by K. Bromberg
All I feel is the sting in my knuckles as my fist connects with his cheek. His head snapping back. Getty cries out. The lamp crashes to the ground.
And all I can think is more. Again.
Avenge. Retaliate. Protect.
His grunt. My growl. A burst of pain on my cheek. The whoosh of air he exhales as I hit his abdomen. He stumbles. I follow. Another shot: him to my gut, me just grazing his cheek.
“Don’t you ever touch her again.” A threat. A warning. Never again.
I get ahold of his shirt. Twist my hand in the fabric. The scatter of buttons on the floor. Ram him hard against the wall.
His laugh. Arrogant. Uncaring. Unaffected. Like she’s nothing. A pawn. “You can have the frigid bitch.”
His words hit me, threaten to confuse me, but the rage is louder. Drowns out reason. Blinds me. Fuels me.
“Only a spineless son of a bitch sends his father-in-law to fight for the girl. But by the way you treat women, I guess chickenshit is pretty common in your world.”
His grin. Maniacal. Taunting.
Finish this, Zander.
My fist flies forward. The click of his teeth. The crunch of his nose. The warm spray of blood on my arm as his head swivels. The thump as his body hits the floor.
“Touch her again, and I’ll kill you myself.” The words are out before I even think them. The threat is more real than anything I’ve ever said before in my life.
But he’s knocked out. Will never hear it. Will never know how real it is.
Seconds tick by. My knuckles throb. My body vibrates from the adrenaline. My thoughts clear. Getty.
Desperate to see her. To feel her. To make sure she’s okay. I turn around. And there she stands.
Time slows down. Seconds stretch out.
Hair a mess. In her bra and shorts. One shoe on. Her brown eyes are wide. Her lips parted. They quiver. But it’s the look she gives me that steals every last part of me.
“Oh, Getty.” It’s all I can say, all I can think, as I cross the room.
“I’m okay,” she says. And just as I reach her, she collapses in my arms, against me. Into me. So I do the only thing I can. Hold her. Breathe her in. Feel her heart pounding against mine. The warmth of her breath under my neck.
And I repeat her name again. Over and over. To tell her I’m here. That it’s over. That she’s okay.
“I’m okay,” she repeats, but I know differently. Can feel her body trembling. Can hear the hitch of her breath. How her fingers dig into my biceps.
“Let me look at you,” I murmur against the crown of her head as I breathe in the scent of her shampoo one more time before I take her shoulders and hold her away from me. “Getty. I— Did he hurt you?” My gaze roams over every single part of her. Checking. Looking. Making sure. “I forgot my phone. I didn’t know—I would have—”
“No. No,” she repeats again, shaking her head, trying to stop me from blaming myself, but good fucking luck with that. “I’m okay. It wasn’t that bad—”
“Wasn’t that bad?” Is she fucking serious? The fury returns again. The need to make him pay returns with a vengeance. But something flickers in her eyes.
And suddenly I’m struck with a memory of my mom with that same look. The same response.
It’s hard to swallow after that. Hard to think. Hard to breathe as my worlds collide.
My hands are on her cheeks, eyes trained to hers. There are no tears. There is no show of emotion other than her fingers gripping my arms tight, telling me to not let go yet. I can’t help myself, though. I need to touch her, feel that she’s safe, to know she’s really okay. I brush my thumbs over her cheeks.
“You could have told me, Getty.” I have to say it. Have to let her know I understand. I already knew. And it’s okay.
“About what?” The aversion of her eyes. Dodging the question. The shifting of her feet.
“I would have understood. About him, about the abuse.” I realize I’m walking a thin line in this moment. One she can no longer deny after what just happened. One I’ve suspected all along.
“He’s never hit me, Zander.” Her words are rushed. Panicked. Denying the obvious.
But I also see the shame. The fear I’ll see her differently after knowing the truth. And it kills me. Fucking wrecks me that she’d think I’d put the blame on her.
Gently, proceeding cautiously, I use my hands to direct her gaze back to mine. To make sure she sees my eyes when I tell her what she needs to hear. What she needs to know. What she needs to believe.
“You don’t have to hit to leave bruises, Getty.”
* * *
Stubborn fucking woman.
She ignores me like she’s done since she got here, despite my constant glares from the far end of the bar. Just like she did when the cops left with Ethan in cuffs and I told her I’d already called Liam and she wasn’t going in to work. Our conversation replays in my head.
“I’m going,” she stated, voice defiant, while pulling one knee-high sock up.
“No, Getty. I explained to Liam that something came up. He understood.” My frustration grew as she picked up her second sock. “What happened was serious. You need time.”
And then she leveled me with a look. The same one she’d been giving me since we called the cops. The I’m fine. The it’s not a big deal. I know that look hides all the emotion she’s trying not to show. But it wasn’t until she finally spoke up that her reaction knocked me flat on my ass.
“No. I don’t need time. I need to get to work. I don’t want to sit here and think about it right now. I want to be busy.”
