“I’m fine,” I said.
Chicken, said Hux.
Chapter 22
Jasmine
My hand was still on his neck. I knew I should move it. The rage seemed to have passed, but—
But I could feel the muscles of his neck hard as wood under my fingers. I could feel the animal throbbing of him as all the scalding-hot blood rushed just beneath the surface. As his breathing slowed, I could feel mine beginning to fall in time with it.
I was overcome by the size of him, the raw physicality of him. It was like resting my hand on the neck of a bull. What would he be like in the bedroom?!
I knew it was a mistake. I should never have touched him. He needed comfort, but he needed it from someone real, from someone who wasn’t even more screwed up than he was. But all I wanted to do was kiss him. I wanted to jump up onto him, wrap my arms around him and cling to his chest. I wanted to feel that gorgeous full lower lip against my mine, I wanted to be warmed by his panting breath. I knew, from watching him move, that he could hold me there in the air for as long as he wanted, solid as rock.
I dragged my eyes away from his face and forced myself to stare at a spot in the very center of his navy-blue shirt. I tried not to think about the broad curves of muscles beneath, or how wide his shoulders were, or how small he’d make me feel as he cradled me.
He. Doesn’t. Like. You. He likes Jasmine. And there is no such person. She was smoke and mirrors and giggles and perfume. Perfectly convincing until he got too close.
I let my hand slide from his neck.
He caught my wrist.
I took a breath, my chest trembling, and looked up into his eyes. Do Jasmine, I thought automatically, and tried to give him my best Down, boy! look, flirty but warning at the same time. But it wouldn’t come. My mouth was open and my heart ached and I was completely defenseless.
“Thank you,” he said.
I couldn’t answer. Could barely think.
“Let’s do something,” he said, his voice urgent. “Let’s go do something.” And I knew what was in his head because it was in mine, too: I don’t want this to end. I was having fun, being with him. More fun than I’d had in a long time, more fun than I’d had on any of those drunken one-night stands with the guys from bars. I felt closer to him than them, despite—because?—I knew we weren’t going to have sex.
I took a breath and went to say something about how we couldn’t get involved. How we had to work together. How I liked him, but not in that way. But before I could even get the lie out, he said, “Not a date. Just...something.”
Something passed between us, in that moment. An understanding. He knew...or, at least, he suspected. I know you’re lying, his eyes said. We can both keep pretending, as long as you stay with me.
I should have run. Instead, I nodded. “What?” I asked.
***
Two hours later, I walked into Ryan’s gym.
I didn’t even have a gym membership. Working out, for me, meant hours of crunches on a fitball in the privacy of my apartment. Gyms were for people like Clarissa, with her designer gym gear and designer sneakers and designer abs.
I’d stopped in at my apartment to grab something to wear and I was suddenly very glad I’d changed at home and thrown a sweatshirt over the top for the journey. I mean, logically, the gym must have had a women’s changing room somewhere, but I couldn’t see a single woman in the place. Everyone looked like a boxer or a marine and the equipment didn’t get any more advanced than big lumps of heavy metal to lift and punchbags. When I walked in, every head seemed to swivel to look at me, and my layer of Jasmine was worn too thin for me to completely ignore it, or relish it as I normally would.
Then I saw him, standing barefoot on a gym mat in gray sweatpants and a black tank top.He looked like a colossus, standing there with his feet braced apart and his arms folded. I swear a rhino could have charged at him and it would have bounced off.
I walked over to him, trying not to show my nerves. “Okay,” I said. “What are we doing here?”
He beamed at me. “Unarmed combat.”
My insides turned to ice. Why hadn’t he told me?! But why would he? He thought I was the happy, bubbly person I always sold to the world, without a single nightmare in her head. It wasn’t his fault. It was mine.
I could walk away. I could tell him I’d changed my mind and just walk out. But then he’d know something was wrong and he’d start to suspect. I had to push through it and hope I could hold it together.
