The Final Fight

by JB Salsbury

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oops.” I bug my eyes out and cover my mouth. “Sorry for the f-bomb. You used to like it when I talked dirty.”

  The muscles beneath the smooth skin of her shoulders tense, and she balls her fists. “What is your problem?”

  I take a swig of vodka and drop to the couch, my legs open, my heart squeezed in my chest. “You two serious?”

  “I . . . I mean—”

  My eyes cut to her, and if she thought of lying to me before, she’s thinking twice about it now.

  She tugs on the hem of her top. “I live with him, but—”

  “Fuck.” I fold forward and stare at the floor.

  “Braeden, please—”

  “You found someone better.”

  “He is not better than you.”

  I slice my eyes back to her and tilt my head. “Don’t. Fucking. Lie.”

  “He’s not!”

  I slam the bottle down, jump up, and get in her face. “Look at me and don’t fucking lie!”

  “Brae—”

  “Look at me! Look!”

  The door bursts open, and Blake comes in, stepping between us. “Back the fuck up, bro.”

  “Piss off.” I shove him hard, but he doesn’t budge.

  “Adeline.” Blake’s eyes don’t waver from mine. “This visit is over.”

  “Please, let me talk to him.”

  “Not tonight, babe,” he grumbles and maintains the barrier between us.

  Layla slides in behind him and motions for AJ to leave.

  I want to fight for her to stay, but why? She’s living with her fucking piece-of-shit, rich, son-of-a-bitch boyfriend who’s got her all dolled up in those fancy fucking clothes. Well, fuck him. Fuck them both.

  The door shuts, and Blake points one beefy finger in my face. “You fucked that up big time, asshole.”

  “Whatever.” I drop back to the couch.

  He stands at the foot of it. “That woman out there loves you.”

  I pinch my eyes closed, forcing myself to see the truth rather than the lies. It’s all lies.

  “You don’t want to open up to me, to Mom, a fucking shrink, fine. But if you have half a fucking brain, you will open up to that woman and let her love you.”

  “She lives with her boyfriend, dickhead.”

  He shakes his head. “You really are a complete idiot.”

  “Sticks and stones may break my bones . . .”

  “Fuck off.” He storms out of the room and slams the door.

  What does he expect me to do? Go to war with Mr. Moneybags over her?

  I’m done fighting wars I have no chance of winning.

  Twenty-five

  AJ

  The sun is barely up, and I’m practically bouncing off the walls of the penthouse suite. I’d blame the coffee if I didn’t know this feeling well: the coil of excitement in my gut, rush of adrenaline through my veins, the drive for victory no matter how much it hurts.

  Yeah, I’m familiar with this feeling. It’s just been so long since I’ve felt it, really felt it, that it’s like being reacquainted with an old friend. How apropos.

  I check the clock on the microwave and decide I can’t stand another second being idle. I pour a steaming cup of coffee and walk as slowly as I can to Andre’s room, my sneakers soundless on the marble floor.

  Since the night after the charity event, I’ve been sleeping in the guest bedroom. Andre’s usually up pretty early, but I don’t know what time he got home from work last night. I get the feeling he’s sleeping in to avoid me, not that I blame him.

  His room is dark except for the early morning light that shines through the double-pane windows. Circling to his side of the bed, I take a moment to watch him sleep. He really is a very attractive man: strong forehead, regal nose, and a firm jawline. Awake the combination is intimidating; asleep; he looks almost harmless.

  I set the coffee down on his side table and prop my butt on the edge of the bed. “Andre?” I rest a hand on his forearm.

  He blinks open his eyes and they focus on me. “Hey, what time is it?”

  “Just after six.”

  “Everything okay?” He studies my face then what I’m wearing, as if it’ll give him some clue as to the purpose of the wake-up call.

  “Yeah.”

  He rolls to his back and stretches then pushes himself up. I snag the coffee off the table and hand it to him. “Thank you.”

  I wait while he takes a few sips, and then he frowns at me. “You headed somewhere?”

