“You know I can’t—”
Her glare slices to mine.
“I haven’t tried.” My jaw aches from being clenched down tight.
“What are you waiting for? Try.”
I lick my lips and open then flex my fingers on my bad hand. I’ve regained a little strength holding weights at the gym, but my fine motor skills are for shit.
“Give it a shot. If it’s too hard, I’ll help you.”
I start with the button closest to my right hand. My fingers shake. “Why do the buttons have to be on the right side?” I mumble as I slowly try to grip and slip the fucker through the hole.
“We could get you a woman’s shirt.”
“Ha, ha, smartass.”
I continue to struggle, my head aching with the effort of concentration as my brain screams commands to the muscles in my hand. AJ doesn’t encourage me or cheer me on, just patiently waits until I finally get one through.
“Fuck yeah! Take that you sucka’ ass button.” AJ chuckles, and I move on to the next. Using the same technique I did with the first, I manage to get the disc through in half the amount of time. When I get to the top two close to my neck, I wince at the pulling of tight skin and sore muscles.
“You need help—”
“No.” I inwardly cringe and soften my tone. “I need to do this.” I’m nearly sweating by the time I get the last button done.
“Well, what do ya know? You did it.” She nods to the shirttails. “Tuck it in.”
I do that pretty easily, grateful for the hook-and-eye closure, then stand for her next direction.
“Cufflinks?”
Shit. With a little struggle, I manage to get the fuckers out of the baggie with my left hand. With my bad arm pressed to my gut, I use my body as leverage and slip the metal through the holes. When it’s time to move to the left arm, I drop the cufflink twice. “Slippery little fuckers.” My cheeks burn as I struggle to get a tight enough hold, and when it slips again, I want to punch a hole through the piece-of-shit door.
“I got it.” AJ snags it and steps close, securing it with ease.
“Thank you.” I hate that I need her help. I should be taking care of her, not the other way around.
“Tie and jacket.” She doesn’t hand me anything but stands back while I snag the tie from the garment bag.
I try to slip it around my neck with one hand then reach up with my bad hand and stop. “I can’t.”
“Try again.”
I do, and when I fumble, she steps forward. “Okay, okay . . . let me.”
Her fingers brush my neck, sending a warm sensation down my spine as a heavy weight settles behind my ribs. I study the tiny lines between her eyebrows as she focuses on getting the silk looped and properly tied. Her face, the same one that got me through countless nights where I prayed for death, is now just inches away, and she has no idea.
She thinks I moved on and forgot about her.
That I didn’t spend every conscious minute of my captivity, fantasizing that I was with her, in her arms, her lips whispering in my ear, telling me to hang on and never give up.
Suddenly, those hazel eyes slide up to meet mine. “There,” she whispers but doesn’t step back. Rather than drop her hands from my neck, she slides them down to settle on my chest. My pulse pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.
I want to kiss her. I really want to kiss her.
Then I want to bring her home and spend days relearning every single dip and flare of her body. I want to bathe in her moans and cleanse my soul with her laughter.
“Your jacket.” Her voice is deep and seductive. Is it possible she wants me too?
Even though I’m ruined?
She doesn’t even know how ruined I am. Whatever scars I carry on the outside are nothing compared to the ones that mar my insides.
I pull my jacket off the hanger, and I realize if I put my bad arm in first, I’m able to get it on with minor complications. She moves behind me and straightens the shoulders, pulls at the bottom, then comes to the front. Her smile lightens the heavy weight on my chest. “You look incredible. Picture-perfect uncle of the bride.”
I study myself in the mirror, turning my head to hide the scars on my face.
AJ cups my jaw. “No, don’t do that. You have nothing to hide. You’re just as handsome as you were the first day I met you.”
“How can you say that?”
She meets my eyes in the reflection, and our gazes tangle. A sad smile touches her lips. “Because it’s true.”
“AJ, do you think—?”
