by Lili Valente
It’s time to get some blood flowing to your brain so you can make an informed decision. The fact that this man sets your panties on fire is not adequate reason to help him avoid potential domestic abuse charges.
Actually, the fact that he sets my panties on fire is good reason for me to call this off before we even get started.
Instead, I turn to face Jake, tucking my foot beneath my knee as I ask, “So what happened? Can you explain more about the bruises on your ex? I have to be honest, that’s going to be the deal maker or breaker for me. I don’t condone physical violence in general, but it’s especially upsetting when the aggressor is about three times the size of the person with a hand around her throat.”
“I understand. And I agree.” He sighs as he runs clawed fingers through his hair. “I’ll get to that, I promise, but I need to go back a little further. I’m not sure you can understand what went down last week unless you know some of the history between Keri and me.”
I nod carefully, trying to keep an open mind, but I don’t like the defeated expression on his face. He looks like a man who knows his explanations are going to be pointless. It makes me sad, way sadder than it should, considering Jake is still practically a stranger.
But I don’t want to believe this person with the kind eyes, who makes me feel things I haven’t felt since Wesley, is capable of inexcusable violence.
“Keri and I met at a benefit for Real Time, my charity,” he says, crossing his arms at his chest only to wince and uncross them again. “I help sponsor sports programs for inner city kids. All kinds of stuff, but especially time on the ice—hockey camps, that sort of thing. Keri works for a charity that gets art into schools. We had a lot in common and hit it off right away. She grew up in the same kind of neighborhood I did and…” He shrugs uncomfortably. “I don’t know. It wasn’t electric right off the bat, but I felt like I could be myself with her. It was nice.”
“So far, so good,” I say, liking the story of him spending time with a woman because they had work and life lessons in common, even though I know the unhappily ever after is coming. “So where did it all go wrong?”
“It didn’t. At first, everything was fine. We hung out at my place and she came to watch practice. I spent weekends at her studio helping her prime canvases and painting the world’s ugliest self-portrait. We had fun. It was easy to be with her and the, um…” His gaze shifts my way before returning to the garden in front of us. “And things in the bedroom were good. You know, just…normal and good.”
I fight a smile, sensing he won’t appreciate me finding his discomfort adorable. “Nice. Normal and good is good. Way better than weird and bad.”
“Yeah, it is.” His lips curve and I get a glimpse of how gorgeous he must be when he smiles, but the sliver of a grin doesn’t linger for long. “But we got around to weird and bad. Got around to it a hell of a lot quicker than I would have thought possible in the beginning. But I should have known better than to let her in so fast. You can’t really know a person after six weeks.”
“Well, no, not completely,” I say, brows drawing together. “But you can usually get a pretty good idea if things are going to go weird and bad. It sounds like maybe Keri had some stuff going on that most people don’t?”
“Keri is sick.” The regret and frustration in his tone makes it clear he isn’t speaking metaphorically. “I’m not sure what her diagnosis is, but I know she was taking medication and then she stopped. She said the meds had some shitty side effects, like making her less interested in sex, and she didn’t want that to interfere with our relationship. I told her to talk to her doctor before she made a decision—I thought she could try different medication if she was really worried about it—but she didn’t listen.” He exhales, his shoulders slumping lower than they were before. “Afterward, she started having terrible headaches and grinding her teeth in her sleep like crazy. It got so bad she broke a molar. Cracked it completely in two.”
“Ouch,” I say, wincing.
“I paid for the surgery to fix it, and for her to see a specialist for her migraines. She told me not to, but I felt like it was my fault.” He stares down at his lap, where his fingers are threaded together in a single fist. “All of it was happening because she wanted to make me happy. I tried to convince her that her health was more important than if we banged like bunnies every time we were together, but…” He turns his palms up, his fingers curled loosely, the sight making me feel even worse for him.
It’s sad to see those big strong hands looking so helpless. Wrong, somehow.
