Barreled Over

by Jenna Sutton

  “I want to stay inside you forever.”

  Flexing his hips, he rooted deeper inside her, and she came with a raspy sob. As her body rippled around his erection in rhythmic squeezes, her vision darkened, and the furious rush of blood in her ears drowned out all sound.

  His cock jerked inside her, over and over, and a guttural groan rumbled from his throat. His arms shook, and he dropped heavily on top of her, burying his face against her throat.

  As their heartbeats returned to normal, she caressed his nape, her fingers sifting through his hair. “Do you have to leave today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When do you think—”

  Her phone rang on the nightstand, diverting her attention from Beck. It was barely eight in the morning. No one ever called her this early unless something was wrong.

  Beck must’ve realized the same thing. Holding the condom in place, he gently, yet hastily, withdrew from her body. As he rolled off her, she stretched toward her nightstand and snagged her phone.

  Seeing her publicist’s name on the screen, Ava Grace swiped right and connected the call. “Skyler. Hi. What’s going on?”

  “Someone leaked your medical records.” Skyler Abramson’s voice shook with emotion. “They’re everywhere.”

  “What?”

  “Someone leaked your medical records from the hospital.” Skyler sounded like she was crying. “I use a web monitoring service for all my clients, and I got a bunch of alerts overnight.”

  Realizing the gravity of the situation, Ava Grace switched on the bedside lamp and scrambled out of bed. “Hang on, Skyler.”

  Beck jacked into a sitting position, the covers bunching around his waist. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” she lied. “Skyler just needs me to take a look at something time-sensitive. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  She picked up the first piece of clothing she found—one of Beck’s bourbon T-shirts—and tugged it over her head. After scooping a pair of panties from the floor, she turned off the lamp and left her bedroom.

  As soon as she closed the door, she brought her phone up to her ear. “Okay, I’m back.”

  “I’m so sorry, Ava Grace.”

  Ava Grace hurried down the hall, the morning air swirling around her bare legs and creating goose bumps. “You said my medical records are everywhere. How many alerts have you received?” A long silence cracked over the line. “Did you hear me, Skyler?”

  “Yes.” Her publicist cleared her throat. “As of ten minutes ago, I’ve received more than two thousand.”

  “Two thousand?”

  “Yes.”

  Pausing mid-step, she said, “That doesn’t sound like a lot. Millions of people post on social media.”

  “That number doesn’t include social media. It’s just articles and blogs.”

  “Oh, my God. Two thousand articles and blogs overnight?”

  “Yes. If you include social media, it’s in the tens of millions.”

  Feeling a little dizzy, Ava Grace leaned against the wall. “How did this even happen? Medical records are protected by a federal privacy law. Everyone has to sign those HIPAA forms.”

  Skyler’s gusty sigh floated through the phone. “Given the right incentive, a lot of people are willing to break the law. Most likely, a hospital employee who had access to your records sold them to the highest bidder. Or someone hacked the hospital specifically to gain access to your records. Either way, the hospital is culpable.”

  Yes, it was. And Ava Grace was going to sic her legal team on the healthcare provider as soon as she got off the phone with Skyler.

  “This has happened to other famous people,” Skyler said, “but I never thought it would happen to you.”

  Ava Grace straightened from her slouch and powered down the hallway. Reaching her home office, she flipped on the light and shut the door behind her. After placing her phone on her desk, she pressed the button to switch to speaker.

  “Did they get everything or just bits and pieces?” she asked as she slipped on her panties.

  “Everything. A number of websites posted the actual records instead of excerpting them into stories.”

  Ava Grace rounded the blond maple desk and sat down in the mesh office chair. She felt violated and angry and resentful, but mostly she felt betrayed—by the media and her fans.

  She’d always made herself available to them, yet it hadn’t been enough. It would never be enough.

  The moment something bad happened to her, they were like vultures waiting to feed on her rotting carcass. She didn’t fool herself into thinking the majority of people who read the articles were concerned about her. They wanted to judge her and revel in her pain.

