"Don't scream," Patrick hissed, one hand clamping at Laney's wrist as the storeroom light swung above them.
"Let go," she said, pulling back, voice low but steady.
"You think shouting will fix your mistakes?" He stepped closer until the smell of cheap cologne mixed with dish soap hit her. His other hand went to the shelf, fingers brushing a row of expensive liquor bottles.
"I didn't—" Laney started.
"You did," he said. "You broke stock, you cost me a reservation, and you owe me. Now be quiet."
He moved like someone used to doors opening for him. Laney's free hand found the neck of a bottle. Not a slow, cinematic grab. Quick, animal, because the storeroom had no witnesses and options were thin.
"Put that down," he ordered, jaw hard.
"You'll hurt yourself," she answered. She swung the bottle.
Glass caught his forearm. It split, thin and sharp. Red spattered across his sleeve. He made a sound that was part surprise, part venom.
"You're insane," he said, pressing a towel to the cut. He wrapped the towel around his hand as if that would make the mess look like her fault. He dropped the bottle to the floor with a crash.
Footsteps thudded outside the door. A line cook shouted, "Everything okay back there?"
Patrick straightened, wiped the corner of his mouth with the towel, and put on a public face.
"I slipped," he said loudly. "Laney's been careless."
"She's bleeding?" someone