“But she didn’t go back on the meds,” I prod after a moment.
“No, she didn’t,” he says softly. “And she was so angry all the time. Everything I said set her off, and when she wasn’t angry she was anxious. She was terrified that I was going to break up with her before she could get better, and honestly, I wanted to.” He shakes his head but doesn’t lift his gaze. “Not because I didn’t care about her as a friend, but it was all so much. She was crying and in pain all the time, and I’d only known her a couple of months. Long term, I had no idea which Keri I’d be dealing with if I stuck around. I know that makes me sound like the world’s biggest asshole, but…”
“No, it doesn’t,” I say, my throat tight. “Dating someone with a serious illness is a big decision. You weren’t married, and you hadn’t made any big promises. You had the right to call it off when it wasn’t good anymore.”
He looks up, his expression making it clear he isn’t buying what I’m selling.
He must have heard the hitch in my voice. He’s perceptive, something I should keep in mind if I want to keep my own baggage out of the equation. This is about Jake’s love life, not mine. All of my shit is in the past, buried six feet under where nothing ever changes and no amount of rehashing will do anyone any good.
“Seriously,” I insist. “I mean it. You don’t sound like the world’s biggest asshole. You actually sound like a nice guy.”
The skin around his eyes tightens, but he doesn’t look away. “I’m not. I didn’t even have the balls to break up with her in person. By that point, she’d threatened to kill herself if I called it off and I—”
“No way! She didn’t!” I shake my head, outraged on his behalf. “That’s straight up emotional terrorism.”
“I know, right?” He seems relieved to hear someone call a rat a rat. “I felt for her, but I also felt like I was her fucking prisoner. By the time it finally ended, I was so angry and resentful I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her anymore.”
“I don’t blame you. I’m just glad you didn’t let her hold you hostage.”
“Yeah, well I tried not to,” he says, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “I left a voicemail telling her I was out and encouraging her to get help, and then I changed the locks at my apartment. When she came over and started pounding on the door to get in, I called security and let them take care of it. I changed my cell number and my gym and had her banned from watching practice, but she kept showing up outside my building. I had to fucking run past her to get inside before she latched on to me. It was insane.”
I sigh, my stomach knotting as he nears the end of the story. “Did you talk to the police? See if you could get a restraining order?”
Anger tightens his features for the first time. “I don’t do police.”
“What? Why not? I mean, I know it’s not always fun to—”
“No,” he says, his tone final. “Going to the authorities wasn’t an option. I don’t air my dirty laundry in public. Ever.” His gaze hardens. “That’s why I brought the non-disclosure agreement. I expect my private life to remain private. Do we understand each other?”
“Of course,” I say. “I signed your agreement, I’m not—”
“I just want us to be crystal clear,” he cuts in. “If one word of anything I’m telling you is shared with the press or anyone else, including your little friend with the glasses, I will prosecute you, your boss, and anyone else who viol
ates my privacy to the fullest extent of the law.”
“Hold it right there.” I lift a hand, fingers spread wide. “Listen, I get that you’ve had a hard time, and I empathize, I do. But you have no right to threaten me. I’ve given you my word and signed the paperwork you wanted me to sign. If that’s not enough for you to trust me without getting nasty, then you should leave.”
He smirks. “And take my ten grand with me?”
“And take your ten grand with you.” I smile sweetly, fighting the uncharacteristically violent urge to slap the smug expression from his face. “I don’t need your money, Mr. Falcone. I was doing this as a favor to Bash, and because I’m easily guilted into saying yes when I should say no. Your money is ear-marked for the Humane Society, but I can just as easily make that donation with my own funds and send you on your grouchy way.”
“So you’re doing this out of the goodness of your heart?” he asks, in obvious and insulting disbelief.
“Yes, Jake.” Exasperation tightens my tone. “People do occasionally do nice things for other people simply because it’s the right thing to do.”