  As she popped open her laptop, she said, “There’s nothing in my medical records I’m ashamed of. I don’t care if the whole world knows my height, weight, and temperature. I don’t care who knows my blood pressure and blood type.”

  The routine pregnancy test the ER had performed had come back negative. (Wouldn’t it have been a surprise to everyone if it had been positive?)

  “The leaked records include the details of your injuries.”

  Ava Grace took a deep breath. “I would’ve preferred those details remain private, but anyone with eyes can see my injuries … except for the concussion.”

  The firm that handled the hospital’s security had set up sawhorses around the main entrance so Beck could pull his rental SUV under the porte-cochère to pick her up. Despite the added security, the paparazzi managed to get their shots and videos using telephoto lenses.

  Hundreds of celebrity gossip websites and TV shows reported Ava Grace’s accident. They published photos and played videos of her looking as if she’d fought and lost an MMA match. Then the coverage died down, and she assumed the media moved on to a more salacious story.

  “The medical records included notes from hospital employees,” Skyler added. “One of the physicians who treated you wrote that your injuries were consistent with domestic assault and he’d questioned you about your romantic partner and recommended you talk to a domestic abuse counselor. Nearly every article leads with that. You’re trending on social media—hashtag Ava Grace abused.”

  Oh, God.

  “What can we do?” Ava Grace asked. “Can we issue a statement and say the injuries were the result of an accident on my farm? Technically, it’s not a lie. I was at home, and Chuck didn’t mean to hurt me.”

  Skyler sighed loudly. “They’re saying Beck did it.”

  No. No. No.

  All the air left Ava Grace’s lungs. If she hadn’t been sitting down, she would’ve fallen.

  Skyler continued to talk: “One of the gossip sites dug up an old news article about him being arrested for assaulting some girl. I can’t remember her name now. It was something weird.”

  Calliope Boone.

  “I just sent you links to a couple of articles. It won’t be long until Beck’s past arrest is all over the Internet.”

  Ava Grace clicked on one of the links Skyler sent. The headline read: Ava Grace’s Lover Arrested for Assault.

  She skimmed the article, which was remarkably accurate and well-written. It detailed her injuries, her partnership with Trinity, and Beck’s past arrest. It quoted several domestic abuse experts who suggested Beck demonstrated a pattern of abusing his partners. Ava Grace was simply his latest victim.

  “Skyler, I need some time to think. I’ll call you back in an hour.”

  She ended the call and slumped over her desk. The knots in her stomach tightened to the point she worried she might throw up on the colorful chevron rug. She swallowed hard, knowing this kind of negative media coverage could ruin lives—hers and Beck’s.

  A knock sounded on the closed door, and Beck’s deep voice filtered through the solid wood. “Sugar? Are you in there?”

  Even though she wasn’t ready to face him, she called out, “Come in.”

  The door opened, and he entered her office. As he walked toward her d
esk, she let her gaze roam over him, from his tousled hair and sleepy eyes to his bare chest and red plaid flannel pajama pants that revealed his V-cut and the dark hair arrowing toward his groin.

  Coming to a stop in front of her desk, he asked, “Everything okay?”

  “No,” she answered flatly.

  Concern darkened his eyes. “What’s going on? Can I help?”

  She turned her laptop toward him and pushed it across her desk. “Read this.”

  He gave her a curious glance before sitting in the gray tweed arm chair in front of her. After tugging the laptop closer, he leaned forward to see the screen.

  She sat silently as he read the article. She heard his shocked inhale and watched the color leech from his face. She saw the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard. She saw the way his hand shook when he touched the keyboard to scroll down.

  Finally, he lifted his eyes to hers. To her surprise, no anger swirled in those coffee-colored depths. She saw something else though: resignation.

  “I’m sorry, Jonah. I don’t know what—”

  Her phone vibrated, and Lexington Ross appeared on the screen. She picked it up to decline the call, but Beck stopped her with a softly spoken, “Go ahead. Answer it.”

