I’m left alone there—with a troubled young teenager and all my own memories, which threaten to drown me. Moving forward, I step into Jackson’s doorway.
I’m struck hard by what I see. Jackson sits on the side of his bed, his head hung low as he stares at his black Converse. His dark hair is growing out, and he lets the bangs fall over his face, hiding his eyes.
I know that style.
“Jackson,” I begin.
“I don’t know why you’re here,” he mumbles.
“You know why I’m here—”
“To help?” He shakes his head slightly. “You can’t help me. You can’t help us. Nobody can.”
I exhale a deep centering breath, but it shudders on the way out. I’ve seen Jackson as angry as a tornado and as violent as a hurricane, but never have I seen him… give up.
“This fight isn’t over.”
“We’re never going to win.” He doesn’t move, he doesn’t even look up at me. “My grandfather has too much money. This is his city and he’s bought everyone in it.”
“Not everyone,” I remind him.
“You don’t count,” he says with such penetrating sadness, I can hardly breathe.
“We’re getting closer to our win.” I sit next to him and set my hand on his shoulder. “There’s still hope, Jackson.”
“We’re not going to win, Elle. You’re kidding yourself. I know you’d do whatever it takes, but everybody else in control of my life has their own things going. They’re just gonna keep locking me up until he comes and takes me away… and hides my little brother and sister somewhere I’ll never be able to find them again.” Tears drop from behind the curtain of his hair and onto his sneakers. “He’s going to win—he’s a winner. I’m going to lose because I’m a loser.” His shoulders slump deeper, as he hangs his head even further.
“Jackson…”
“That judge is never going to let us be together.” He’s completely defeated.
I’ve never seen him like this: no anger, no venom, no spirit. I feel my heart breaking.
Worse, I know he could be right. Squeezing my own eyes closed, I try not to fall into his despair. “We’re going to get out of this mess, but you have to eat to keep up your strength.”
Finally, his big, brown eyes meet mine, his gaze like arrows through my heart. He’s scared to death. “You’re trying to protect me, and you can’t! Give up and let me go.”
“Never.” I swallow hard, kneel on the floor beside his bed, and rest my hand on his knee. “Jackson Prescott, I love you, and I will never give up. I promise.”
He wipes his face with the back of his hand. “We don’t even know where they are.”
“You’re right—about everything—I want to protect you, Max and Lily. And yes, your grandfather has moved them again. But we are far from losing.” I gently raise his chin and make him look at me. “Max and Lily are still in the state. Our petition has even your wealthy grandfather bound and tied in legal red tape.”
“I don’t even know if they’re safe.” He sniffs hard. I reach to the bedside table to give him the tissue box.
“I’m going to find them, Jackson. I’m going to find a family—or someone—who’ll take all three of you.” My voice fills with the conviction and defiance he’s buried in hopes of resurrecting some. “The only way we’ll lose is if you give up.”
He finally meets my eyes. “Fine. For you and my mom, I won’t give up.”
I nod. “Then swipe that hair out of your eyes.”
He brushes the mop of bangs back with his hand.
“Now I know you’re hungry. Not eating for two days will hurt you. What if I had to come here in the middle of the night and bust you out? You wouldn’t even be able to run.”
“Elle.” He throws me a sideways glance.
“Yeah, you never know. Let’s test their trust,” I say.
His eyebrows raise in curiosity.
“Mrs. Raymond seems nice. Bet she’d let you have an hour pass to go with me to get a burger and fries.”
“You can do that?” He eyes me skeptically… and hungrily.
“I’ll sign a pass, but you have to guarantee me you’ll come back with me after eating. We can’t get me thrown in jail… unless there are no other options.”
“You’d go to jail for me? For us?”
I know it’s the truth when I say, “Yes, Jackson. I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep you safe and together.”
“You meant it when you said you loved me?”
“With all of my heart,” I promise, pushing a stray strand of his hair behind his ear.
