by Lia Riley
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” he said. “But you’re going to want to take those drinks and flush ’em down the toilet and then get outta here.”
“Excuse me?” The blonde started to cop an attitude.
“I’m serious,” he said, clapping his hand on the asshole in the suit’s shoulder, holding him in place. “Because this guy—who isn’t going anywhere by the way—just slipped something in your drink.”
“That’s a lie,” the man choked.
Around them people were starting to stare, to point.
“If you want we can get the girls to call the cops. It’s not hard to test for Rohypnol.”
“No cops,” the blonde said.
“Shit. Let’s get out of here.” The redhead grabbed the drinks. “Creep,” she snarled at the suit and then they were gone.
“Keep your eyes on your own lane,” the suit snarled, stepping back, his eyes unfocused and his tie coming undone. The man was drunk. It didn’t matter. It didn’t excuse what he’d done. “Go find your own piece of ass.”
“Can’t do that. See, I got this thing. When I see a man who wants to hurt a woman, then it gives me pleasure to hurt him back.” He reached and grabbed the guy’s elbow, spinning him around so his back pressed to Patch’s chest as he yelped.
“Hey!” another bar patron yelled. “Quit that.”
“Quit? I’ve only started.” The room felt far away. He put pressure on the arm. He did it slow. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted the fucker in his arms to feel a taste of the fear and horror he’d been about to inflict on that girl tonight.
The suit began to scream, back-kicking, struggling to get away.
Patch didn’t yield. He was past caring. All he knew was the urge to hurt. To break. To destroy.
Yelling. So much yelling. Someone screamed.
The suit went limp.
That’s when the arm dislocated. He felt it go, the pressure give out.
Patch dropped him to the floor and gave him a kick for good measure.
“Scumbag.”
Patch sat up in the dark. His heart pounding. His mouth filled with the sickening taste of bile.
The dude was gutter scum, yes, not to mention one of the most litigious personal injury lawyers in the city.
And without evidence, Guy Footscray spun his story, that Patch Donnelly had tried to muscle in on him talking up a pretty young woman. Typical, arrogant hockey bastard.
He worked the press like a fiddle and within twenty-four hours, everyone was singing the same song.
Patch let it happen. What was he going to do, get into a pissing match? Compare dick sizes? No way were two underage girls going to show up and provide witness statements.
If the world wanted to think he was a monster, let ’em.
And so he’d brooded. And spiraled. And gave in to the anger.
But the lawyer bided his time. He’d been humiliated and wanted payback to be a bitch.
He brought the personal injury suit against Patch, saying he hadn’t filed a police report because he hadn’t wanted to see a local hero arrested, didn’t want to do that to the kids. He was going to represent himself, wanted a million for pain and suffering.
Patch would give it to him too, if it meant he could stuff each dollar down the wannabe rapist’s throat until he choked on it.
He and his lawyer were meeting Footscray after he left Kansas. And if he wasn’t going to be able to stuff the asshole full of bills, he had the choice to fight back.
But what was the point? To clear his good name?
What a joke. His Ma died alone, afraid, and was left like a pile of yesterday’s trash. He hadn’t been able to save her. To inspire her to save herself.
He just hadn’t been enough.
He hung his head, alone in the dark. As far as the world knew, his name was mud.
And he needed to pay for all of his crimes.
Chapter Fifteen
Margot slipped as the chair she was standing on tipped forward. “Crap!” she cried, reaching out to brace her hand on her closet door. Sure, all men—and women—die. Valar morghulis and all that jazz. But when the day came for her to shuffle off her mortal coil, here’s to hoping that it wasn’t breaking her neck while digging her senior year yearbook from the top of her closet.
She grabbed the blue leather-bound book and jumped down to the floor, heart pounding.
Walking to the edge of her bed, she sat down and cracked open the cover, flipping through the faces. She’d been out of high school for how long? Nine years? Ten? For a time in her life that felt so intense, so all-consuming, now she couldn’t even remember the names of all the faces she glanced over.
But there was one.
She’d never forget Chad Taylor.
In one picture a girl is walking down the hall; she’s wearing a short skirt, part of the dance line school uniform on game days. That girl walking away while Chad crouched behind, baring his teeth like a mad rodent; that girl was her. All around him were guys doubled over. The caption read: Football star considering enrolling in Oregon State. What an Eager Beaver!
Even the Yearbook Club had been in on the joke.
“Ea-ger Beav-er,” the team would chant as she lined up for hot lunch.
“Ea-ger Beav-er,” they’d holler as the bell rang and they filed out to the school buses and parking lot.
Her friends got sick of all their catcalling. Inexplicably, a few got jealous and acted as if Margot was lucky to get the attention of the hottest guy in school.
She resorted to eating PB&J in the library. At least she’d been able to raid her stepmom’s novels and escape for forty minutes a day to worlds populated by devastating dukes, suave assassins, heroines who always had perfect comebacks and no men who ever made a woman feel degraded after sex.
