Grudge Match

by Jessica Gadziala

  "Your neck hurt too?" he asked, making my head snap up which, of course, made a shooting pain course through my neck again. How did he know that?

  "Ah, yeah. No one could figure that out at the hospital. They figured it was just from the impact."

  "Nah, babe. It wasn't from the impact. Just like that bruise on your chin didn't just randomly show up there."

  Maybe this day was perking up. I had my car, my purse, and maybe some more information about what happened to me. "What was it from then?"

  He leaned back in his chair, looking every bit the very well-off businessman at ease. If you could look past a certain darkness in his eyes. If you maybe didn't see the scars on his hands. If the air around him didn't vibrate with an intimidatingly dominant presence.

  "Your brain sits inside fluid and is connected to your body through your spinal chord."

  "Ah, yeah," I said, brows drawing together, unsure why I was getting an anatomy lesson right now of all times.

  "When there is impact, the head spins, there is a lag, and then the brain displaces the fluid, and smashes against the side of your skull. That is what makes you black out."

  "Wait, so you're saying--"

  He moved, leaning forward, reaching across the small table between us, balling up his fist, and gently bumping the bruise on my chin.

  "This is called the button of the chin. When you're hit here, your chin acts as a lever, throwing your head around."

  "You're saying someone hit me in the chin," I concluded, maybe even more confused than before.

  Why would someone want to hit me?

  "I'm saying someone, and someone with a fuckuva lot more strength than you--"

  "A man," I supplied.

  He nodded a bit solemnly at that. "A man," he bit out like the word was distasteful, or, perhaps, he thought using the term for this type of person was insulting, "balled up a fist, and hit you full-force in your chin, knowing damn well what he was doing."

  "But... why?" I asked, shaking my head carefully, not wanting to get dizzy again.

  "That's a good question. Along with who. The latter part, I wanted to be able to figure out from my non-fucking-working cameras in the hopes that I could figure out the former."

  "You were going to do that for me?" I asked, unsure why he would bother when he didn't even want to give me a name.

  "I don't like men putting their hands on women at all. I especially don't like men putting their hands on women on my goddamn property, thinking they could get away with it."

  And they obviously could.

  Since the cameras weren't working.

  That seemed almost too coincidental, didn't it?

  The night I got attacked, the cameras go on the fritz?

  It was like some badly plotted action movie built on happenstance instead of plotting on the writer's part.

  I mean, I didn't know much about such things, but it just seemed entirely too perfectly timed. I didn't know this Ross person, but he didn't seem like the type who would let his cameras go for any length of time not functioning properly. He put too much care into his, ah, business to let it go unprotected. Especially seeing as it was an illegal business. He needed to keep an eye out more then, right? Because, if something happened, he couldn't exactly go to the police?

  "So, essentially, I'm out of luck here?"

  Ross sighed a little, and I couldn't tell if it was because he was frustrated with the situation or having to be the one to comfort the confused amnesiac. He definitely did not seem like the kind of person who was a shoulder to lean on (let alone cry on!) when someone needed it.

  "I'm not giving up. On principle, this shit can't fly here. I run a safe establishment. Everyone knows not to bring their personal - or work - shit here."

  "I, ah, don't have any connections either personal or work here, Mr. Ward."

  "Ward," he corrected. "Or Ross. You said you have no friends here. What about coworkers? Men?"

  Was there a bit of an emphasis on that last part? Or was that my knocked-around-head just imagining things?

  "I work mostly alone, but occasionally with a sixty-year-old man that treats me like another of his five daughters. I don't have a man."

  "I wasn't talking about just having one."

  I felt my brows draw together. "I'm not sure I understand what you mean by that."

  "I mean that you don't have to have a man wrapped around your finger. Are you fucking anyone? Have you recently fucked anyone?"

  Oh, boy.

  I was pretty sure my cheeks were heating up.

  It wasn't like I hadn't heard - or maybe occasionally even said - those words, but somehow, coming from him, it was making me almost a little... squirrelly.

  This may have had a little something to do with the fact that he was almost painfully good-looking, and he had this amazing, intoxicating voice, and he was talking to me about fucking which may or may not have put little thoughts into my head that did not belong there.

  "No."

  Again, with the cynical brow lowering.

  Like he didn't believe me.

  "I moved here less than a year ago. I was busy building a life here. I haven't had time to date."

  Also, I didn't have friends to go out with and, therefore, meet men. And I adamantly refused to try online dating. Maybe it was the way of the future, but it looked a lot like desperation and bad first dates to me.

  "No man has been able to get under your skirt in a year?" he asked, sounding like what I said made no sense. Which was, well, insulting.

  This shouldn't have surprised me.

  The man could be a spokesman for a lack of social grace. True, he had done the right thing a couple times in the short time I had known him, but he had done so with a clipped tone, strange departures, and uncomfortably intimate questions.

  And there he was, just watching me with those darn dark eyes, waiting for some coherent answer.

  "Ah, no."

  "Why do I find that hard to believe?"

  "Yes," I agreed, a little offended and, therefore, mouthy, "why do you find that hard to believe?"