  She connected the call. “Hello, Lex.”

  “Have you seen—”

  Interrupting his shouting, she said, “Yes, I’ve seen it.”

  “Is it true? Are you fucking Jonah Beck? Did he beat you up?”

  “Lex—”

  “You need to cut ties with him!” he bellowed. “You need to cut ties with Trinity! This is going to destroy your brand! Women don’t respect women who let their boyfriends beat them up! And men don’t get hard-ons for women with black eyes!”

  Unable to stomach his insulting, ridiculous, sexist bullshit, Ava Grace stabbed the button to end the call. A stress headache had developed at the base of her skull, and she massaged the taut muscles with the tips of her fingers.

  Beck pushed the laptop away and rose from the chair. Looking up at him, she said, “I guess you heard what Lex said.”

  “Kinda hard not to, since he was yellin’.”

  “Did you know your accent gets stronger when you’re upset?”

  “No.”

  He looked away from her, his head drooping down. A long silence passed, and she could almost hear him sifting through his thoughts and composing what he wanted to say.

  Finally, he brought his eyes back to hers. “I think Lex is right.”

  “About men not getting hard-ons for women with black eyes?”

  His gaze trailed over her face, lingering on her black eye, which had turned the shade of a ripe plum. “No, he’s not right about that.”

  She stood up and crossed her arms over her chest, shielding herself. “I’m going to ask Skyler to release a statement saying my injuries are the result of an accident at home. I’ll make sure it…” She waved her hand, searching for the right word.

  “Exonerates me?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s too late for that, Ava Grace. The damage is done. You know it, and I know it.” He closed his eyes in a slow blink. “It would be better for everyone if we cut ties between us, including the partnership with Trinity.”

  She nodded, unsurprised by Beck’s words. The moment she’d seen the article, she’d known their relationship had no hope of surviving.

  “This thing between us … we both knew it was going to end, sooner or later,” he said.

  For a split second, she considered telling Beck that she was in love with him. Then she realized her feelings didn’t change anything.

  A bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Our lives are—”

  “Like bourbon and olive juice,” she whispered. “They just don’t mix.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “Want another beer?” Beck asked, directing his question to Gabe and Ren.

  “Sure,” Gabe mumbled around a mouthful of pepperoni pizza.

  “I’m good,” Ren replied.

  Gabe and Ren, along with Gatsby, had come over to Beck’s place to watch football, eat pizza, and drink beer. Or root beer, in Gatsby’s case.

  He was happy to have the company. Anything was better than sitting on the sofa in the dark, thinking about Ava Grace. That was all he’d done for the past two weeks—that and field calls from bankers, distributors, and vendors. None of them wanted to be linked with the guy who’d beaten up one of America’s most beloved country stars.

  He’d spent a lot of time trying to convince people he wasn’t responsible for Ava Grace’s injuries. No one bought her explanation that it was an accident, but he hadn’t revealed the truth.

  He knew how Ava Grace felt about disclosing Chuck’s illness, and he didn’t blame her for wanting to keep it a secret. He’d have felt the same way if it were his dad.

  Beck looked toward Gatsby as he rose from the leather sectional. She was stretched out on the rug in front of the TV with her head resting on Chicken’s belly.

  “Do you want another root beer, Gats?” Beck asked, earning him a glare from her father. Ren still refused to accept his daughter’s nickname.

  “No, thank you,” she answered, giving him a sweet smile.

  Beck headed into the kitchen and grabbed a couple of bottles from the fridge. As he passed the stainless-steel stove, he caught sight of the dog-shaped spoon holder Ava Grace had loved so much.

  The thought of her sent an arrow of pain shooting through him. It was sharper than it had been when he’d said good-bye to her. So much for the idea that time healed all wounds.

  “Beck, can you grab some more napkins?” Ren called out.

  Beck returned to the living room and handed out the beer and napkins before taking a seat next to Ren. As he unscrewed the cap on his beer, the pre-game show ended.

