Dark Horse

by Jessica Gadziala

  It took a long time. For her, an embarrassingly long time, to get herself off that floor, to push herself up, to force her legs to carry her out of the building, and fall into the first cab that crossed her path. And, given that he was a New York City cab driver, he barely even showed any reaction to the mess she was sure she was, something she was thankful for, so she tipped him twice what was average as she practically fell out of the damn door outside her apartment building.

  Still drenched.

  Still shivering.

  But now in so much pain that even the slow walk to the elevator was enough to bring tears to her eyes.

  She knew she really should have hit up the hospital, had an X-ray done on her ribs. But she had endured enough injuries from practice in martial arts over the years to know when something was serious and when it was just hurting like a motherfucker.

  It wasn't serious.

  It just hurt.

  Really, really bad.

  The elevator chimed as she made it to her floor.

  She was fishing for her keys and not paying attention.

  That was how she missed it.

  Him.

  That was how she missed him.

  But she didn't miss it when his voice echoed across the hall, startling in the silent space, tone shocked, firm, but somehow still soft, like he didn't want to alarm her.

  "Honey, what the fuck?"

  Her head jerked up to find him leaning against her door, green eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, everything about him more tense than she had ever seen him.

  Enzo.

  Of course.

  That was just what she needed.

  The cherry on the pie of her day.

  And her belly did not, absolutely did not, go a little liquid at the concern in his tone or the way he called her honey.

  Nope.

  Not at all.

  NINE

  Enzo

  He should have been going back to his own apartment. You know, to make sure he hadn't gotten robbed or some shit like that. It wasn't a good area to leave your place empty for a long weekend. But, then again, he didn't really have much worth stealing, and he kept his stash of cash from Third Street in a storage unit to keep it safe.

  So, needing sleep aside, he had no pressing reason to have to go back to his place.

  True, he should have been dragging his ass into work, and trying to catch up on developments in the case.

  The last place his ass should have been was standing outside her door like some twisted goddamn stalker.

  He had knocked an hour earlier, but figured she must have been out, so decided to wait.

  You know, ten or twenty minutes.

  But there he was over an hour later like some lovesick sap who got dumped and wanted a second chance.

  Fact of the matter was, things hadn't been as fucked up as he thought when he left. And 'fucked up' was the only acceptable excuse for the abrupt end to what had been happening between them that morning he had left.

  He intended to remedy that situation as soon as possible.

  Hence the stalker type behavior.

  He told himself every five minutes that he was about to leave, knowing each time it was a lie, that he wasn't heading out until they were both happily fucked.

  After that, well, that was up for debate.

  Who knew what was going to happen.

  Maybe they were just two horny adults who needed a fuck to clear up the sexual tension.

  Maybe it would need to be more than that.

  The thing was, they just wouldn't know until they tried.

  So he was willing to wait for her to drag her workaholic ass in so they could do just that.

  Try.

  If he got his way, several times.

  You know, just to make sure.

  So when the elevator doors finally chimed and slid open, he had a smile pulling at his lips, ready to lay on the charm, knowing it would fail, but happy to try it anyway. Espen wasn't a girl for empty charisma; she seemed to prefer the real shit.

  He could give her the real shit.

  After he tried to schmooze her a bit.

  What could he say, that was just the kind of guy he was.

  But that smile faltered and fell.

  He didn't see it right at first.

  He saw her ducked head, her drenched body, the way she was shivering so hard it looked almost like she was in the middle of a seizure. But that wasn't exactly surprising given the weather they had been having, weather that made his ride take an hour and a half longer than it needed to since no one remembered how the accelerator worked in a little rain.

  Then there was just something about her walk that caught his attention. Espen had a distinct walk. It wasn't all sway like many women who seemed to lead with their hips. She was always... purposeful. She walked like she had places to be five minutes ago, but knew whoever she was holding up would wait. It was the walk of a CEO, of a business owner, of someone who confidently commanded attention without having to be overly sexual.

  It shouldn't have been, but totally was, incredibly sexy.

  But she wasn't walking that walk.

  True, it was closer to morning than night, and she had to have been dead tired, but it was more than that.

  She was walking favoring her side like something hurt.

  It took all of a third of a second for his attention to go to her face after that.

  And he felt a gut-punch sensation that could have doubled him over in its intensity.

  See, Enzo had seen a lot of brutality in his day. Hell, Enzo had inflicted a fair amount of it himself in the name of his gang, his reputation, his financial stability.

  But never, never fucking ever, would he raise a hand to a woman in violence. And that had been a strictly upheld rule for all of his men as well.

  What could he say, he was raised fucking right.

  That would never sit right with him.

  And while he had seen women roughed up before, unfortunately, it had all paled in comparison to Espen's face when she looked up at him.

  One of her eyes was swollen mostly shut. The bruises around it were still forming, but would be a vivid blue and red by morning, he knew. There was a nasty cut that was still bleeding half-heartedly down her face. Her throat had long finger-shaped bands across it, bluish, but like her eye, would only get worse with some time to settle in. Then, judging by the way she was walking, there were her ribs to consider as well - bruised or busted.