“But—”
“No, Zander. Don’t you see? This was my life. For years this was all I knew how to do. How to cope. Tears weren’t allowed. Something like this would happen and then I’d have to paint on a pretty mask, go to some event, and pretend I was okay.” Her breathing sounded shaky. I had to fight every instinct I had not to pull her against me because that statement made me see the brutal truth of how she’d lived for so long. Not lived. Survived. “I’m putting on my mask, Zander. Let me do the only thing I know how to do so I don’t fall apart. If I fall apart, he wins.”
And goddamn if her words didn’t break parts of me that I never even knew I had. They tamed my temper. Made the order to stay home I was going to say next die on my lips. I had to switch gears.
“You’re not her anymore, Getty.”
As I watch her move behind the bar, mask up, emotions under control, I’m not sure I’ll ever forget how doubtful she looked when I told her she had nothing left to prove. Because with her strength, her resolve, and her tenacity, she’d already won against both Ethan and her father. And while she may be coping just fine, using the tourist-packed bar to keep her busy, I’m not. The longer I sit here, the more time I have to stew. And the angrier I become.
At myself: for not seeing that I’d left my phone at home sooner. At not getting there quicker.
At Damon: for sending his son-in-law after his daughter, because he won’t take no for an answer.
At the sheriff: for telling me what I already know—that Ethan will be out on bail in a matter of hours. And I appreciate the fact that he’s going to push the envelope, wait until the last minute to give the fucker his one phone call to his lawyer, so that hopefully his ass will have to stay in a cell overnight. But I know the truth without the sheriff ever saying it. Money means privilege. And privilege means high-priced lawyers and special treatment.
I have a sinking feeling Ethan will get nothing more than a slap on his wrist.
At Ethan: because he’s a royal fucking prick who needs far more than that slap on the wrist. All I can hope for is that as he settles back into his posh mansion high in the hills somewhere with a fading shiner, every time he looks in the mirror and sees the bump in the ridge of his nose from where I broke it, he’ll remember
me. That he’ll remember my threat and never touch Getty again.
At Getty: for being so goddamn strong. The woman needs to break. To cry. To rage and scream so she can leave it behind.
She needs to need me.
The last thought comes out of nowhere. Blindsides me. And I cope with it the only way I know how, by lifting my hand to get Liam’s attention.
I had no choice but tell him the bare minimum about what happened with Ethan when I called Getty in sick to work. I know how important her job is to her. Besides, the small-town gossip mill was likely already in full swing and so I figured why not tell the one person who hears it all so he can set anyone straight.
I’m sure Getty might feel differently, but while she’s busy tucking everything away, I wanted to make sure the town knows the truth so they can back her if it’s ever needed.
“You need some ice for that?” Liam motions to my knuckles where they’re red and swollen.
“Nah.” I open my hand to stretch them and shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.” Actually I wish they were worse. I’d like to have gotten one or two more good ones in. For me. For Getty. Because he deserved so much more than that.
“For your cheek, then?”
Did he hit my cheek? Shit. Never even thought about it. When I open my mouth and stretch my cheeks, sure as shit, there’s a burn of pain, but I just shake my head again and sigh as I glance back over to check on Getty.
“She still ignoring you?” He laughs and lifts his chin toward Getty. There’s concern in his eyes, very different from the surprise that was there when Getty waltzed in an hour after I called to tell him she wasn’t coming, and took her place behind the bar.
When he went to tell her to leave, that he’d covered her shift, the look I leveled stopped him dead in his tracks. And thankfully when I explained she needed to be kept busy, that I’d pay the extra set of wages if he needed me to, all he did was nod his head, point to an open seat near the end of the bar, and ask me what my poison for the evening was.
Definitely a good guy.
“Yep,” I sigh as my eyes find her again. “Stubborn damn woman.”
Liam laughs again as he lines up two shot glasses and takes the top off the Jägermeister. “You know what they say. . . .”
“What’s that?” I’m distracted, eyes staring at the door to the storage room Getty just disappeared into.
“Men wear the pants in the relationship, but it’s the woman that controls the zipper.”
I throw my head back and laugh. The rebuke on the tip of my tongue that we’re not in a relationship remains unspoken because the stress relief is more important. “Very true.” I tap the top of my glass against his and toss back the shot.
The burn is quick, but I welcome it. It’s real. That and the laugh Liam offered by trying to lighten the mood.
This time when he goes to help another customer, he leaves the bottle for me. Smart man. I relax back in my chair as soon as I see Getty come back into the bar. She pulls a pint for two men in front of her. Chats them up. Laughs. Appears normal. But I can see the strain under the smile.
It wasn’t that bad, my ass. Her words echo in my mind. Cause fury to beat through my veins. Make me think of my own mother again. Wonder how often she put that mask on to protect me, let me think everything was okay when she was bruised inside and out.
Turn it off, Zander. Another day.
But I can’t push away the train of thought. I realize I haven’t thought about the box or the bullshit it’s caused in my life in days. All the noise that had been screaming in my head fell silent. Why is that?
Because of her. Beautiful. Brave. Goddamn Getty. For the first time in the three hours we’ve been here, her eyes meet mine and hold across the distance.