“How does it look?” The saleslady’s voice extinguishes the moment between us. “Any last-minute alterations I need to make?”
AJ unlatches the door and swings it open. The woman takes me in, asks me to turn around while she checks a few things before agreeing the tux fits, then gives me the thumbs-up to change.
When I move to begin to undress, AJ slips out of the dressing room. “Hey, aren’t you going to help me?”
She flashes a sweet but still sad-looking smile. “Nah, I think you got it.”
Right, because whatever just happened between us is over and was nothing more than a moment. A few seconds in time charged up with memories of the past. Of who we used to be.
Now, she’s living and sleeping with another man.
A better man.
She’s made her choice.
I can’t argue it wasn’t the right one.
~*~
AJ
I couldn’t stand to be in that dressing room with Braeden for another second. Being so close, my hands on his chest, I wanted to pull his lips to mine and get lost forever in his arms the way I used to. I miss the way he’d kiss me, the way he’d touch my skin as if it were the softest silk he couldn’t keep his hands off. I miss who we used to be together, who we were to each other.
And I miss who I used to be.
Fearless. Optimistic. Full of hope and drive.
The dressing room door swings open, and Braden comes out with the garment bag in one hand. “You ready?”
It took him a while to undress, and he needed help with the cufflinks. However, he got everything hung back up on its proper hanger. The shirt’s a little lopsided, the buttons are undone, and the tie hangs off the hanger’s neck, but it’s good enough. “Yeah.”
The thick energy that had formed between us is gone, but when his eyes lock on mine, my heart hiccups.
The saleslady has Brae sign a paper, and when we’re about to leave, he hesitates. “Uh . . . how late are you open?”
“We’re open until nine.”
He nods then watches me while talking to her. “You mind hanging on to this tux for about an hour?”
“Oh, um . . . sure.” The woman takes the bag and hangs it on a bar behind the register.
“An hour?” I tilt my head, eager to hear what the plan is.
He shifts from one foot to the other then rubs the back of his neck with his good hand. “Yeah, I figured . . . I mean it is dinner time. Thought you’d want to grab a bite with me.”
“You’re asking me out to dinner?” I don’t know why I need the clarification. What he said was pretty clear, but something inside me just doesn’t believe it.
“If you want . . . are you hungry? If you think it’ll cause problems with your . . . with . . . you don’t have to go or whatever. I—”
“I’d love to.”
His eyebrows pop up in a non-verbal Really? But instead he says, “Cool.”
It’s so different from the first dinner invitation he gave me where there wasn’t an ounce of insecurity or doubt that I’d accept his offer. I have to wonder, is it merely the scars on his skin that have caused him to question how people, specifically women, respond to him?
The tux shop is in an upscale strip center that’s peppered with restaurants. After we check out our options, we decide on a place that serves California cuisine.
At a small table for two, tucked back in a corner, it not only looks li
ke but also feels very much like a date. I hide behind my menu while I attempt to get control over my racing heart. There’s so much I want to say, but there’s been a noticeable change in Braeden since we were at his place, and I don’t want to risk losing what little parts of him I’ve managed to get back.
His knee slides and brushes against mine under the table, making me jump; although he doesn’t seem to notice.
“What looks good?” He sets down his menu as if his decision has been made.
You. “I’m thinking I should probably get a salad.” I allow my eyes to run down the list of salads for the fourth time, still not seeing any of them.
“Salad? You sure? They’re known for their fish tacos here.”
Knowing I can’t keep my menu shelter, I put it down and sip from my water. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that I’ve gained a little weight since you were gone.”
He squints and tilts his head.
“It’s not that I haven’t been exercising. I have, just . . . now that I’m not performing . . .” Excuses, excuses. “I need to do better. I do. It’s just hard to find the time. I’m babbling.” I chuckle. “Sorry.”
“I think you look great.”
“Well, you have to say that, you’re . . .” I bite my bottom lip. Fuck, what was I about to say?