  Fidgeting in one place, I tug at my tank and smooth my hands down my workout leggings. “Yeah, that’s kinda what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  His expression turns cold and guarded, exactly what I expected.

  “I went by and saw Braeden yesterday.”

  He continues to sip from his coffee, but I don’t miss the slight twitch of his eye.

  “I needed answers and—”

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  I recoil at his words. “No, Andre, I didn’t sleep with him.” I want to tear into him for being an insensitive prick, but I can understand his frustration. Surely, he feels me slipping away, but I’d never do that to him. “He was wounded in Iraq. Horribly wounded.” The memory of his damaged skin beneath my touch sends dread weighing heavily on my shoulders, and I don’t even think I’ve seen the full extent of it. “I want to help him.”

  “How do you want to help him, Adeline?”

  I close my eyes and drop my chin at the shitty tone in his voice. “Please don’t make this dirty. If you’re worried about us running away together, you have nothing to be concerned about. He doesn’t want me. He made that very clear.”

  “And you?” He leans to set his coffee down before refocusing on me. “Do you want him?”

  “You want the truth?”

  “Always.”

  “I did. In the worst way, I wanted him. I think . . . I don’t know . . . I may have loved him.”

  His cheek jumps.

  “But the man I saw at the charity event, the same man I saw yesterday, that’s not the guy I knew. I think whatever happened to him changed him.” That’s the truth, and Andre deserves to hear it.

  “Yet since he came back into your life you refuse to share our bed.”

  “Yes. Just until I figure this out.”

  He pushes two hands through his dark hair and locks his fingers behind his head. “I don’t like it.”

  “I know, and it’s not fair to ask you to deal with my baggage. I understand if you want me to leave.”

  “Where would you go?”

  “It might take me a couple of days, but I could get an apartment.” I touch his hand that’s now resting by his hip. “Thanks to you I have some extra money for a deposit.”

  He studies me, probably using his brilliant business mind to determine the cost benefit of my living here, and frowns when it seems he’s come to some sort of decision. “You can stay—”

  “Thank you—”

  “—as long as you continue to be honest with me, Adeline. I’ve invested in us; you know I have.”

  Guilt crushes my lungs. “You’ve been so patient with me, and I appreciate that.”

  “My generosity will only go so far.” He leans forward and kisses my forehead where he whispers, “I won’t have a woman living in my home while she’s fucking someone else.” Those last three words drip in acid.

  “I understand, and I think you know me well enough to know I’d never do that to you.”

  “I do. However, maybe this is what you need to do to dissolve the last barrier between us. I’m tired of sharing you with a ghost.”

  “I know.”

  His gaze is cast downward, and he slips back beneath the sheets. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to catch a couple of more hours of sleep.”

  “Thank you, Andre.”