She’d come so far from those days, from being that bewildered girl. Worked her ass off to feel confident in her sexuality and choices.
Her senior year picture stared back at her. It had been taken a month before the homecoming game in a studio near her childhood home in Portland. A home that was sold when her stepmom and dad divorced. That girl in the photo had no idea what was ahead of her in life. The good, the bad, the ugly.
Margot was surprised to find tears welling in her eyes. It was so easy to be critical about herself. But when she looked at her earnest, seventeen-year-old face with that questionable haircut and shy smile, she could summon more empathy. If she wouldn’t blame the younger version of herself in the photo for her troubles with guys, then she shouldn’t be annoyed at her present self for poor dating decisions. If a dude turned out to be a jerk, that was on him. Not her.
Picking up her phone from beside her legs, she didn’t hesitate. She deleted all the dating apps one by one. For so long she’d been looking for a guy who seemed worth it to quit playing the field, to settle down and risk commitment.
She deserved good things in life, and a good guy, and for once she really felt like she’d found one.
As the last app vanished from her smartphone, there was a knock at her front door.
She stood, knowing who it was before taking a single step.
He was out there.
She slid the yearbook under her bed. She hadn’t spoken to him since their phone sex.
With a deep breath, she opened the door.
“Margot,” he breathed, and his gaze didn’t leave her face.
“I watched the game last night.” She stepped aside so he could come in.
“We did good. Coach was happy.”
“All of Denver felt the same way.”
“I practiced some of what you said. I breathed. I said . . . mantras. Positive self-talk. Turns out you know a thing or two.”
That made her smile.
“Tea?” She winced. “Sorry, no tea. It’s a force of habit. When people come here I tend to force it down their throats.”
“Why not? Maybe I’ll like it. I like coffee.”
“Two entirely different substan
ces.”
“Both are hot.”
“Milk and orange juice are both cold, what’s your point?” She let her fingers brush over his arm as he walked past, needing the connection, however small.
“Touché.”
“I thought you were going to call after the game last night,” he mumbled, taking a seat. “I waited.”
“I ended up leaving my phone in my car and catching a ride to Breezy’s,” she said quickly, a white lie, but she didn’t want to give him the full story and risk setting him off. “Jed was gone so we had a sleepover.”
He nodded, something like relief entering his expression. “I should have just called, you might not have had your phone, but looking back on it, it feels as if I was giving you a test. And that’s stupid.”
“A test of what?”
The pot on the stove began to whistle, drowning out his quiet words.
“Sorry, did you say something?” she said, snatching up the pot, pouring the hot water over two mugs of chamomile tea and then drizzling in honey.
“Forget it.”
She licked her finger. “No.”
The baddest ass in the NHL glowered at her and she dished it right back.
He blinked first. “Fine.” He sighed. “I said, a test about whether or not you cared about me.”
“You weren’t sure?”
“Being a needy asshole isn’t really my style.”
She touched her fingers to a faint bruise on his cheek. “It’s needy to want reassurance of affection?”
“It is if you’ve got to ask for it.”
“I disagree.” She took a small sip of tea, let the herbal sweetness wash over her tongue. “I’ve been thinking today that if I want something, I need to feel like I deserve it. Sounds like we’re in a similar boat.”
“I don’t know if I deserve you, Margot.” He made a small noise when he realized he’d spoken her name, a short laugh. “But I want to try.”
She took a deep breath and spoke in a rush. “I’m sorry I didn’t call after the game.” He had to hear the truth about what happened with Stefan, but he wasn’t exactly known for his levelheadedness. What would he do when he found out? How was he going to react?
He shrugged, glancing at the wall. “Whatever. It’s fine.”
It sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than her.
“I’m serious. I wanted to. In fact, I meant to. I went out to the car to get my phone, but . . .” She cleared her throat. “Well, I had an unexpected encounter.”
He watched her now, stern, but calm.
“Remember my ex?” She toyed with a loose thread on her sleeve. “Honestly, it feels stupid to use that word. The term seems to lend too much weight to Stefan’s position in my life.”
“You’re talking about the asshole who was bothering you the day we met.”
“Yup. That’s the one. Turns out he’s not happy I’ve been spending so much time with you.”
“Oh?” He squinted, a muscle clenching in his jaw like he was biting down. “And how would he know?”
“Because it looks as if he’s gone stalker lite. Actually, full stalker. Remember my slashed tire? Yeah . . . that was him.”
“You sound scared.” His eyes heated, the blue going almost black. He managed to nod, and the effort look like it cost him. His whole body radiated tension.
She paused, wondering if she should stop. Her shoulders sagged and she felt closer to one hundred than thirty.
“I’m not scared of Stefan.” But her words sounded hollow, steeped in bravado.
Because the truth was, she’d been unsettled in the parking lot.
No. Scratch that. She’d been freaked out.
Scared.
“His temper got the best of him.”
“I want to hurt him for making you feel that way.” He sounded pissed. Hulk-smash-pissed.
Her heart sank. “That’s what I was afraid of.”