  His stomach steeled as his jaw tightened hard enough to send a shooting pain up into his temples.

  Someone took their fucking fists to her perfect face? Someone closed their hand around her delicate goddamn neck hard and long enough to leave marks? Someone hit, kicked, or struck her in the side enough to possibly break a bone?

  Fuck.

  That was simply not going to fucking stand.

  That shit was getting handled.

  But first, he had to rein it in, and try to help Espen nurse her wounds. He had a feeling she would be as receptive to it as a feral cat getting a tick and flea bath.

  That thought almost helped lift his dark mood.

  Almost.

  "Honey, what the fuck?" he asked, his voice a little tortured even to his own ears.

  She froze where she was several feet away, her face a mask of surprise, pain, and if he wasn't mistaken, just the slightest hint of pride.

  Espen, even in what had to have been a lot of pain, was still Espen.

  He found he really appreciated that fact.

  "Bar fight," she said, attempting a shrug that made her wince and hiss as she pulled out her keys. "You should see the other guy," she continued to work on the lie.

  "Espen," he said, reaching to take the key from her hands - she didn't even fight, another sign telling him how crappy she was feeling - after she fumbled to get it up into the high deadbolt twice.

  "What?" she asked when he didn't go on, just unlocked her door, reached in, and flicked on the light.
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  "Let's drop the bullshit so I can look at those ribs," he suggested, holding an arm out so she could step inside. And seeing as she lived in a decent area and it was a decidedly indecent time to have a conversation in the hallway, she did just that. He followed her in, closing, and locking the door behind him, then leaning against it, giving her a bit of space.

  It was the first time he was actually aware of her apartment. The last time he was inside, he was a bit too distracted by Espen to pay it much mind.

  Espen, well, she was... not neat.

  Her place wasn't dirty per se, but it wasn't his preferred method of meticulous order either.

  There was a pile of clean dishes in a drying rack next to her sink. The vacuum was out, the cord unraveled across the floor, and still plugged into the wall. And, mystery of all mysteries, there was a laundry basket sitting on her dining room table.

  Why?

  Who knew.

  Weird.

  Otherwise, though, the place was nice. She had her walls painted a neutral gray. Her dining table and chairs were black, as was her coffee table, and end tables, the TV cabinet, and the mini sectional couch.

  The walls had more decor than he would have expected, mostly things of Native American origins - a black and white photo of a rain dance, a giant metal eagle with hints of turquoise, crossed arrows that looked antique - making him wonder if they had been passed down - and another piece of black and white art that depicted a young, beautiful Native woman with a full headdress on.

  She moved past him, going into a cabinet to bring down a bottle of whiskey that she poured into a glass, the amber disappearing in a second after she brought it to her lips, mumbling something about how she should have gone to the hospital.

  "Waste of several hours if they're just bruised," he shrugged as she capped the bottle, but left it on the counter.

  "And you're a broken rib expert," she shot back, but the usual fire was out of her voice. If anything, she almost sounded as broken as she looked. Which, well, was un-fucking-acceptable.

  "Seen my fair share. Hell, had my fair share. So I can at least tell you if there's a reason to hit the hospital. Why don't we get that out of the way so you can get into dry clothes, and warm up?"

  He was trying really hard not to baby her, not to say something about taking care of her, not to rock her very unsteady boat. Even though every instinct he had was telling him to get her looked over, into a hot bath, while he made her something hot to drink and found some pain meds to give her, then maybe stroke her hair as she fell asleep.

  What could he say, he was someone who liked to take care of people. Especially his women.

  But Espen was not the kind of woman who seemed overly receptive to that.

  So he had to go at her pace.

  "Alright," she grumbled, reaching down for the hem of her shirt without any fanfare, but only managing to get it up a couple inches before she was hissing and dropping it again.

  "Okay," he said, voice soft as he pushed off the door and moved toward her. "Come on, bathroom," he demanded, gesturing toward the hall where he could see the edge of a bed, figuring there must have been a bath in that direction somewhere.

  She sighed, but kept her words to herself as she carefully turned and led him in through her bedroom.

  The room itself was a bit more feminine than he would have thought she would like. Her bed had a beige tufted headboard and a beige and pink comforter. All the furniture was white, and the walls were a soft cream color. A giant dreamcatcher with brown and white feathers hung above her bed, but served as the only decoration in the whole space. Like her living space, the place was clean, just cluttered. A pile of clothes was on her bed. Shoes were kicked off in a corner. A cup of, he assumed, coffee, was sitting on the nightstand.

  He tried really, really fucking hard not to think about staring up at that dreamcatcher while he fucked her from behind.

  Maybe he failed at not thinking about that, but at least he only thought about it for a minute before they were inside her all-white bathroom.

  The harsh light inside it made the bruises stand out even more. Her skin, usually a perfect copper shade that contrasted her dark hair, was paler, almost white. Her lips were trembling and blue.

  She was just barely holding it together.

  He wondered if that was because he was there, or if she was just too damn stubborn no matter what to let herself fall apart.