  When he doesn’t reply, I slip quietly from the room, grab my water bottle, keys, and race for the door.

  ~~~


  By the time I pull up at the Daniels’ house, the sun has thoroughly warmed the atmosphere. The weather report said it’s supposed to get up into the nineties today, which means we better get moving.

  Walking as quietly as I can to avoid waking anyone in the main house, I grin when I see the lock on the side gate is unlatched.

  “Thank you, Layla,” I whisper as I slip through and scurry across the manicured lawn to the guesthouse.

  Yesterday, after being forced out by Blake, I had a talk with Braeden’s sister-in-law. I told her I wasn’t giving up on Brae, which made her smile and tear up simultaneously. When I explained my plan, she assured me she’d do whatever she could to help.

  When I reach Braeden’s door, I lift a fist to knock, but then figure I’ll try the handle first, just in case he left it unlocked. If I’m forced to knock, there’s a good chance he won’t let me in.

  With a light grip on the handle, I turn and—yes! It opens.

  I slide in quickly and shut the door.

  The room is dark, the window blinds closed. I assume the heap on the bed is Braeden, and the coffee table is littered with empty beer bottles and an open pizza box with only a few crusts left inside.

  The atmosphere is stagnant, and I wonder how often he pops the windows for fresh air, clearly not often enough. Layla had mentioned he was in bad shape but refused to expand on what exactly that meant, saying, “That’s Brae’s story to tell.”

  I hope he’ll confide in me because seeing the vibrant, healthy, active man I used to know reduced to this kind of behavior is as sad as it is frustrating.

  I grab two fists-full of comforter at the foot of the bed and yank as hard as I can. “Reveille, reveille, reveille! All hands on deck!”

  He surprises me by violently grabbing a pillow and rolling over to his side, smashing his head beneath the puffy stuff with a muttered, “Fuck off.” Something tells me this isn’t the first time he’s been forced out of bed.

  “Nice try, but nope.” I walk around the room, drawing up the shutters as loudly as I can. “This is the first day of the rest of your—” A pillow smacks me hard in the back of the head. I reach down, pick it up, and hurl it back at the hulking piece of meat, who has managed to tuck back under a thin sheet. “Get up!”

  “Get out!”

  With the room now fully illuminated, I circle to his side of the king-sized bed. I cross my arms over my chest and kick out a foot. “Make me.”

  He groans.

  “You want me out? Drag your ass out of bed and make me get out.”

  He flops to his back and glares up at me. “Fuck. I thought this was a nightmare.”

  “Nope.”

  He rubs his puffy eyes with a thumb and forefinger. “What are you doing here, Adeline.”

  I ignore his use of my name but call him an asshole in my head. “We’re going for a run.”

  What starts off as a slight shaking of his body turns into full-blown hysterical laughter.

  “Go ahead. Laugh it up. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not leaving here unless it’s with you and you’re in running gear.”

  “Running? You’re joking, right? I’m still drunk!” Another pillow comes flying at my face, but I dodge it.

  “Good, then get up and run it off.”

  He pushes up from the bed in a slow coordinated prowl, and with the light in the room and without the protection of a sheet, I can see he’s wearing a pair of thin white exercise shorts and a T-shirt. He advances, his hips drawing my focus to the obvious arousal punching at the silken fabric. So close he towers over me, and I have to tilt my head back, back, back to catch his eyes. He allows the tension to simmer between us, and as much as his size and stare make me want to take real estate on the other side of the room, I refuse to back down.

  I lick my lips, nervousness making my mouth as dry as the desert outside these four walls. “You’re up. Good.”

  He groans and flashes a lopsided grin that I feel low in my belly, then grabs his dick. “Oh, I’m up alright. But don’t get excited; this isn’t for you.”

  Heat flashes over my entire body, and my heart beats wildly. “That’s, um . . . good to know.”

  He tilts his head and leans in close. “Is it?” Humor fills his voice, as if he’s getting enjoyment from torturing me.

  Okay, he wins. I throw up the white flag on our stare down and step back then turn toward the kitchenette. “Go get ready. I’ll, um”—I open the fridge only to find more booze, condiments, Chinese takeout containers, and loaf of bread— “throw something together for breakfast for you, and then we’ll hit the pavement. It’s going to be hot today, so the sooner we go, the bett—”

  A door slams. I peek over to see it’s the bathroom door and that Braeden has closed himself inside.

  I shove my fist in the air and do a victory dance, whirling around the loaf of bread above my head. “I win, I win, I win . . .” I whisper my chant so he won’t hear me, and then I get it together and prep for the next battle of wills.

