Earning Her Trust: Braxton Arcade Book One

by Adore Ian

  I hit her from behind like a bull, grabbing around her waist and hauling her up into the air.

  “Come here, little girl,” I say in my creepiest voice.

  She kicks as I drag her back. Then, just as we practiced, she hooks one foot around my leg to anchor herself and pries my finger until I lose my grip. She gets free and twists around, pretending to ram her elbow into my face.

  I fake stagger back and she turns on a heel to face me. “You know,” she says, hands on her hips. “This would be kinda hot if it were dark, we were half naked and I didn’t fight back.”

  Blood stiffens my cock. I give her a bedroom smile and walk right into her space. “You want me to pretend to chase you, Red?”

  Unmistakable lust clouds her eyes. “Sure, but not in a consensual non-consensual sex kinda way. Nothing against people with that kink, it’s just not for me.”

  “Same. I don’t think I’m cut out to be fake mean to someone I love.”

  “Just bossy.”

  I knead her hips with my fingers. “You want me to manhandle you, Red?”

  She shrugs. “Only if it’s in a you-punishing-me-for-trying-to-deny-you kind of way. Sir.”

  I give her another sultry once over and step back. “I’ll think about it.”

  Her eyes go wide. “Oh shit—what time is it?”

  I pull out my phone. “Half past noon.”

  “Shit. I’m supposed to be at work by one to cover for Priya. I totally forgot to set the alarm on my phone.” She runs around, frantically gathering her things.

  “Go get dressed, I’ll drive you. I told Hayden I’d meet him for an afternoon of beer and games.”

  She runs back to her apartment to change, and fifteen minutes later, I’m driving her to work. It’s the beginning of February and cold as hell outside. The roads have been icy from sleet for what feels like weeks, so I’ve been driving Marrin to work when I can. Her car doesn’t have four-wheel drive, and frankly I just don’t trust it to deploy the airbags let alone hot air when the heat’s on. She can’t afford a new car and refuses to borrow Alice’s. And while I’d love nothing more than to offer to buy her a car, I know her well enough to know that would make her incredibly uncomfortable.

  The Neanderthal in me likes the idea of buying her a car. A safe, reliable car. He likes the idea of providing for her. But he understands that part of providing for a woman like Marrin is letting her provide for herself. She needs that. So until such a day comes that we’re either living together or married, I’ll settle for driving her around in my safe, reliable vehicle.

  I meet up with Hayden at the Braxton Arcade and decide to never again visit during the day on Sundays. The place is wild with children, parents too far gone in the nostalgia of an old game to care what their spawn is doing. It’s a madhouse—sans the straight jackets.

  Hayden and I are playing Mr. Do! It’s not two-player, so we have to take turns. Hayden is currently two levels further than I’ve ever made it in the game and I’m trying to absorb as much info as I can, so when it’s my turn, I can beat him. I’m also tuned into Marrin. I can’t help it. I keep catching bits and pieces of her voice over the din of my concentration, the droves of unattended minors high on sugar, and the incessant ringing of the bar’s phone that started a few minutes ago.

  “You need to leave,” I hear her say.

  I pivot. And find Mar in the middle of the room near a table. She’s posturing a bit, standing as tall and intimidating as she can. But she’s rigid, too. The pasty-white dude standing in front of her is just shy of being tall, just shy of being muscular, just shy of being old, and just shy of looking like a contributing member of society.

  I put down my drink.

  The man says something I can’t hear.

  “Leave,” Marrin hisses, voice hard and mean. A few patrons look in their direction.

  I glance around for Conor. I don’t see him but I see Elle. She’s behind the bar, watching Marrin and the man. Her normally deep gold skin is white as a sheet and she’s entirely too still. A rabbit that’s spotted a cat. Everything about her reads like an open book. She clearly has experience being around someone who was prone to violent outbursts. It’s a look I’m familiar with from the people I meet at work and it’s a look I’ve seen in her once before when I got in Jake’s face at the bar last semester.

  I move to the side of the bar, keeping my eyes on Marrin.

  “Where’s Conor?” I ask. The bar phone is still ringing, the sound urgent like a warning.

  “Outside,” Elle breathes. “Grabbing something from his car.”

  “Do you know who that guy is?”

  “No. He just walked in.”

  The hair on the back of my neck raises. “Walked in and what?”

  “Went straight to Marrin.”

  “Elle,” I say very calmly. “Go outside and get Conor.”

  She blinks, nods.

  I’m already moving when the man steps forward. Marrin lurches to the side, putting a table between them, and I get my first real look at her face. She’s pissed as hell and scared.

  “You can’t be here,” she growls.

  “Says who?” the man replies, eyeing her up and down.

  “Says me, Grandpa.” I come up behind him, resisting the urge to get in his face. Instead I move to stand level with Marrin. I want to stand in front of her, want to put myself between her and this man, but I only think I know who he might be and I don’t want to take Marrin’s authority.

  Grandpa gives me a dismissive once over. “Me and the lady have business, boy. Why don’t you run along and play your little games?”

  I ooze sarcasm. “Sorry, Gramps. Business is over. She told you to leave.” Then I speak to Marrin like we’re characters in a play having an aside. “Nothing worse than a man who doesn’t hear ‘no’ amiright?”

  He points between us. “So you’re spreading for him, now are you?”

  I snap—not from the words, but from what he implied.

  Grandpa goes down like a domino. In two moves, he’s on the ground, arms immobilized behind his back, pinned with my knee in his spine.

  I growl into his ear, low enough for only Marrin to overhear. “Only in your wildest delusions would a woman like her ever lower herself for some sleazy, old ball sack like you. And forcing a woman ain’t the same thing, Asshole.”