  “I hope the Bengals can find a few holes in the Seahawks defense,” Ren said.

  Beck took a swig of his beer. “Don’t get your hopes up, chief.”

  He pushed the pizza boxes to the side of the cocktail table with his sock-covered feet and propped them on the slick wooden surface before bringing his attention to the TV. The commercials were almost over, so he grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

  The Sunday Night Football logo popped up on the TV screen. Then Ava Grace’s image replaced it, and her husky voice filled the room.

  Shit.

  He’d forgotten about that damn theme song. She’d shown it to him right after she recorded it a few months ago, but he hadn’t seen it since.

  As Ava Grace strutted around and sang about how she’d been waiting all day for Sunday night, he sensed Ren and Gabe’s eyes on him. He risked a sideways glance at Gabe, who was staring at him with a worried expression. He obviously expected Beck to either hurl the remote at the TV screen or collapse into a sobbing mess.

  If Beck had been alone, he might’ve done both those things. Since he wasn’t, he tried to keep his face impassive while the beer and pizza in his stomach churned like a maelstrom.

  Chicken, meanwhile, had wiggled out from under Gatsby and was running in circles looking for Ava Grace, a high-pitched whine drifting from his mouth. Finally, the song ended, and the screen switched to the sports announcers.

  In the middle of the room, Chicken stopped abruptly, his canine face filled with confusion. After a moment, he flopped down on his belly and settled his head on his paws with a sorrowful moan.

  “Chicken misses Ava Grace,” Gatsby noted, shifting into a cross-legged position.

  Beck missed Ava Grace too. He missed her so much he could barely concentrate at work and couldn’t sleep at night.

  He was a fucking mess, and he didn’t know how to fix himself. He’d known he’d pay a hefty price for getting involved with her, but he’d never expected the price to be everything he had.

  “I miss her too,” Gatsby continued.

  Are you sure you did the right thing when you walked away from Ava Grace?


  It was a question he’d asked himself over and over. He didn’t know the answer.

  Gatsby looked up at Beck. “Is Ava Grace coming back soon?”

  Ren cleared his throat. “Not for a while, sweetheart.”

  Gabe mumbled something under his breath … something that sounded a lot like jackass.

  Beck jerked his head toward him. “What did you say?” he demanded.

  Just as Gabe opened his mouth to reply, the doorbell rang. Chicken jumped to his feet and sprinted to the door, barking furiously.

  “Are you expecting company?” Gabe asked, his dark eyebrows arched.

  “No.”

  “I hope it’s not a reporter,” Ren muttered.

  After Beck had returned from Nashville, reporters and paparazzi stalked him at home and the office. He hadn’t been able to go anywhere without someone shoving a camera or a microphone in his face.

  It got so bad he slept on an inflatable mattress in Gabe’s living room for several nights. His high-rise was far more secure than Beck’s apartment building.

  In addition to being harassed by the media, Beck also received nine death threats. Most of them came from Ava Grace’s rabid fans. The remainder were sent by people who took exception to men beating up women.

  To Beck’s relief, the death threats had stopped, and most of the reporters and paparazzi had moved on to other news-worthy subjects.

  Beck muted the TV and headed toward the door. “Quiet,” he ordered Chicken as he looked through the peephole.

  To his surprise, Amelia stood on the other side of the door. She was alone, and he wondered why she was there. He hadn’t seen her for months, since before the bourbon festival.

  Hooking his fingers in Chicken’s collar, Beck unlocked the deadbolt with his other hand and opened the door. “Amelia,” he greeted her, “this is a surprise.”

  She shifted her bag from one shoulder to the other. “May I come in?”

  “Of course,” he replied, ushering her into the apartment.

  Gabe, Ren, and Gatsby had risen to their feet, and Amelia stopped short when she saw them. Her big brown eyes shot to Beck’s face.

  “You have company,” she said, her disappointment obvious.