Lena

I find Erin Daley at the salon where she works—incidentally, the same place Jase tracked her down to yesterday. After my conversation with him and Gabe, I'm fired up and determined to get to the bottom of this. I'm not certain I believe what he said about being entirely innocent, but I'll admit he was convincing, and I want to know, once and for all, what actually went down between him and his ex. I need to hear her side of the story and weigh it against his. Once I've deduced the truth—which I don't doubt I'll be able to do—I can decide on our next steps. Guilty or not, it's my job to help Jase, but I'll need to tread more carefully if I discover there's any truth to the accusations against him.

Entering through a glass door painted with pink script, I pause and look around. The salon is nice, probably out of my budget, with high ceilings and shiny surfaces for all the beautiful customers to admire themselves in. An array of expensive hair and skin products occupies the shelves beside the receptionist's desk, and I scan the labels, wishing I could afford to take a few bottles home with me.

"Can I help you?" the receptionist asks politely.

"I'm looking for Erin," I say, scanning the room, my gaze landing on Jase's ex as she paints dye onto a young woman's hair.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No." I turn back to the receptionist. She's pretty, wearing a pale pink blouse, emblazoned with the logo of the salon. "I was hoping for a private moment with her. It'll only take a couple of minutes."

She lifts an appointment book onto the desk and runs a fingernail down the page. "Sorry, hon, she's booked full today."

Leaning closer, I drop my voice, hoping I sound like a gossipy airhead rather than the astute professional I generally prefer to be perceived as. "It's about her ex, the MMA fighter? I'm hoping to get a few words."

"Oh," she replies, a wealth of understanding in her tone. Even though I haven't technically lied, she's mistaken me for a reporter and I'm happy for her to continue under that impression. "In that case, if you wait for five minutes she'll be finished with her client and take a short break."

"That's perfect. I'm happy to wait." I smile like she's made my day. "Thank you for being so understanding."

"No problem. I'm just glad that asshole is paying for what he did." She props her elbow on the desk and rests her chin in it, her face only inches from mine. "Did you know he came here yesterday? I mean, the nerve." She tuts. "It's always the hot ones who turn out bad."

I laugh, and this time it isn't the slightest bit fake. "Trust me, I know." We exchange a conspiratorial look, one hard-done-by single woman to another. "I wish the looks made up for the personalities."

Although with Karson, it had been more than his personality that led me to end things so swiftly and decisively. The fucker had thought he could punch me and I'd stay with him. I was smart enough not to fight back at the time—the guy is a pro—but sometimes I regret that I didn't key his car or smash a window in his ridiculous mansion of a home.

"Hey, some are just boring," she says, drawing me out of my thoughts. "And a boring hot guy isn't so bad."

I nod in agreement, straighten and gesture to the sofa just inside the door. "I'll just wait over here."

"Go right ahead, hon."

Ten minutes pass before Erin joins me. I flip through one of the magazines on the coffee table and listen to the chatter in the salon. When she reaches me, I ask if there's somewhere private we can talk. She smiles, looking far more pleased with herself than I expect, and leads me out the back to a staff kitchenette.

The bright indoor lighting emphasizes the ugly mottled skin around her eye and the puffiness in one corner where it's swollen partially shut. It occurs to me that for a woman with a lot of makeup on—lipstick, brow pencil, eyeliner, mascara—she doesn't have any over the bruise. I wonder if that's because it hurts to apply makeup there, or whether she enjoys the attention it attracts. If Jase is to be believed, it's the latter, but my natural inclination is to assume the former. After all, I know better than anyone how much a man's fist can hurt.

"You wanted to talk to me about Jase?" she asks, and there's a glint in her eye I don't like. It's greedy. Excited. "Where are you from?"

"Actually," I say, "I work for Bolton & Symes Public Relations. My name is Lena. I've already heard Jase's side of the story, and I'd like to hear yours."

Her expression sours, her lips flattening and her eyes narrowing. "You work for Jase."

"No, I work for Mr. Bolton and Ms. Symes," I correct, sitting on a chair and indicating she should take the one beside me. "Why don't you tell me what went down, Erin?"

"I thought you were a reporter," she says, not moving. She doesn't want to join me, and it rubs me the wrong way that she was so willing to speak to a journalist but doesn't want anything to do with me. Perhaps she thinks I'm trying to sweep her problem under the carpet.

"I'm not. But I am someone who'd really like to hear what you have to say. Why don't you sit and start at the beginning?" I wave a hand at the seat. "I promise, I'm not here to harass you. Just to learn the truth."

Reluctantly, she sinks into it, giving me the side-eye as though I've tricked her, and crosses her legs, her miniskirt riding up.

"Jase hit me," she says with a shrug of one shoulder, studying the lining of the chair. "What else is there to say?"

I take my notebook and pen from my purse. "Was it just once, or was it a pattern?"

She shrugs again. "Just once." Looking up, she catches my eye. "It was terrifying."

I make a note of her answer. "Did he often lose his temper with you?"

"Oh yes, all the time." She's warming to the questions now, a smile flitting at the corner of her lips.

"And when he did, what would happen?"