He must have seen my hesitation because he gave me a doubtful smile and said, “Relax! It’ll be fun. I won’t hurt you!”
I won’t hurt you. A thread of memory pulled tight, glittering and sharp in my mind.
I made my feet take a step toward the gym mat.
“I’ll teach you how to throw me,” Ryan said. “You’ll get to toss me around. It’ll be fun.”
It’ll be fun. The memory screamed and broke, like a guitar string snapping.
Do Jasmine, I thought, and formed my mouth into a goofy smile, but it felt like trying to mold someone else’s face with my hands.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Sure.” I was trying to slow my breathing down. “What do I do?” I walked onto the mat until I was within touching distance.
He was smiling again. The innocent smile of a friend showing another friend something cool. “Okay. Let’s say someone grabs you from the front.”
His huge hand reached out and gathered the front of my tank top. Gently, taking care not to damage it and making sure he didn’t brush a boob by accident. He was being the perfect instructor.
Except, in my mind, we weren’t in a brightly-lit gym. We were in the back room of a bar.
“Now what you want to do, as I pull you toward me, is resist the instinct to pull away. That’s going to put you off balance. Step forward, instead, quickly. Before he knows what’s going on.”
I can’t step forward I’m too frightened it smells like cigarettes in here—
My feet felt like they were encased in ice, but I made them shuffle forward.
Ryan put his hand on my wrist. Warm and gentle, but in my mind—
Hurts it hurts he’s wearing rings and they’re digging in—
“Okay, now bring your arm up like this,”—Ryan lifted my arm. It was loose and floppy, no strength in the muscles—”and grab my wrist here and twist outward.”
He waited, but my hand made no move to grab him. Fear was surging up inside me like freezing white water, as unstoppable as being sick.
“Jas—” he started to say, and touched my face.
I screamed.
It erupted from the dark, from the swirling waters that were Emma. It punched up through Jasmine, tearing a hole clean through her, and blasted out around the gym, all the pain, and fear given voice. If screams can have a color, this one was black.
I was Emma again.
Chapter 23
Jasmine
I lurched sideways, away from Ryan. I had no idea where I was going. I didn’t know where I was. I was aware of lots of people around me, staring at me, and I could feel the fear freezing me from the inside out, blossoming like a cold explosion and spreading to every inch of me. I pulled away, but Ryan still had hold of my tank top with one hand, the fabric stretching but not giving way, and he was far too shocked to release his grip. I heaved once. Twice.
Connor slammed into Ryan and bore him to the ground, an expression of homicidal rage on his face. His Belfast-accented roar drew almost as much attention as my scream. “GET YOUR FUCKIN’ HANDS OFF HER, YOU FUCKIN’ FUCK!”
Ryan’s hand had finally been torn free of my tank top. I staggered away. The room was whirling and there didn’t seem to be any doors. My legs wouldn’t hold me and I fell to my knees before I’d gone three steps.
Jasmine Jasmine Jasmine Jasmine I’m Jasmine, I’m Jasmine. But it wasn’t working. Jasmine was broken and ruined and I was falling down into the dark waters of Emma.
&nbs
p; The hard crack of flesh and bone, over and over. I looked over my shoulder and saw Connor and Ryan wrestling on the floor. Ryan was the bigger of the two, but Connor had the advantage of surprise and burning, all-consuming rage at what he thought he’d seen. Ryan, meanwhile, kept trying to snatch glances at me, to see if I was alright.
Out of all the gyms in the area...why did he have to go to the same one as Connor?
Connor’s fist caught Ryan across the face. Again. Again.
I felt myself reaching up from the darkness. Not Ryan. I couldn’t let that happen to Ryan. “Stop,” I said, but it was just a wet croak. “Stop,” I said again, and crawled toward them. But Connor didn’t stop until I reached out and put a hand on his arm.
Ryan’s face was already swelling and he was bleeding from his lip. But all he did was look at me and say, “Are you okay?”
“Sorry,” I said, my voice hitching as the tears started. “I’m sorry.”