“I didn’t say I was going to. Just that I want to.” He raked a hand through his hair and began to pace around the room.
“What are you doing?”
“Breathing,” he said, before dropping to his knees in front of her. “I am calming myself down, the way you taught me. Because this isn’t about me, and my reaction. It’s about you, and what you need right now.”
God, she could kiss him for that.
But there was something else.
She put her hand on the side of his cheek. “He said something else too, something I think you need to hear.”
“What’s that?”
It was work to finish what she needed to say. “He said the lawyer you had the fight with works out at his gym.” She could barely get out the next words. Her stomach threatened to come out of her throat. “And he’s telling people that you tried to roofie a girl at the bar.”
Patch closed his eyes, just for a second, and Margot had the sense that he was retreating somewhere deep within himself. A place she couldn’t reach.
“I don’t believe it,” she rushed out. And that was the truth. “But I want to hear the truth. From you.”
The silence was as loud as a gunshot.
“Does it matter what I say?”
She’d never heard him use that voice before. He’d gone still. So still. She wasn’t even sure if he was breathing.
“Of course it does.”
She tried to grab his hand, but he moved then, picking up the teacup and taking a swig, grimacing. “That tastes like grass.”
“You’ve consumed a lot of grass in your time?”
“You always such a smart ass?”
“I am just curious where you became a lawn epicure.”
“A lawn epi—pffft.” He snorted. “You’re really something.”
“Why thank you. A compliment that warms the heart. And you’re not answering.”
His expression turned deadly serious. “I didn’t do that. Put a drug like that in a girl’s drink. But here’s the thing, if I had, I wouldn’t tell you, would I?”
“You wanted to be a priest once, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. For a hot minute. You think I have Catholic guilt.”
“Or morals.”
He heaved one shoulder in a half shrug. “I wanted something bigger than myself.” He reached up and idly pulled out the chain he wore around his neck, clasped his fist over the Saint Anthony medal. “But I’m not cut out for that life.”
“Why?”
“Because how could I help people if I couldn’t help the one person that I loved more than anybody?” The words were ragged, the pain so raw that she felt them as a visceral pain.
“Your mother.”
“I was her son. All she had. She gave me this medal and said Saint Anthony was the patron saint for lost things. And yet, I lost her. Got into enough trouble that eventually the state moved me to a foster home. And without me there . . . she had no reason to try at all. And then she was lost for good. And no medal was ever going to bring her back.”
“So you joined the seminary.”
“I’d have made a terrible priest, just like I made a terrible son.”
“I’m not going to pretend to be religious with you. I don’t know what I believe. But I do know this. To live in this world . . . we need to have a little faith. And when I look at you, I see a guy that I can trust. That I can believe in. I don’t think you tried to drug a drink. I think that lawyer is lying.”
“Shit.” Patch covered his face and from behind his hands, Margot listened to his truth. To what he saw in The Jury Room, the two vulnerable young women, and how he felt a desperate desire to help. How his anger flared at the man who wanted to hurt them.
When he was done, they sat in silence.
“I have just one more thing to say,” she said.
“Shoot.” His voice was still husky with emotion.
“When I look at you, all I see is a good man. A great man. The best man.”
He feigned staring around the room as if looking for someone else.
>
“Yeah, I’m talking about you.” She knocked his foot with hers. “And actually I have a question too. But if you aren’t ready to answer, there’s absolutely no pressure.”
“Got it.”
She took a deep breath. “Patrick Donnelly, would you mind if I took you to my bed? I’m not going to say I’m going to make a man out of you, though. Because honestly, you’ve done a great job of that all on your own.”
He glanced down at the teacup. It looked almost like a toy in his big hand. “And here I was hoping I’d get to hang out and sip hot grass juice.”
She should have expected his speed, his agility, his complete control of his body. After all, she’d watched him play countless times. But it felt like a heartbeat and he was standing, and she was in his arms, cradled to his broad chest.
“Is that a yes?”
“Where do you want me to take you?”
She waggled her eyebrows. “I like that you’re open. But for this first time . . . I think we’ll both feel more comfortable on my bed.”
Her room was dim in the winter light. He settled her down on the mattress and walked to the window, drawing the curtains.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
“The last time I was in here with you.”
“A good memory.”
He turned around, facing her fully. “The best. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to top it. But it looks like I’ve gotten lucky.”
She rose to her knees and slid off her top. “You’re certainly about to.”
Chapter Sixteen
He’d be tempted to stop time, except for his intense impatience. It was as if he was crawling in the desert, but the oasis was right there, so close to bliss, just a few more inches.
“Get over here,” Margot ordered. “Hurry.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Her face softened. “It’s going to be quick the first time.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t. This is basically the honor of my life. Besides, after the first time there’s going to be a second time.” She reached down and unsnapped the clasp in the front of her bra. Her breasts hung pale and perfect. His mouth watered at the sight of her light pink nipples.
“And a third.” He shed his shirt. “You got a condom.”