“What am I?”
I shrink back in my chair. Is it too much to ask that he let that one go? “I don’t know—”
“Sure, you do. You never say anything you don’t mean.”
“That can’t be true.”
“You’re the most honest woman I’ve ever met. It’s one of the things I love about you.” He sucks in a quick breath. “You, uh . . . you know what I mean.”
My heart feels like it’s on the verge of bursting from my chest!
“I guess I was going to say you’re my . . . friend, but it felt wrong.”
“Why’s that?” He watches me intently, but turns his head almost subconsciously to shadow his scarred side. “Why does it feel wrong?”
Because in my heart you’re so much more. I shake my head, and dammit my eyes are burning.
His gaze slides along my neck up to my jaw where it settles for too long on my lips before meeting my eyes. “Why’d you stop?”
I blink at the abrupt change of subject. “Stop?”
“Performing.”
An angry fist of emotion closes in around my throat, squeezing an answer from my lips. “I fe—”
“Are you two ready to order?” The waitress smiles warmly, having no idea she just saved me from having to confess. If I’m lucky, Braeden will forget he even asked and we can move on to a happier subject.
We order our food, and she takes our menus, so I’ve lost anything to hide behind. I’m forced to sit face-to-face with Braeden and his scowl.
“Go on. You were saying?” He leans back and waits for me to continue.
“It’s nothing.” I can’t tell him the truth, that my worry and fear for him caused me to lose focus and shatter my pelvis as well as give me a severe hip fracture. The image from his medicine cabinet flashes through my mind. The last thing he needs on top of everything else is to carry my career-ending fall on his conscience.
“You don’t want to tell me.” He crosses his good arm into his bad arm, which has been tucked close to his side since we left the tux shop.
“Tell me how you got your scars.” It’s a cheap shot, but it worked.
The shutters in Brae’s eyes fall the second the words are out, and although I feel bereft at the loss of what little openness he was showing, I can’t tell him what he wants to know.
“So, you’re not performing, but you’re still working for the hotel?” His voice seems to tremble, whether from anger or sadness I can’t tell.
“Yes, I’m an event coordinator now.” I slump back in my seat, hating the way that sounds. My worst fear was living out the rest of my life behind a desk, and here I am.
“Working on anything cool?” He flicks at a piece of lint on the tablecloth.
“A couple of conventions coming up, but, no, I wouldn’t say either of them are cool.”
“Why do you go by AJ?”
Why do I get the feeling he’s running down a list of questions to avoid me asking anything of him? “Because I hate the name Adeline.”
“Why?”
“I was named after my grandmother, Adeline Jane. She wasn’t the nicest woman. I hated sharing her name. My parents called me AJ, and I liked that.”
“But you let him call you a name you hate?”
There’s no question as to whom the him he’s referring to is. “Andre does what he wants, and after a while, I got used to it.”
He huffs out a humorless laugh, and the heat of anger begins to boil in my gut.
“The wedding. Are you excited?” Stupid question, but I need the diversion, and judging by the way his shoulder muscles relax along with his jaw, I think he’s grateful for it as well.
He shrugs. “I guess. I’m glad it’s finally happening. Ax and Kill waited for me. I feel like shit about that.”
“Ax and Kill? Sounds like a horror movie.” I freeze with my water glass halfway to my mouth. “No offense.”
He smiles, but it’s small. “None taken. It fits them. Not that they’re violent or anything, but they’re horrifyingly disgusting. They’ve loved each other forever, ya know? Real Nicholas Sparks’ shit.”
“How do you know who Nicholas Sparks is?”
He chuckles, and God, the sound . . . it’s like a drop of water to my thirsty soul. “My roommate, Deek. He’s always . . . um . . .” He gets a faraway look in his eyes and frowns.
“Braeden?”
He doesn’t move at all, doesn’t acknowledge me as if he’s unaware of anything outside of his head.
“Braeden?”
Still no response.