***
It got steadily worse.
First, the guy who owned the gym and two of his buddies who acted as security grabbed Ryan and wanted to throw him out. I had to talk them out of it, telling them that I’d had a “panic attack.” They looked at me doubtfully.
Then Connor walked me across the gym, past what felt like a million men all staring at me, and found a quiet little space next to a drinks machine. He wanted to get me away from Ryan, I guess, to make sure he wasn’t intimidating me into silence. But Ryan wasn’t the problem.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Really. It was just a stupid thing. Nothing to do with him.”
Connor just stared at me, six-foot something of blue-eyed Irish stubbornness.
“Really,” I said. “And look...I need you to do something for me.”
He realized what it was even before I said it, and held his hands up in defense. “No—”
“Don’t tell Karen about this.”
“Jasmine, no. I can’t lie to Karen.”
“Don’t lie to her, just...don’t mention it.” I gathered the tattered shreds of Jasmine and did my most imploring eyes. I felt like the very lowest of the low for using wiles on him, but I had to contain this thing. “It’s very personal. Please, Connor.”
He sighed and shook his head. And then nodded. My insides knotted up at the thought of coming between him and Karen.
Ryan was walking toward us very slowly, as if testing the floor with each step. I held up a hand to stop him. “I’m okay,” I said. “Really. And I’ll tell you about it, but not right now. I have to go. I’m fine, but I have to go. Okay?”
And I turned and left, trying to forget the look on his face. All the damage Connor had caused was nothing compared to the pain in Ryan’s eyes.
***
In my apartment the neighbor had her TV turned up too loud. I didn’t mind. The noise was sort of comforting, by now.
I needed to recover and rebuild, but I had no idea how. I hadn’t had a...I didn’t even know what to call it. A slip? I hadn’t had a slip like that in three years. And it made no sense. Guys had grabbed me in bars and I hadn’t reacted like that. Was it because it was him—because I’d let my defenses down? Or was it because Jasmine had an expiry date? Had I just held it together for as long as I could, and now the cracks had started to appear?
My only thought was to get back to normal and undo the damage. I had to stop Karen finding out, above all else, or she’d start digging. And with her new-found confidence, she’d be impossible to stop.
I never, for a moment, thought that maybe this was a sign. That maybe I should go the other way and open up and tell Ryan everything. That was unthinkable, literally—it didn’t enter my head.
What I had to do was repair Jasmine.
I went to my bedroom and closed the door. And then, even though there was no one else in the apartment, I wedged a chair against it.
Easy, I thought. You’re losing it. But I left the chair there anyway.
I undressed and stood naked in front of the mirror. During the first summer after I’d left Chicago, I’d changed the way I felt about myself, not abruptly but day by agonizing day. It had been like building up a coral reef, layering on the positivity micron by torturous micron, the progress so slow as to be undetectable. But, eventually, I’d been able to accept my curves—love them, even.
Now, I saw my body with Emma’s eyes for the first time in years. I was everything they’d called me in that room. Cow. Big-titted bitch. Good for just one thing.
I drew in a shuddering breath and stared at the places where the bruises used to be. By focusing on the places that were now healed, I could remind myself that I’d left those men behind. I’d left him behind. Years ago and miles away.
I moved the chair, walked through to the bathroom and turned on the taps. A bath. I’d run a steaming hot bath and soak until the heat calmed my mind. But even as the water thundered in, I knew that wouldn’t cut it. Everything was shattered and broken and I had no idea how to put the pieces back together.
I stumbled back to my bedroom and rooted around for my emergency fix. In Case of Breakdown, Unscrew Cap and Consume. There was dust on the bottle of Jack Daniels and I was proud of that. I drank—and got drunk—with the girls, of course, but that was different. That was positive drinking, to have a good time. Drinking on my own, to shut things out...I hadn’t done that since Chicago.
I padded back to the bathroom, naked and dangling the bottle from one hand. The tub was half full. I’d get in and drink and drink and maybe it’d be okay.