All she gives me is a soft smile and a subtle nod in acknowledgment. But it’s the words she mouths that sucker punch me harder than anything: “Thank you.”
Two words. So damn simple and yet they could be for so many things: for helping her. For being patient. For letting her put her mask on. For being here. For showing her not all guys bruise women.
I nod back, completely tongue-tied with a woman and I’m not even close enough to speak to her.
Her attention is pulled elsewhere, but I can’t get the one thought out of my head that keeps circling. I threatened to kill a man tonight. For her. The woman with the knee-high socks, the soft brown eyes, and the laugh that you can’t help but smile at. Funny thing is, I feel absolutely zero remorse for how much I meant my threat.
Does that make me more my father than I ever thought I was?
Another shot. To kill the thought. To drown out the comparison.
But then I look at Getty and I can’t help but think back. To my mom. My dad. To what happened. And all I can think is that maybe somehow I righted a wrong tonight. Made some kind of amends in my fucked-up universe. I sure as hell don’t know what Ethan’s intentions were, but if Getty was somehow forced to go back with him, isn’t that the same?
Her smile. Her laughter. Her confidence. Her spirit. Her sexuality. He’d take them all without thought and wouldn’t that be just the same as killing her slowly?
Parallels. They’re fucking everywhere all of a sudden. There’s no escaping them. Me to my dad. Getty to my mom.
And yet I don’t want any of that. I just want whatever this is here on a clean slate. Getty needs her new life. I need to get over my old life.
That makes what I came here to do all the more important.
For Getty to see why this isn’t her fault.
And for me.
For me to realize it wasn’t my fault.
Goddamn parallels.
Chapter 27
GETTY
The summer of storms—that’s what Liam has deemed it. The continual onslaught of wintry-type weather hitting the island has taken a toll on the tourism-dependent economy. And by the looks of the sky, another one is about to rattle the island. Good thing my shift is over and I’m free to watch the storm snuggled on the couch looking out the windows of the family room.
After walking home from work, I pass my car parked in the driveway on the way up the front path and have to smile that the sight of it brings such a different response now. Before, the blue heap of metal represented the liberty to make my own choices, an escape, a chance at freedom. Now, a week after Ethan’s appearance, all it signifies to me is a means of transportation. A way to get around the island if I want to explore.
And I also see Zander. Because this car is a reminder of the moment I started to fall in love with him. Running my hand over the fender, I’m tempted to try to deny it, but know it’s no use. I knew what I was getting into when we started this “friends with benefits” thing more than a month ago. I just thought I’d be able to keep the emotions in check.
But in retrospect, it was this car that started it all. When I stepped out into the alley behind the bar to find this old car in front of me, and Zander, the handsome and unexpected stranger, beside me. Who would have thought I’d remember that moment the most? Yet every night when I lie in bed with the sound of the surf beyond the windows and his soft snores beside me, it’s the one memory I keep coming back to. The one I can pinpoint as being the moment when I started to fall for him.
When he fixed my car, gave me the chance to run, and I chose to stay.
Because he gave me a choice without ever knowing it.
The thunder claps above. I jump at the sound, a part of me taking it as a warning that I’m only going to be hurt in the end. But at the same time, what I’m feeling is a first in my life. And you never forget your first, so I’m glad in a sense my first real love was Zander.
Carpe diem, Getty. Carpe diem.
I shake off the thought and enter the house, feeling tired and hungry. Once I shut the door, I listen to the silence for a minute, just to make sure. . . . It’
s been over a week and I know Ethan’s not here, but I’m still a little freaked.
Blowing out a sigh, I toss my purse on the counter and purposely don’t look at the to-do list slowly losing items on the counter next to it. My virtual hourglass telling me time is running out.
All I want is some food and a glass of wine while I watch the gray and black clouds cluttering the sky open up on the stormy seas. An uneventful evening after a long day.
Preoccupied with the thunder rumbling outside and wondering if Zander is back on the docks after his test run with the mechanic on the boat, I need a second to realize what I’m looking at in the refrigerator. All three shelves are piled high with crate after green plastic crate of dark red strawberries.
I can’t help but laugh at Zander’s display of strawberry love. And am instantly brought back to the afternoon before . . . to our flirtatious lunch and carefree afternoon. Leave it to Zander to think of something like this. To bring back that feeling that had been subdued and replaced with phone calls to lawyers and the formal filing of charges and restraining orders.
I reach out and touch a crate with a big smile. When I shut the fridge door, I have a strawberry in my hand, determined to try it one more time. For Zander.
The funny thing is, I seem to be trying all kinds of things because of him.
* * *
A hand brushing hair off my face startles me awake. I look up, eyes wide, heart racing, and meet Zander’s amused blue gaze.
“You’re safe.” I immediately feel stupid for blurting that out. But it was a lone thought nagging at me as I slowly drifted off to sleep with the howl of the wind and the pelt of the rain in my ears. “Of course you’re okay. You’re here.”
He laughs softly and shakes his head but never removes his hand from the curve of my neck. And normally I’d shove up to a seated position so I could face him where he’s sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of me, but I like the feel of his hand on me—the warmth of it—and don’t want him to move just yet.