“The last person who told me that was my mom. I miss my mom so much. And feeling like someone in the world loves me.”
I know what you mean. “Get used to it, kid. When I say it, I mean it. Forever.”
I know it’s the truth, and that means I’m in serious trouble.
“Good form, Takiah. I know you’d rather be playing football, but trust me, this will strengthen you and better your game. Nice flexibility, Renee.” I walk around the edges of the studio then between each row of kids during my class at The Core. “Way to move into that stretch, Jason.”
I love working here. It’s my third week and I find the kids are really responding to the class. I also love working under Debra and Cade. I’m learning so much from their personalized counseling program—so when we work with the kids, we’re all on the same page. It’s amazingly progressive, with real life psychology and a strong action plan the kids help map out so they’re a part of their own healing and success.
The ten o’clock bell rings, and my class quickly begins to disperse. The kids roll up the yoga mats, putting them in the bin before they head out to their next session.
“Keep fighting strong!” I call out as they leave. “Remember to breathe and pull your power from your core. You are all amazing!”
Suddenly, something crashes into my legs. I look down to find six-year-old Becca squeezing my legs in a bear hug.
“Thank you, Miss Elle!”
“Oh, Becca,” Kneeling, I wrap her in a hug, hoping it isn’t the only one she gets this week. “You are one of my best students!”
She smiles so big, all her teeth show—including the empty space from the one that recently fell out, making her even cuter.
I’ve truly enjoyed my job at The Defender helping so many different people, but working with children and teens is where my heart lies.
Maybe one day I’ll have a North House of my own.
Thinking about it makes my heart yearn for Jackson, Max and Lily. I’ve spent so much time with each of them as their advocate, going to each of their house placements. Until their grandfather hid them again.
I need a distraction!
And I know just where to find it.
Nonchalantly, I wander out into the hall to the furthest water refilling station from my studio… the one by the sparring rings.
Oh, and my mystery man is so worth it!
I’ve been watching my favorite distraction ever since I first discovered him working with the kids in the ring—teaching them how to box and better their mixed martial arts abilities—shortly after I started working here. He’s here with them three days a week like clockwork. I’ve also seen him sparring with some of the other guys who seem to be regulars here too. You can tell they’re all friends by the way they hang out, laugh and mess with each other. They’re all gorgeous, but I’m drawn to my mystery… errr… distraction.
His body is cut and sculpted with lean long muscles, while every inch of his exposed skin is etched with ink that ripples and moves with him like he’s an exotic tiger.
Good God, he’s the definition of sex appeal. Any kind of day I’m having, everything starts looking up when I get a chance to watch him move.
It’s purely a physical thing. I always hum that Ed Sheeran song “Shape of You” because I am totally in love—at least in lust—with this guy’s body. I’ve actually never seen his face. His nose and chee
kbones are always hidden behind a padded, grilled face guard. So I’ve just had to imagine the face that goes with that amazing body. I’ve wanted to get close enough to see into his eyes, but I haven’t had the guts. He’d totally know I was checking him out if I did. So, I keep my distance.
But! I have gotten near enough to see some of his tattoos. My favorite is the black scrawling letters over his left ribcage that read, “I AM MY BROTHER’S KEEPER.” What a beautiful mantra to live by.
I wonder if it’s his religion.
I stand far enough away to try and appear like a nonchalant bystander yet near enough to hear what they’re saying.
“You have the inner strength to harness your emotions, everything you feel, and feed them back into your power without giving it to someone else. And you have to make sure to always use that power for the positive.” The mentor’s voice sounds familiar. Probably because I’ve been listening to it these past weeks.
The boy he’s mentoring looks to be about thirteen or fourteen, very skinny, like he’s due a few months of good hearty meals. From his form, it looks like he’s completely new to this kind of training.
