"Well, that's how it stands," I say. "Now. We have a lot of work ahead of us. I'll need to contact contractors to handle the skilled repair work. In the meantime, Solomon, I'd like you to coordinate the clean-up."
Sol eyes the mess. "On it. First thing is pumping out the water and getting shit dry, and then assessing any mold issues or water damage."
The repairs takeweeks to complete. We do as much of the work as possible, leaving only the skilled work for the professionals. Sol arranges for pumps to get the water out of the basement, and then an inspector goes through the structure and identifies problem areas and recommends solutions.
The electricity is repaired and restored. Plumbing as well. The floors are dried out, water damaged walls are torn out and replaced and repainted. The site of the explosion requires the most extensive rebuilding, leaving our staff entrance off limits for quite some time.
The Club remains closed during the repairs, obviously.
Jakob is incommunicado the entire time.
While the repairs are underway, I arrange suites for everyone at a hotel close to the Club.
It's a weird time, to be honest. We all work from sunup to well past sundown, as the damage to the interior from thegunfight is more extensive than we'd originally anticipated—most of the appliances in the kitchen need to be replaced, all of the drywall, most of the flooring, most of the drop-tiling…all of the furniture. The amount of work to be done is staggering, and every day that passes means the club is closed and not bringing in revenue. We work side by side, sweating, cursing, telling jokes, and laughing together.
Once upon a time, I would have remained apart, separate, aloof—“supervising”. Now, instead, I'm down in the grit and the grime with my crew, my family, ripping out drywall and painting walls and backing up stairs with water-stained, bullet-riddled sections of couch. I sit, sweaty and filthy and exhausted, eating cold pizza with dirty hands and swigging water from crinkly plastic bottles while sharing a joke with Kane, or listening to Terra tell stories of her life as a street kid.
When the work is done, we all head upstairs to the club floor and share a drink or six, sitting together in one of the VIP booths with the lights on, crammed in together into the U-shaped booth hip to hip and thigh to thigh, and I feel, for once, a sense of belonging.
I tell my own stories—war stories every bit as wild and gnarly as the ones told by the real military combat veterans.
Scarlett and I become particularly close—she's the only other woman I've ever known or met who can rival my training and experiences. We share a sort of experiential shorthand. We're both Latina. We're both warriors. We've both suffered sexual abuse. She can take one look at me and just know, without being told, when the past is bubbling up near the surface, when a flashback threatens to drag me under. She doesn't need to ask what I need. She just knows.
We're so busy, spending every waking hour working our asses off, that by the time we get back to our hotel rooms at theend of the day, Lorenzo and I have no energy for anything but showering off and falling into bed.
But this too is cathartic, this time with Lorenzo without the added complexity of sex.
I discover, very quickly, the bone-deep comfort of sleeping in his arms, hearing his heart beating under my ear as I drowse and droop and drift into sleep, feeling the strength in his arms, the powerful shelter of his body behind mine as he spoons me.
I learn to show him affection without being self-conscious; more importantly, perhaps, I learn to accept his physical affection without hesitation or demurral or cringing. I learn to smile freely. Laugh easily. It turns out I have a dry, sarcastic sense of humor.
Who knew?
Nearly three monthsafter our return to Vegas, Club Sin is once more open for business. Or, it will be, tomorrow evening.
Today, we officially move back into the Club.
And I officially move out of my private quarters below Jakob's floors—which are the uppermost two levels.
I don't have much to move—a few armloads of clothing, mostly black slacks, leggings, and blazers, solid-color T-shirts and sensible blouses, a few pairs of jeans, and some mismatched loungewear.
Lorenzo is the only one I allow up with me past the security floor to my rooms. There is only one elevator in the building, and it's tucked away in a corner near the security booth on the third floor, and it only goes to my rooms and to the two floors that comprise Jakob's business offices and personal living quarters;the elevator is biometrically secured, accessible only to the two of us.
The elevator opens directly into the living area of my rooms—a large, open space bathed in sunlight from the one-way, floor-to-ceiling windows. All in black, white, and gray, the suite of rooms is industrial, spare and spartan and modern. There's a single bedroom, a well-appointed bathroom, and a kitchen open to the living area separated by a large island.
Lorenzo looks around, nodding. 'This is very nice, Soph. Remind me again why you want to move down into the Arrow quarters?"
"I have lived apart from them for too long. This is very nice, yes. Spacious. Luxurious, even. But it's the apartment of someone I no longer am, or want to be. Jakob can do as he likes with the space." I look up at him. "I'm sorry, Ren. I know it would be far more comfortable for us to live up here, but I just…I can't anymore. Not if I want to keep moving forward."
He just waves a hand. "Bah, nothing to apologize for. Wherever you are is home. One small room, or a whole floor, doesn't matter."
I shake my head. "Ren, you don't have to be understanding and supportive literally every moment of every day."
He snorts at this. "Yes, I do. That's how it works."
"Well, yeah, I just—" I sigh, try again. "I just mean that it's okay to want and need and expect things from me, and to be upset or disappointed that you haven’t gotten it."
He nods, eyes flicking up and away as he considers this. "That's true, I suppose."