  ~*~

  Braeden

  Dammit all to hell, I can’t breathe.

  She’s back. My AJ is back.

  And she’s in my fucking house.

  How the hell did she pull that off? Blake has this place so locked up it rivals Pendleton, and yet little ole AJ managed to strut right in, all ’tude and fuck-me leggings. And seriously, why, why in the hell does my body decide it’s done being dead when she’s in the room? Traitorous piece of shit.

  The way she looked at me didn’t help.

  She slid those hazel eyes over my face, even the messy parts, and I swear she liked what she saw. I didn’t miss the pinch of her eyebrows when she studied my injuries, but it was the way her pulse fluttered in her neck, the way her breathing sped up, and ultimately the way her lips parted as her gaze ate me up that gave her away.

  I wanted to kiss her.

  Every urge in me screamed to grab her and make her prove me wrong.

  But nah . . . I might hate that she’s with someone else, but that doesn’t mean I want to mess things up for her. The last thing she needs is to walk away from a sure thing only to tie up to a sinking ship.

  With a hand braced on the sink, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Aren’t I a fucking prize? Half of my body looks like road kill, and I’m still swaying from last night’s binge.

  There’s no fucking way I’m going running with AJ. She’s smoking crack if she thinks I’m in any condition for that. Lifting weights is easy enough. Running might kill me.

  I hit the shower on and drop my shorts to step under the cold spray. If I can smell the alcohol coming off my skin, I’m sure AJ can too, and just because there’s nothing romantic between us, doesn’t mean I want her to know how badly I stink.

  It takes a while to wash my hair and body; using one hand for all the landscape makes for a difficult wash and rinse. I take my time drying, brushing my teeth, and slipping on a cleaner pair of athletic shorts. With my hair almost dry, I head out only to freeze solid.

  My room is clean.

  Spotless.

  No more trash on the countertops, all the clothes are off the floor and out of sight, my bed is made and—I sniff the air—it smells like Windex.

  “What the fuck did you do?”

  AJ’s sitting on the couch, her legs crossed at the knee, remote in hand. She turns to me, smiling. “That’s not a serious question, right?”

  I step farther into the room, and there’s a plate on the kitchen counter with two pieces of toast coated in peanut butter next to a large glass of ice water.

  “Eat up. I’ll wait.”

  I whip my head around and scowl only to find her smiling back at me. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Simple. You need me.”

  “I don’t need shit.”

  She sighs as if I’m a toddler who’s just pissed on the floor. “This would be so much easier if you’d stop fighting me.”

  “Fighting you? Look. I don’t think you understand
. I don’t want this.” I motion around the room, to the food, to her. “Any of it.” My stomach twists at my lie.

  Her expression turns sad, but she pushes that off with a weak smile. “I know. I get it.” She hits the power-off button on the TV and tosses the remote on the coffee table. “You want me to move on.”

  “Yeah!” No!

  “Here’s the problem.” She wipes at a barely-there piece of dust on the table. “I’m having trouble doing that.”

  How five words can feel like a bomb exploding in my chest, I have no idea, but sure enough, I wince as the shrapnel buries deep. Instinctively, I step back until my ass hits the kitchen counter.

  She puts her elbows to her thighs, and her long ponytail falls over one shoulder. “Give me a week.”

  “No.”

  “Five days.”

  “No.”

  “Braeden, all I’m asking for is time. Please. Let me try, and then I can walk away, knowing you’ll be okay.”

  I’ll never be okay. I’ll never be okay knowing she’s in the arms of another man more deserving than I am, knowing he’s making all her dreams come true when I couldn’t. “What I have can’t be fixed. You can’t fix me.”

  She nods. “That’s fair. I don’t want to fix you. I just want a chance to . . .”

  “To what?” My stupid throat aches with bullshit emotions.

  “To bring you back.”

  If she only knew how badly I wish that were possible. The idea that I’d be able to one day look in the mirror and see even a fraction of the man I once was, or hell, even to be able to feel somewhat normal again, it’s more than I could ever hope for. There’s no way she can do what she’s proposing; she’s just one girl.

  But she’s the girl.

  Fuck. Me.

  “Come on, Braeden. You helped me once when I really needed you. Let me do this, if not for you, then for me.”

  “Whatever you have planned, it won’t work.”

  “Who says I have a plan?”

  I chuckle and the sound is so foreign. “Anyone ever told you you’re a huge pain in the ass?”

  A slow grin pulls her lips. “Only you.”

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” I shake my head. “I’ll grab my shoes.”