offered water. She drank. The gun holster under his arm caught the light.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“That depends on you. Stay, sleep, leave in the morning. I won’t ask for your number. You know where I live.”

She chose to stay.

“One rule,” he said. “Don’t touch the gun. Don’t ask about my work.”

“Deal.”

They shook on it. He removed the holster, stripped off his shirt, and got into bed. She joined him. He took her hand, placed it on his chest. His heartbeat was steady.

She drifted until he pulled her closer, arm around her, thumb tracing circles on her hip. “Is this okay?”

She pressed closer. It was.

She woke later, needing the bathroom. The room was dark, city glow on the ceiling. He slept on his stomach, sheet at his waist, a long scar across his ribs. The gun sat on the nightstand within reach.

He sensed her. “You okay?”

“Bathroom.”

“Door’s open.”

She washed up, touched the bruise where he’d bitten her, felt the memory of his mouth. When she returned, he was awake, watching her.

“You were whispering in your sleep,” he said.

“I thought you were.”

“Maybe we were both talking to ourselves.”

She touched his hand, tracing the healed breaks and calluses. He let her.

“What happens in the morning?”

“You wake up. Decide if you want coffee.”

“And if I do?”

“Then I make coffee.”

She smiled. He laced their fingers together.

She slid under the sheets again. He turned off the light, wrapped an arm around her waist, chest warm against her back. His lips brushed her shoulder.

“Good night, Lena.”

She lay awake a moment, thinking about the morning, the gun, the code on the door, the mark on her neck. She let herself be held, let the mystery of the word he’d whispered stay unresolved.

His lips brushed her hair. “Sleep, Lena.”

She did.