"He'd yell, swear, sometimes throw things." She licks her lips like she has a particularly scandalous tidbit to share and leans toward me. "Once, he punched a hole in a wall."

I picture the massive, leanly muscled guy from the gym smashing a wall in a fit of rage and shiver. It's a frightening image. But it also doesn't gel with what I've seen of him. He's cocky and mouthy, but though he's certainly pouted plenty, he hasn't laid a finger on me in any way that's given me a legitimate reason for concern.

"That must have scared you," I say, to keep her talking.

Her eyes widen, then she winces, and I feel a pang of sympathy. "You have no idea."

I duck my head closer to hers, inviting her confidence. I get the impression she's a born storyteller, and loves having an audience. "Why did you stay with him?"

"Well... I..." She flounders, and I push away the urge to help her. I can't baby this woman if I want to get to the bottom of things. "I guess..." She gives an awkward laugh. "He's so fucking hot, you know? And he's not always a bad guy. Sometimes he was nice to me."

He's hot? That's her first response?

This is Vegas. There are thousands of hot guys out there if that's all that matters to her. Her answer doesn't ring true, and I want to poke it and see how she unravels.

"What happened the day he hit you?"

"We were dancing at a club. Flashlight—you might have heard of it." Her voice is strong and sure now; she's back on familiar ground. How many times has she told this exact same story? The words sound rehearsed, like they've been repeated over and over. I suppose she would have told whichever news outlet she originally spoke to, and probably her friends and colleagues, too. Still, something about her seems too... polished. If I didn't know better, I'd think she was bragging by name-dropping the hottest new club in town, which is next to impossible to get into.

"I've heard of it," I confirm.

Her face drops in disappointment, and I wonder if she was hoping I'd be more impressed by her glamorous lifestyle. "It's like, the place to be," she continues. "I was so freaking excited when he asked me to go with him. We had a few shots, and he went to the bathroom." At this point, it occurs to me that Jase told me he doesn't drink during fight camps, and I'm inclined to believe him. I wonder if it's a slip of the tongue, or if Erin just lied. I don't interrupt though, I want to see where she's going with this.

"I was dancing by myself and this other guy started hitting on me. I didn't lead him on," she says, tossing her perfect blonde hair in such a way that makes me think that's exactly what she did. "But when Jase got back, he went totally nuts. Like, more angry than I'd ever seen him before." Her lips twist in a smirk. "I guess he didn't like seeing someone else's hands on me. So he shoved the guy away, and it was such an alpha move"—at this point, she sighs dreamily—"so hot, and I just wanted to jump him, so we took a taxi home but he was in a crappy mood and when we were alone, he hit me and told me never to flirt with anyone else again. Then he got drunk, and he's a mean drunk, so I packed a bag and snuck out."

My brows shoot up. "You were living with him?"

This was a fact no one had mentioned.

"Ah, no." She colors, and drops her eyes. "I just left a few things there. Changes of clothes, you know."

"Stuff that you were worried enough about to go and collect when your boyfriend with an anger problem had just hit you?"

As someone who's been in that situation, I can attest that my personal belongings were the last thing on my mind. I just wanted to get somewhere safe and be held by someone who cared about me. I know that everyone reacts to situations differently, but this whole conversation seems off to me.

Erin is flustered now. The flush has spread over her entire face and her movements have become jerky. She shakes her head. "He was starting to calm down. I wasn't in any danger—"

"But you said he was a mean drunk," I point out.

Like someone slipping on a mask, Erin's expression changes. Her lips curl, her eyes become icy, and her hands still. The effect is like being doused with cold water. Forget innocent victim, the person in front of me is a straight-up mean girl.

"I don't know what you're insinuating, but I've had enough of this conversation. I'm going to tell anyone who'll listen what he did, and I'll probably have him arrested. Nothing you do or say will stop me." She stands, her back ramrod straight. "If Jase wants to talk to me, he can come here himself rather than sending his little messenger." Her sneer could have been taken directly from my high school nightmares. "I don't have to justify myself to you. You can see yourself to the door."

My temper flares and I get to my feet. "What's your play? You want him to come here so someone can take his picture and slam him all through the tabloids again? Because it won't work. I'm going to keep him far, far away from you." If it's the last goddamn thing I do.

She looks up at me because I'm taller than her, which is the only satisfactory thing about this situation. "As if you could."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

She steps closer, her hands on her hips, not the slightest bit intimidated by my height. "Jase is mine, bitch. You're just some girl on his payroll, so don't go thinking you actually mean anything to him. Desperation is not a pretty look on you."

All snappy comebacks desert me, and I gape at her. Is she for real?

"I don't want him," I tell her. "And even if I did, why the hell would you after what you've supposedly been through?"

She cocks her head. "I forgive him. That's what love is about."

"You forgive him, but you're planning to have him arrested?" This woman is deluded. Completely fucking nuts. And I'm beginning to think I got Jase all wrong. However it might appear, I'm not so sure Erin is the victim in this bizarre scenario.

"He needs a push." She bares her teeth. "Now getyour skanky ginger ass out of my salon."