His dark, sexy-as-sin eyes study me for a long moment, during which I do my best to remember that he’s infuriating and the last person I should be allowing to jump start my sex drive. But the intensity in his gaze makes it feel like he’s stripping me bare, exposing my secrets, reminding me of all the things I’ve given up in exchange for hiding in the lovely ruins of another woman’s life.
Things like passion and connection and the chance that tomorrow might be less lonely than today. Things like love and acceptance from someone who sees all the way down to the deepest part of me, to the places that are sad and shuttered and broken, and finds something beautiful in the wreckage.
I know Jake isn’t that man, that he will never be anything but my client—and maybe not even that—but I can’t seem tear my eyes away from his. There’s something about him, something that makes every nerve in my body hum like a tuning fork finding the perfect pitch.
We sit staring for what feels like forever as Jake’s hands curl into fists and my heart beats faster, insisting it wants to stick around to learn more about this man who makes me feel fully awake for the first time in so, so long.
But my heart is used to not getting what it wants. I don’t expect this time to be any different. I expect Jake to tell me to go to hell and storm out the way he came, but instead he says, “I’m sorry. You’re right. I shouldn’t have threatened you like that. All of this…”
He trails off with a sigh. “It’s fucked me up. But that’s not your problem or your responsibility, and you shouldn’t have to deal with me being a royal dick.”
“I wouldn’t say a royal dick.” I tilt my head, catching his eye through the thick strands of hair falling across his forehead. “More like a normal, everyday dick, but those are bad enough.”
His lips curve. “Can I get out of the penalty box if I promise it won’t happen again?”
I nod, appreciating his sexy half-grin more than I should. “All right. You’re out of the penalty box, but no more lashing out. Save that for your therapist.”
He huffs. “I don’t have a therapist.”
“Get one.” I smile to soften the words. “A person who’s been through what you’ve been through needs therapy. I can listen if you want to talk, but my job is to get Keri off your back so you can get a fresh start, not help you deal with the emotional fallout of having someone you trusted turn into a stalker.”
“Assuming you take the job.” He runs his thumb back and forth beneath his chin. The brush of skin against late-afternoon stubble makes a shushing sound that is purely male and surprisingly intimate. I want to reach out and run my fingertip over his dark whiskers, just to feel the prickle.
I resist the inappropriate urge. Just barely. “Yes, assuming I take the job. So far, I’m inclined to say yes, but…”
“But you need to know the story behind the bruises. All right.” He nods, his shoulders tensing. “Like I said, I was doing everything I could to stay away from Keri, but last Thursday I came home late from practice to find her cooking lasagna in my kitchen. Somehow she’d gotten in. Popped the lock, I guess. Or maybe convinced the new guy in the lobby to let her in, though he swears he never left his desk. I’m not sure, but there she was, cooking and having a glass of wine, pretending everything was the way it used to be. I told her to get out, and we fought. I said some things, she said some things…”
His hands ball into fists again. “Eventually it escalated. Got ugly. I told her she was out of her goddamned mind and I never wanted to see her again, even if she did get help. Before I knew what was happening, she was coming at me with a knife.”
My jaw drops, but before I can say a word, Jake pushes on.
“I was so shocked my reflexes went to shit. By the time I started to back up, she’d already sunk the blade into my shoulder. All the way in.” He shakes his head. “After that, I just…lost it. Before I realized what I was doing, I’d picked her up by the throat, carried her across the room, and dumped her outside the front door.”
“Shit,” I say, my eyes wide.
“That pretty much sums it up.” A grim smile curves his lips. “But I was only holding her for a few seconds, and there weren’t any bruises when I slammed the door.”
I nod sympathetically, but can’t help telling the truth. “They could have shown up later. Bruises take time to form.”