  That, he, apparently, found charming because his lips started twitching. It was in no way a smile. It couldn't even be confused with one. But it showed a hint of amusement.

  "Alright, no men. Then yeah, baby, this makes no fucking sense, does it?"

  Whoa.

  Okay.

  I wasn't expecting the little belly-flutter at the endearment. I guess when it has been a year since a man used one on you, that was to be expected.

  I sat back, letting out a deep breath, trying to focus.

  "Did anyone turn in any keys or a cell last night?"

  They were the only things that weren't in my bag. Maybe because I had been holding them in my hand or something.

  Though why I would be holding keys in my hand, and walking toward the back lot instead of my car out front was still beyond me.

  "Not that I know of, but I will ask the bartenders when they come in tonight. They don't always share that little shit with me, just store it away somewhere in case the owner comes back."

  I nodded, looking toward the door, realizing this was it. This was the end of any possible answers. And while my identity was still mine, and my bank account was still safe, I was finding it hard to be optimistic given all the unanswered questions.

  I turned back to Ross Ward, finding him watching me, but unable to read any of his thoughts from his gaze, a true, real-life poker face. "Can I maybe use your phone?"

  His head jerked back slightly as though this was the least likely thing he had expected to come out of my mouth.

  "For?"

  "A cab? I have no keys, so I can't get into my car."

  He nodded at that. "I'll give you a ride home, Adalind. It's the least I can do since I have no answers for you."

  "That's really not--"

  "And then if I can't find your keys, I will call in a locksmith to make you a new set."

  "Really, Mr...--" I trailed off
at his stern look, "Ross, that won't be necessary. I can handle--"

  "Are you ready to go?" he asked, moving to stand.

  He was big on interrupting other people when they were speaking. I guess that came with being some rich business owner of some illegal club. He was used to being the one who was heard, not being the one to listen. Also, it seemed, he would not hear of my refusal of his help.

  And, really, was I in a position to turn it down?

  I needed a ride.

  I needed keys.

  Sure, I could have called a cab.

  And, yes, I could have gone home, did a search online, found a locksmith in town, called another cab to meet him at my car, and handle it.

  But if he was offering, was it so wrong to take him up on it? When my head was pounding, my neck aching, and my eyes begging for the sleep I had barely gotten when I had tried after the hospital.

  I was going to go ahead and put faith in what my mother said about making room for kindness, and then allowing it to enter your life.

  "Yeah," I agreed, moving to stand.

  "Slow," Ross commanded, watching me like I was a risk of falling any second. Which, well, maybe I was.

  When I moved to walk past him - I kid you not - his hand went to the center of my lower back, a firm, reassuring pressure that, for reasons unknown, made my belly go a little liquid.

  "Oh," I said as we walked up toward his sleek black sports car, one I remembered from the night before. "I must have gotten blood all over," I added. "When you get it clean, you can send me a bill."

  He said nothing as he bleeped the locks, and opened the door. "It's already done, and no," he told me, holding out a hand toward the pristine camel-colored leather interior.

  Even clean, I felt strange about sitting in something so fancy. What can I say? I came from humble beginnings. We weren't poor. But we had always been paycheck-to-paycheck livers, coupon clippers, weekly advert comparers, shameless dollar-store shoppers. I didn't know what the touch of real leather felt like until I was an adult. I didn't have a brand name on a piece of clothing until, well, okay, I still never had a brand name on an item of clothing.

  "It's not gonna bite," Ross informed me, voice sounding amused.

  "No, it's just... I fell in the dirt and--" Was there a delicate way to say I was worried my butt was dirty, and I didn't want to ruin his lovely car for the second time? I was pretty sure there was no way to pull that off.

  "Addy, babe, just get in the fucking car."

  Okay, maybe there was a curse in there, but it was still somehow sweet. Maybe it was the hint of softness in his tone.

  And, well, could your panties melt from a nickname? Because mine might have.

  Addy.

  God, it shouldn't have been hot, but it totally was.

  Maybe the bossiness was a bit, well, smoldering too.

  Which was weird.

  I wasn't that girl. I wasn't the girl who liked alphas, who enjoyed being barked at. Maybe this was different because he wasn't condescending or angry. It was just confident and assertive.

  Attractive traits, always.

  So, well, I got in the car.

  I barely had time to sink into the comfortable seat and buckle up before he was sliding into the driver's seat, pushing the start button - because this car was too good for a key ignition, of course - and pulling away.

  If the purr I heard as he left the hospital last night was impressive, it was nothing compared to what it was like to ride in a car that seemed to float over the road rather than drive on it.

  Maybe some fancy things were worth the money after all.

  "Where am I going?" he asked, making me realize he had stopped right in the mouth of the driveway, waiting for a direction.

  Duh.

  The concussion thing was really messing with my brain. Or, I was just going to let myself believe that nonsense.

  "Oak Lane Apartments," I supplied, knowing it was the biggest complex in the area, and figuring it needed no further explanation than that. The drive was short, but the silence inside almost painful for me. "This is a nice car," I tried to engage him, but got a bit of a growling noise in response. And it didn't, it totally didn't, make my lady bits shiver. Nope. That would be insane. "What are you doing?" I asked when he parked in the lot, cut the engine, and went to reach for his door.

