Lance scrambled up from the floor. His face was red, a vein bulging in his neck.
"You're dead," he spat at Francesca. "I'll sue you for everything you don't have."
He grabbed Dollie, who was still wailing about her mascara, and dragged her toward the exit.
"Not yet," Francesca said.
She ran after them.
"Fran!" Anna yelled, but Francesca was already weaving through the crowd.
She burst out the back door into the alleyway.
Lance was there, trying to wipe a stain off his jacket. Dollie was by the car, checking her reflection in the window.
"Lance!"
He turned. "What? Haven't you done enough?"
"Why?" Francesca asked. She stood in the rain, shivering. "Five years, Lance. Was any of it real?"
Lance stopped wiping his jacket. He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time that night. He let out a sigh, dropping the act.
"The first year? Maybe," he said. He took out a pack of cigarettes. "But then you got... sad. After the 'miscarriage'. You were depressing, Fran. And your dad made it clear: the money follows the winner. You were losing."
"So you just switched sisters? Like buying a new car?"
"It's business," Lance said, lighting the cigarette. "Dollie is fun. She's uncomplicated. And she comes with a seat on the board."
"I loved you," Francesca whispered.
"That's your problem," Lance said, blowing smoke in her face. "You love too hard. It's pathetic."
Something snapped inside Francesca.
She stepped forward and slapped him.
It wasn't a movie slap. It was a palm-heel strike to his jaw, fueled by five years of grief.
Crack.
Lance stumbled back, dropping his cigarette. He touched his lip. It was bleeding.
His eyes went dark.
"You stupid whore," he growled.
He lunged at her. He grabbed her wrist, twisting it.
Francesca cried out.
"I'm going to teach you a lesson," Lance hissed, raising his other hand.
"I wouldn't do that."
A voice from the shadows. Deep. Gravelly.
Cooper stepped out from the rear exit door, closing it softly behind him. He was wearing a leather jacket now, collar up. He looked like trouble.
Lance laughed. "Who the hell is this? A hobo?"
"Let her go," Cooper said. He walked closer. His movements were fluid, predatory.
"Get lost, man," Lance said. "This is a domestic dispute."
"It looks like assault to me," Cooper said.
He didn't wait for a response. He moved.
One second he was three feet away. The next, he had Lance's finger in one hand and his wrist in the other.
He twisted.
Lance screamed. He dropped to his knees.
"My finger! You broke my finger!"
Cooper released him, shoving him into a pile of wet cardboard boxes.
"Touch her again," Cooper said, his voice dropping to a whisper that carried more threat than a scream, "and I'll break the other nine."
Lance scrambled up, cradling his hand. He looked at Cooper with pure terror. He didn't know who this was, but he knew violence when he saw it.
"You're crazy! Both of you!"
Lance ran toward his car, leaving Dollie standing there, mouth open.
Cooper turned to Francesca.
She was leaning against the brick wall, sliding down slowly. The fight had drained the last of her energy.
"You," she breathed.
"Me," Cooper said.
"Are you following me?"
Cooper took off his leather jacket. He draped it over her shoulders. It was heavy, warm, and smelled of him.
"I had a drop-off nearby," he lied. "Saw a lady in distress."
"You broke his finger," she said, looking at his hands.
"He tripped," Cooper said.
Francesca looked up at him. The rain matted his hair to his forehead. He looked dangerous. And he was the safest thing she had ever known.
"Thank you," she said.
"Don't mention it," Cooper said. "You still owe me money. Can't have you dying on me."
