Rocco smirked at me. I hunched over my beer and locked my eyes on the bar. Why had I done that? I didn’t need to get involved. The asshole had been right, it wasn’t my business. She wasn’t my business. But every word out of that prick’s mouth had been like the sound of a fork scraping over a plate. Some people hated fingernails on a chalkboard; I hated a fork scraping on a plate.