I slide out of my seat and round the table to squat next to him. Gently laying my hand on his, I finally get his eyes, but they’re blank. “Hey . . . you okay?”
“Yeah.” He nods.
“Breathe.” I rub his forearm until he takes a deep shuddering breath.
“I’m good. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s fine.” It’s so not fine. Why won’t you talk to me?
I take my seat quietly and, not wanting to push him, wait for him to initiate conversation.
He flips his fork over a few times. “Deacon would, uh . . .” He coughs as if to clear his throat. “He’d watch those movies and use the lines on chicks.” His shoulders deflate as if just that one sentence sapped him of his energy.
“Did it work?”
“Mm-hm.”
What happened to Deacon?
A few minutes of silence stretch between us when he looks up at me, and his eyes show more life than they did earlier, thank goodness. “AJ?”
“Hmm?”
“I know it’s short notice, but . . . do you, could you come to Axelle’s wedding with me?”
I gasp and he rushes his words.
“Don’t worry. Just as friends. Nothing more. I swear. I won’t touch you; that I can promise.”
That stings.
I square my shoulders and smile. “I’d be honored. When is it?”
“This Saturday.”
“That’s in less than a week.”
“I told you it was short notice.” He folds and unfolds the napkin in his lap. “It’s okay if you can’t. I understand.” The way he says it though, with that low growl to his voice that reminds me of an angry lion, I don’t think he would understand.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll go.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I mean, if I’m not there, who else will help get you dressed.”
Please say that’s not what this is, that I’m more than a security blanket. Please tell me you still want me in your life. Say we can try again, this new you and this new me, that we can give a relationship a real shot!
He stares at something just over my head and the
n shrugs. “Exactly.”
Thirty
Braeden
Thanks again for dinner. Sorry I had to rush out. I’ll be in touch about the wedding.
The sun is barely up, my ass is planted at my brother’s kitchen table, and I’m on my second cup of coffee as I stare at my phone. I’m obsessively reading the text AJ sent after leaving yesterday, hoping the reason why things got weird last night will be hidden in the message like some Da Vinci Code shit.
I read it again.
Nope. Nothing.
After we got back to Blake’s house, I told her I’d check out the AC in her car, but she insisted she had to get home. I tried to rein in my irritation, tried not to give away the fact that I hate the idea of her leaving me. Even more, I hate the idea of her leaving me to go home to another man.
Fuck him.
It’s not that I’m jealous of his money or his status or that I envy his perfect un-fucked-up face. Everything he has means shit to me. It’s who he has that makes me downright homicidal. My jaw aches as I imagine her running into his arms, curled up in his bed, smiling at him the way she used to smile at me. He’s her hero now. I run my hand along my disfigured jaw, reminding myself of what I am. I can’t compete with a man like him. In comparison . . . I’m nothing.
The sound of soft footsteps comes from the hallway, and I watch a tired Layla stumble into the kitchen.
“You’re up early.”
She screeches and scrambles away from me to grasp wildly at the butcher block. She rips out a utensil sword-in-the-stone style and waves it toward me.
“What are you going to do, spread me to death?”
“Braeden?” She eyes the metal spatula for a second and then flips on the light. “What are you doing?”
I tilt my chin to my coffee. “Isn’t it obvious?”
“You’re sitting in the dark, having coffee like a weirdo!”
“I didn’t want to turn the lights on and wake anyone up.”
She slides the cheese spreader back into the wood block. “Is everything okay? Why are you up so early?”
I’d like to say because I’m a morning person, but Layla knows me better than that. “Not drinking as much, fighting off the DTs. The combo is far from a sleep aid.”
She pours herself a cup of coffee and joins me at the breakfast table. Her hair is hanging long and messy around her shoulders, and her lips are a little swollen, which makes me think my brother had a sweet wake-up call. “Did the VA give you anything to help you sleep?”
The Final Fight (Fighting Series Book 8) Page 27