  "Don't want you passing out in the hallway," he said before climbing out, and coming around my side to open the door.

  "You're... walking me to my door?" I asked, brows together, looking up at him.

  All I got to that was a clipped, "Yes."

  Somehow, just that one word left little - okay, no - room for argument.

  So he walked me inside, making me suddenly alarmingly aware of how much the lobby with its drab beige walls, scuffed baseboards, and worn dark brown vinyl floor was in need of serious updates. You know, about a decade and a half ago. It wasn't the worst complex in the area by far, but somehow, walking in it with a man whose suit likely cost half a year of rent for me, yeah, it felt just a little more run-down than it normally did.

  As we stopped out front of my door, I went to stoop down, finding myself stopped by Ross. "What are you doing?"

  "Ah, getting my key?" I supplied. "In my shoe." Because I had no pockets or a key ring, and I totally didn't expect some random, intimidating, deliciously good-looking man to walk me to my door and see me fish it out of my shoe like some freak.

  He said nothing, but I could feel his eyes on me even as I knelt down, careful not to lower my head too fast, then rose up, and unlocked my door.

  "Not even a deadbolt?" he asked as the door clicked open. "You do realize this is Navesink Bank, right, Addy?"

  "I have it on my list," I admitted. Along with end tables for the living room, and a full cutlery set. What can I say, money was just not super fluid for me. I had a job, and it paid alright, but New Jersey ended up being a lot more expensive than I had anticipated. I was buying things in order of importance. The deadbolt was right above new lamps, but right below a new set of tires for my car since they were bald, and I was at the point where I was asking for a blow-out. "I have a chain," I added.

  "Remind me to send you a video of how a chain can be opened with a piece of string," he said, exhaling, like it genuinely bothered him.

  Hey, maybe I was being too lax, too trusting.

  I mean I had gotten punched in the chin and knocked out, right? Someone had caught me unaware, had gotten close enough to do that without me seeing a threat, and calling for help, or running away, something.

  I had come from a small, sleepy town where the most heinous crime of my entire life was when someone drove into Edna's white picket fence, and hadn't left a note, or paid for the damage at all.

  I knew this area wasn't like that, but I didn't think it was the kind of place where I had to watch out for stray punches or string-wielding robbers.

  "I will move it up on my list," I offered, giving him a smile. "Thank you."

  "Didn't do shit, babe," he said, shrugging it off.

  "Um, you tried to help me figure out who did this - and why. You prevented me from falling again. You are helping me with my car locks. And you drove me home. That is worthy of thanks, I'm pretty sure. So, take my gratitude," I told him, rolling my eyes at his sternness.

  There was a low, rumbling chuckle at, I imagined, the eye roll. The sound seemed to manage to roll out of him, then somehow vibrate into me, moving through my insides in a way that was, well, decidedly not PG.

  "Alright, I take it," he agreed, giving me a long look as I stepped inside.

  My manners, metaphorically beat into me all my life, came to the surface. "Can I offer you some coffee?"

  "No, babe, thanks. I should be getting back. I have to deal with the security company. You should skip the coffee, and opt for some sleep. I doubt you got any, and you really should give your head a rest."

  "Yeah, I just couldn't sleep with all this stuff unfinished. But now I know someone else isn't wa
lking around calling themselves Adalind Hollis, and buying expensive electronics on my cards, so I can likely pass out."

  "Good. I'll buzz you later with your car. And hopefully your keys and phone."

  With that, he turned and was gone.

  It felt so final too, even with the promise of seeing him later.

  But, I guess, that was just how he was.

  What a dichotomy of a man.

  He was cool and clipped and distant.

  And yet he was trying to help me in more ways than most others would.

  On a bit of a wistful sigh, realizing I was likely just romanticizing him because I was tired, confused, in a dry spell, and in need of some comfort.

  Once I got some sleep, I was sure I would be over it when he showed back up with my car later.

  Or, you know, that was the plan anyway.

  FIVE

  Ward

  What the hell was going on with me?

  I was standing in the goddamn aisle of the hardware store. Looking at deadbolts. I had called the manager over to ask him which was the most secure.

  And then I went ahead and bought a screwdriver, a power drill, a hammer, and a chisel to install one.

  Because I was, apparently, losing my fucking mind.

  What other explanation was there for my actions?

  I didn't do shit like this.

  I didn't do favors.

  I wasn't a nice guy.

  No one would ever accuse me of that.

  Just the opposite actually.

  I was a dick.

  And a loner.

  And I kept to my goddamn self.

  So what was possessing me to hire a locksmith to get into her car, and buy a deadbolt for her apartment?

  Yeah, those were the million-dollar questions.

  She wasn't my friend, my family member, my woman.

  I didn't have friends or family members. And while I occasionally enjoyed a woman, it was not serious enough for before-fucking coffee, let alone deadbolt installation.

  Did I feel guilty?

  Maybe that was a part of it. It wasn't an emotion I was overly familiar with. But it was my job to ensure the safety of everyone who came to Hex. That extended to the parking lot. Someone had managed to find a weak spot, exploit it, and hurt someone on my watch.