“I know,” he says. “I know a thing or two about getting roughed up. But the pictures were taken only twenty or thirty minutes after she left my apartment, around sunset. There shouldn’t have been time for the skin to turn that dark, black and purple color. I suspect she doctored them with eye-shadow or something, but I guess there’s a chance…”
He clears his throat as he meets my gaze head on, the haunted look in his eyes making my chest ache. “There’s a chance I lost control and hurt her. And if that’s true, maybe I don’t deserve help. I honestly don’t know anymore. I just know that I need this to stop, and you feel like my last chance to get out before things get even uglier.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Shane
I bite my lip hard as my thoughts race.
It isn’t the flat-out denial I told myself I needed to hear in order to move forward, but then Jake isn’t the man I expected him to be, either. He isn’t an arrogant jerk. He’s a seemingly nice, compassionate guy who’s found himself in a scary situation and needs help.
I’m inclined to think he needs help from the police and a good therapist more than an MBC intervention, but…
“I’ll go,” Jake says, breaking into my thoughts. “Sorry I wasted your time.” He stands, eating up the ground between the bench and the gate with long, swift steps.
“Wait! Don’t go.” I jump to my feet. “You haven’t wasted my time.”
He turns, his expression guarded and his shoulders tense, making me wonder which arm has the stab wound in it.
Jesus Christ. A stab wound.
A stab wound. This is insane!
I was prepared to help Jake ditch his crazy ex-girlfriend, but I didn’t think she would be stab-a-person crazy, or that I would be dealing with a man who has a pathological avoidance to going to the police.
“So I’m guessing you didn’t report the stabbing to the authorities.” I cross my arms tight and frown thoughtfully, trying to act like I have some idea what to do in a situation like this one. “Since you don’t do cops?”
An increasingly familiar stubborn expression firms his features. “No. I don’t want this getting out. The press would have a field day.”
“But this is a crime,” I say, hoping I can get him to see reason. “A serious one. Bare minimum, Keri assaulted you with a deadly weapon. I don’t know all the details, and I’m not a lawyer, but I see how a case could even be made for attempted murder.”
He shakes his head. “She wasn’t trying to kill me.”
“You don’t know that. She was angry an
d she stabbed you, Jake. Stabbed. Hard, from the way you described it.” I hold out my arm, letting my fingers hover above his chest. “What if her aim had been a little closer to the center? She could have plunged the knife into your heart.”
He shakes his head again, but with less conviction. “She wanted to hurt me in the moment, not take me out permanently.”
“Right.” I don’t even try to keep the dubiousness from my tone. “Well, what about your work? What did your doctor say? Is the injury going to impact your game?”
“I’ll be fine.” He rolls his left shoulder. “I heal fast, and I’m good with pain.”
“But what did your doctor say?” An ugly suspicion tickles through my gut. “You did go to a doctor, didn’t you?”
He shrugs, scowling. “It’s fine. I’ve been roughed up enough to know the difference between serious and not serious.”
“You’re kidding me,” I say, though I know he’s not. “This is so not okay, buddy, not even close.” I point to the gate. “Outside. Street. Now.”
“So that’s it?” Hurt flashes in his eyes before they go cold. “You’re out? Just like that?”
“No, I’m not out. I’m coming with you.” I grab my purse from the bench and tuck it under my arm. “We’re going to flag a cab and get you to the nearest emergency room.”
He grunts. “I’m not going to the emergency room. There’s no emergency.”
My eyes go so wide that I’m pretty sure I pull my lateral rectus. “You were stabbed! You have a stab wound! How is that not an emergency?”
“It’s a five-day-old stab wound that’s healing just fine,” he insists in a calm, determined voice that reminds me of my best friend Cat, who is also stubborn as hell and ridiculously bad at taking care of herself. “It’s too late for stiches, and that’s all a doctor would do.”
“It is not. They would also check to see if you have a localized infection,” I say, refusing to back down. “And if the knife went deep enough to nick bone, you should be checked for osteomyelitis, a serious bone infection. You could need a broad spectrum antibiotic and maybe even surgery to debride the infected tissue.”