He throws a punch to the man’s wickedly defined abs. The connection is awkward, but mystery man’s abs still tense with the anticipation of the hit, and I feel my spine melt a little at his crazy six pack. The guy leans in and holds the boy’s gloved fist in his hands, twisting it over and repositioning it to demonstrate the fundamentals of the punch. He then directs the kid’s fist to the targets he wants him to hit: the man’s side, sternum, and stomach. He shows him how to properly punch his jaw, then his nose. I grin a little, understanding the need for the face guard. His instruction is slow, deliberate, patient.
Could he be any hotter!??
His body totally distracts me from the lesson. It is ridiculously perfect! He looks like an experienced fighter. His skin is stretched drum tight over taut muscles. Every inch of him is iron.
Christ, he’s hard all over.
I shake my head to dissipate the musing of how hard that body could get under his shorts.
Back to G-rated fantasies! There are kids around, I scold myself. At least… PG-13.
He’s sleek like a dancer, showing the kid how to move, what muscles to put behind the punch. His side ripples in waves as he arches and stretches his ribs and shoulders, twisting to the side.
His movements make the tattoo artist’s canvas come alive. The tats adorn every line and ridge, precisely cut against the muscle. I catch hints of Native American tribal totems: a totem pole, a bird in flight, a bear and wolf; Celtic patterns: a flag of Ireland, a tree of life with deeply knotted roots; a steampunk timepiece; a lot more I can’t quite make out…
UGH! I want to get closer! I want to touch them! I want to touch him.
My eyes trail his movements, mesmerized. He bounds and coils, until his ass becomes my view. I can imagine his hard body on top of mine, my heels digging deep into the sculpted muscles there, his slick sweat as he crashes against my breasts. A surge of blood warms my face. My skin goosebumps at the fantasy and all the blood not in my face rushes between my legs.
It’s been so long since I’ve felt desire.
The thin boy sends a right hook against the man’s face—the puffy glove connecting to his equally padded face mask. I can’t help but laugh when he pretends the hit is hard enough to knock him off balance, as he stumbles over his feet dramatically, then acts as if he’s shaking it off.
The young boy jumps up and down and raises his arms in triumph.
This guy could be the man of my dreams.
Just then, he looks up and I can tell he sees me watching. His eyes may even catch mine! He freezes for half a second as he notices me.
Maybe he’s checking me out?
A girl can hope. I’m wearing a pink lotus tank top with long black yoga pants, my hair pulled into a pony. I’m barefoot. Very simply, me.
He turns his attention back to his lesson, and I take a deep, sighing breath.
Maybe he was just wondering what the hell I was doing?
“He’s got good form.” I hear a feminine voice drift from beside me.
“He’s got great form,” I reply without thinking. Debra! I realize the voice is my boss!
I squeeze my eyes closed in embarrassment. No coming back from that one.
She laughs beside me, catching my slip.
“That was so inappropriate,” I apologize through clenched teeth.
“Totally don’t worry about it,” she assures me. “I used to watch Cade work out—still do—all the time,” she adds with a huge grin. “When I first met him, he was barely twenty and had begun volunteer work with younger kids doing the same thing. Makes them even hotter, right?”
Yes! A woman who knows what I’m thinking. But still my employer.
I know I must be blushing, but thankfully that must be answer enough for her and she doesn’t force me to respond.
“You know,”—she nods towards the boxer—“he’s a great guy. One of my boys.”
This piques my curiosity. I peel my eyes from him so I can give her my attention. “One of your boys?”
She smiles with nostalgia. “He came to North House when he was sixteen. We raised him after that, along with seven other boys that came to us that same year. He’s a son to us and an amazing man. He’s come here faithfully every week since then, working with the kids.”
My delicious fantasy shatters; I peek at him one last time. “He’s probably married with two kids.”
“Oh no, dear. He’s free as a bird.”
“I can hardly believe he’s single.”
“He’s like you, sweetie, doesn’t make time for romance—too busy saving the world.”
My eyes shift back to hers. I like that she sees me that way.