But I had this awful, sick sense of dread that it wouldn’t be. I wasn’t just broken inside. The pieces were too sharp to touch. I couldn’t put myself back together, not yet. I had to let some of it out, first. And that meant—
No. Not that. God, not that, not after all these years. I nearly had, just once, that night Karen had saved me from becoming an escort, but I’d managed to just about contain it.
I hadn’t cried since that day I arrived in New York. Emma cried; Jasmine didn’t.
And now I was back to being Emma.
The heat built and built behind my eyes until it burst free in burning, wracking sobs. I drew in a long, groaning breath as I fought for control and somehow the bottle slipped out of my hand and exploded on the tiles, slivers of it stabbing into my naked leg. I fell to one knee and then slumped onto my back and howled, the tiles cold against my ass and shoulders. I put my hands over my eyes to shut out the light and cried long and hard, the pain rising up from deep within, so deep and well-buried that it tore me apart as it came out. This is why I’d stopped crying. Crying meant letting Emma out of her box and I’d always known she’d smash Jasmine apart in the process.
Some women can cry romantically. Glistening eyes, a tear trickling down one cheek, a sniff and then they’re dragged into their boyfriend’s arms again because he loves them so damn much. This wasn’t like that. I was a howling, blubbering mess, slamming my fists down on the tiles in frustration. I’d had it. For a little while, there, I’d had my perfect life and I’d blown it. Or maybe it had just been an illusion, dreamt up by some scared girl from Chicago, and it was never really there at all.
I wailed, the tears wet on my cheeks, as the water crested the top of the tub and started to spill over onto me and the floor. I could feel jagged shards of glass bob and rise on the water and bump against my leg, but I didn’t care. I lay there as the water surrounded me, soaking my hair.
I was back in Chicago.
Chapter 24
Emma
Three and a half years earlier
To understand what my dad did, you have to understand the underworld. There’s an invisible economy you might not even be aware of, based on handshakes and loyalty, intimidation and fear. The goods are guns, drugs, and sometimes women. The payment is always cash.
And cash is what my dad controlled.
People read stories about millionaire drug lords, but the truth is that crime is a pyramid with a very, very wide base. Most people involved in it have
next to no money—a million tiny businesses, all just barely surviving. And just like any small business, they always want to grow, to expand. And to do that, they need more product—more coke to sell, more guns to protect their turf, more women for their clubs. They need a loan. And that’s where my dad comes in.
My dad acts as the bank—and the debt collector—for one of the worst neighborhoods in Chicago. His dark, grimy bar is his front business. It’s neutral ground, a good place to meet to broker a deal or pass on information and, while you’re there, you can nod and smile to my dad. Everyone knows the benefits of staying on the right side of my dad—even some of the cops. If you don’t owe him money right now, you might someday.
The bar has a big main room where, at any one point, at least half the drinkers will be out on parole and the other half will have outstanding warrants. There’s a smaller back room with a pool table where groups can go for a little extra privacy. It has its own sound system and a thick door.
I didn’t realize the significance of that, at first.
The bar and the small apartment above it were the only places I could remember living. Downstairs was noisy and shouty and sometimes, as a kid, I’d get yelled at for being down there. Upstairs was a safe haven, a quiet place where it was mainly my mom, my brother and me. I didn’t like it when my mom worked behind the bar. I thought it was a nasty, stinky place where she might get hurt.
I knew my dad loved her. But his attitude toward my brother and me was completely different. My brother, he merely hated. Me, he despised. There was always something in the way he looked at me, ever since I could remember. I was a reminder of something.
I wasn’t dumb. No one else in our family had red hair. My mother was always tight-lipped about it, insisting that my dad was really my dad. She seemed to have a calming effect on him and he never beat her. He didn’t start beating us until after she died, when I was eleven. It was as if her death stripped away the last bits of good in him and left only the cruel, vicious streak.
Acting Brave (Fenbrook Academy #3 - New Adult Romance) Page 14