  "Alright, can I?" he asked, touching the ends of her dripping sweatshirt with two fingers.

  "Yeah, get it over with," she said, brushing it off.

  But as his hands gripped the material and started working it slowly upward, exposing her flat belly with a hint of abs he had never usually liked in women before, but found fascinating on her, he could have sworn her breath sucked inward; her breathing went a little uneven.

  Hell, he was having a hard time remembering that he was there to doctor her, not play doctor.

  But as the shirt lifted up high enough to show the simple black underline of her bra, all sexual thoughts slid away at the smattering of bruises up her side.

  "Fuck," he hissed, reaching to pull the sopping material all the way off. "Sorry, honey," he said when she let out a whine at having to raise her arms all the way up for him to do so.

  He averted his eyes from her breasts, having a strange desire to see those for the first time under better circumstances.

  "It's not red," she observed, and he looked over to find her looking at her reflection in the mirror.

  Red wasn't good.

  Red usually meant blood accumulated which meant a busted rib that punctured something else.

  But she was all blue and purple.

  By morning, there would be some yellow and maybe even a hint of green mixed in.

  "It looks alright, but I want to make sure," he said, showing her his hand before he pressed it into her frigid skin, making her entire body do a hard tremble. His eyes shot up to catch hers, finding a mix of pain and, if he wasn't mistaken - and he wasn't - desire there. "You okay?" he asked, pissed that the first chance he got to put his hands on her was marred by pains put there by some pussy ass bastard. At her short nod, seemingly unable to untwist her tongue to give him a verbal answer, he nodded back. "Take a deep breath," he demanded, wanting to make sure her lungs were okay. "Yeah, just bruised. They're gonna hurt like a bitch for a while."

  "Should we wrap them?" she asked, sounding tense at the prospect.

  "Nah. Only if they're busted. If you wrap them now, it will only make it harder to take normal breaths. Then you get a chest infection, and those get ugly fast. You're just going to have to suffer for a while, unfortunately. And hug your chest or, if you have one nearby, hug a pillow to your chest if you need to cough. Take Advil religiously every four hours."

  "You really do know a lot about this," she said, brows furrowed slightly.

  There was a time and a place for teaching her about his past. When she was freezing and hurting was simply not the time.

  "Yep," he agreed, moving his hand from her side to snag her chin and lift it up. "Throat feeling like you swallow glass yet?"

  "I think I'm still half-numb from the cold," she admitted, though her voice was a bit scratchier.

  "Nothing to do about that either, babe," he said, sounding apologetic. He never thought twice about telling his guys to tough it out, but he felt like shit not to be able to ease her pain a little. "Alright, now this," he said, touching her temple, making her body jolt slightly. "Sorry. But this I can do something about. Got a first aid kit somewhere?"

  "In the closet," she said, gesturing toward the small linen closet behind him.

  "Alright. How about you get out of those wet clothes, warm up in a hot shower, and I'll fix that gorgeous face after?" he suggested, moving to dig through the cabinet, so he missed the way her mouth fell open at the compliment. "Espen?" he asked when she just stared at him for a long moment.

  "Oh, right," she said, seeming to remember her near nudity
suddenly, bringing her hands up to cross over her chest. "Yeah, that works."

  "Try to let some water run on that," he added, gesturing toward her face. "It looks nasty."

  With that, he forced himself out of the bathroom, closing the door.

  He didn't seem to have the strength to walk away just yet, though. He stayed there, leaning against the wall beside the door, listening to the water turning on, hearing the slap of her wet clothing hit the tile before she stepped under the spray.

  Another time, he reminded himself with a deep breath, moving away from the wall and into the kitchen. He put the first aid kit down, and started working his way through her cabinets. Looking for, well, anything edible.

  Espen, aside from a somewhat haphazard housekeeper, was apparently not exactly a cook. Of any sort. Not even a ramen soup cook.

  This likely explained the enormous pile of takeaway food menus that must have taken half a forest to accumulate. With a shrug, he picked up the Chinese menu, and ordered the ones she had little marks next to. All of them. If there was one thing he knew about women, it was that they never seemed to know what they wanted to eat. Variety was key.

  Thank God for New York City takeaway that delivered after midnight.

  He poured her another shot of whiskey, and placed a couple Advil beside it, then set to making a pot of coffee. It was the only hot thing around until the food arrived.

  It was right about then that the bathroom door creaked open, and he could hear her rummaging through her dresser. Which meant she was likely only in a towel - a fact he tried to ignore.

  Tried.

  Failed.

  But he powered through with only half a hard-on which he was convinced was truly saintly given the circumstances.

  "Did you order food to my apartment?" she asked as he closed the door, the smell of soy sauce making his stomach grumble, making him realize it had been almost the full day since he had eaten anything. He had eaten brioche pancakes with Gina and the girls before he headed over to have a chat with Kenzi's new man, Tig.

  "I was going to cook for you, but you could starve cockroaches with these empty cabinets," he told her as he piled the food on the counter, and started emptying the contents.