“Hmm… that gets me thinking,” she says, something brewing in her tone. “I should set the two of you up.”
“What? No! No, really. I can’t get involved right now.” I think about Lily’s big eyes, Max’s fear and Jackson’s hopelessness. “Not to mention, blind dates and set-ups are the worst.”
“Oh, honey,” she drawls sweetly. “When I set the two of you up, neither of you will even know I did it,” she promises in a powerfully magical—demonic or angelic, take your pick—sort of way.
I shudder. “Debra—”
She’s not listening to me any longer. Behind her eyes I can see her plotting. “Then you’ll be able to consider each other organically, with no pressure.”
The Core’s bell goes off to mark the time. Startled, I look back at the object of our conversation and realize he’s looking toward us. In fact, he’s switched places with the boy and is facing us. Maybe even watching us!
“And trust me, he’s just as good looking under that face-protector.” She elbows my ribs coyly.
Oh God! My only saving grace is that we’re too far away for him to be able to hear us!
“Break’s over. Your next class is already filing in,” Debra sings to me, all chipper, before she whisks off.
Connor
THE ESTATE’S IMMENSE grounds are meticulously manicured.
After I’m given permission to drive through the massive iron gate by the security guard in the small booth, I’m escorted by an usher in a golf cart over an elaborately laid brick driveway to a small parking area off to the right.
I’m then given a ride in the cart up to the house, which is a dark stone Tudor mansion. My escort stops the cart quite a distance from the back of Mr. Prescott’s limousine in the U-shape drive.
I step up to the doorway as the large, ornately carved, heavy wooden doors open wide. I’m met by another servant in a black three-piece.
“This way, please.”
Walking across the gray marble floors surrounded by cold, unwelcoming walls, I consider the risk I’m taking. I didn’t ask Mr. Harrison’s permission to be here, making me feel like I’m breaking unspoken protocol. I decided I’d rather ask for forgiveness. Most of the time law
yers interact directly with their clients. This is different. I know Mr. Prescott doesn’t want to be personally involved. He wants it all taken care of for him.
There are no family photographs mounted on the walls, only a few landscape paintings. Some art pieces and sculptures are set upon tall dark wood tables through the halls.
I’m left waiting in a sitting room. Victorian high-back chairs and a matching loveseat wrapped in emerald green velvet with dark carved wood trim are situated upon a large Persian rug, deeply colored with creams, blues and reds. The pendulum on a stately grandfather clock that stands in the corner of the room ticks with each swing, slicing the dead silence.
The man who brought me into the sitting room comes into the doorway. “Mr. Prescott will see you now.”
I nod in his direction. “Thank you.”
I’m led through another hallway into Mr. Prescott’s office.
Immediately I’m hit with the smell of stale cigar smoke. A tray with several liquor bottles sits off to the side on a rolling tray and dusty books line a full-wall bookcase. Large picture windows overlook the grounds. Mr. Prescott is seated behind a very large desk. His silvered hair is combed back, revealing a receding hairline. I take him to be in his late sixties—he’s trim, his tailored blazer fitting perfectly over his shoulders.
“Mr. Callahan, sir.”
“That will be all for now, Gilcrest,” Mr. Prescott excuses him, not bothering to look up as he situates papers on his desk.
Mr. Gilcrest stands at the back of the room.
Uncomfortable moments pass before Mr. Prescott finally regards me. “Mr. Callahan, to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?” He has absolutely no pleasure in his tone whatsoever.
“Some questions have come up as I’ve been going over the fine details of the case,” I tell him, peering at the two chairs on either side of me that I’m still standing between, not having been offered to sit. He’s made it quite clear what he thinks about my presence here—or perhaps he’s always this condescending to his guests.
“I would think Mr. Harrison would’ve supplied all the necessary details.” He’s clearly annoyed.
Risk: An Enemies to Lovers, Second Chance Romance Standalone (Brothers of Ink and Steel) Page 7