  He laughs. “That what she told you? That her cunt wasn’t—”

  I twist his arm and he yelps like a dog whose foot just got stomped on. I’m a hair's breadth away from dislocating his shoulder.

  What was that, Grandpa? Didn’t quite catch that last part.

  Heavy footsteps sound and I ease up, aware of the crowd now forming. Conor crouches beside us, a pit bull before the bait beast. Eerily calm, yet somehow viciously poised.

  “Long time no see, Frank.” His voice emotionless. He pulls out two pairs of handcuffs, slapping the first on Frank.

  “I got questions,” Frank snarls.

  “So will the cops.” Conor looks at me. “Let him go.” I don’t hesitate. He hauls Frank to his feet and locks the second pair of cuffs to the first.

  “What are you doing? You can’t arrest me.”

  “I just did.” He zips Frank’s jacket. “You violated a restraining order, I’m holding you until the cops—”

  Frank twists toward Marrin. “This isn’t over, you white-trash whore.”

  Marrin goes utterly vacant.

  I’m in front of her in a second, blocking her from his view.

  “You’ll get what’s coming to y—”

  Conor jerks him toward the door and it’s the only reason I don’t break Frank’s fucking jaw. Once outside, Conor cuffs him to a bike rack and makes him sit on cold concrete.

  Marrin’s breath is shallow and jagged when I turn around. She’s ashen and trembling and I know better than to thoughtlessly touch someone who’s just been retraumatized and who may or may not be experiencing PTSD. I read once that ninety-four percent of rape survivors experi
ence PTSD in the first two weeks after their assault. For half of survivors, symptoms will continue for years or decades after. Symptoms can even lay dormant, or seemingly go away, for years before manifesting again in some way.

  I know Marrin wasn’t raped, but she was attacked. Frank has two hands. It’s not hard to imagine what might’ve happened between the lines of what she told me. That coupled with what happened when her mother got home are enough for anyone to need a moment after what just went down.

  I check my body language and rid myself of any lingering anger. “Marrin?” I say, voice calm, concerned.

  She doesn’t respond. Just stares as if lost in a memory.

  “Marrin, it’s Damian. Your boyfriend. I’m going to hold your hand, okay?”

  “Okay,” she exhales. A shred of presence flickers in her eyes and I know she recognizes me.

  I slowly take her hand. She’s ice cold. I see Hayden on the edge of the lingering crowd and jerk my head for him to stay back. Just in case.

  Marrin squeezes my hand and when my eyes find hers again, I know she’s fully in the present with me. “There you are.”

  “Can I sit down?” Her voice breaks along with a little piece of my heart. She’s not asking for permission, she’s asking me to take control. Letting me know she has no fucking clue what to do and she needs me to take care of her so she doesn’t have to think.

  “Of course.” I wrap her in my arms and lead her to the break room.

  When the door shuts, she starts sobbing. Borderline hysterical sobbing. Her breath chokes and hitches, and it’s the worst sound I’ve ever heard. She’s a puddle in my arms. I pull out a chair and settle her on my lap.

  “Don’t cry, baby. It breaks my fuckin’ heart.”

  We sit like that for a while. Marrin latched to me, face buried in my shoulder. I try to console her. Say things like:

  “You’re safe.”

  “I’d never let anything happen to you.”

  “I’ll always protect you.”

  Some of it works and some of it makes her cry harder.

  Elle comes in and lets us know Alice is on her way. She also says the police are here and that a detective is waiting to take our statements. Marrin composes herself, but the evidence of tears linger on her face.

  We walk out into the arcade, my arm wrapped protectively around her waist. The detective waits by one of the high tables. He’s tall and lean with dark brown skin and short hair. When he turns around, recognition lights his face.

  Marrin sways, fisting my shirt. “I’m gonna faint,” she slurs, just before every muscle in her body shuts down and her knees give out.

  “Shit.” I grab her as she loses consciousness.

  She’s completely limp as I lower her to the floor. Fear guts me like a fish. What’s wrong with her? Is she okay? I’m gonna murder Frank.

  “Marrin, baby, look at me. Wake up.”

  Her eyes flutter open.

  I stroke her cheek, her head and shoulders in my arms. “Hey, you’re okay. Just breathe.”

  “Sorry,” she mumbles.

  “Lean her back a bit,” the detective says, taking a knee near Marrin’s feet. I catch his last name on the ID clipped next to the badge on his belt, Lawson. There’s something familiar about it that I can’t place. “I’m going to elevate your feet, okay?”

  I realize what he’s doing and follow his lead. While he raises her feet to his thigh, I shift until Marrin’s head is in my lap. We sit like that while she comes back to life.

  She looks at me. “You’re totally freaking out right now, aren’t you?”

  “Full honesty? Yeah, little bit.”

  “I faint sometimes. Not often, but it happens. I’m embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. As long as you’re all right.”

  “I am. Promise.”

  A moment later, we sit her up.

  “Do you recognize me?” she says to the detective.

  He smiles. “I do. You’re Marrin Braxton. Surprised to see me?”

  “Clearly,” she jokes, face reddening. “Damian, Detective Lawson was the officer who saved my life two years ago.”

  The one who showed up on Thanksgiving and kept her from bleeding out.

  Emotion clogs my throat. This man saved her life. Had he not been there, she’d very likely have bled out before help arrived.

  “Thank you.” It’s all I can manage to say.

  He shakes my hand. “Just doing my job.”

  So many words about not downplaying his hero status flood my mouth. If I say even one, I know I’ll lose it, so I keep my mouth shut. But I think he understands because he nods before looking away from me so he can’t see the tears burning my eyes.

  I get myself together and we help Marrin into a chair at one of the high tables. I stand next to her, caging her in from one side in case she faints again.

  Lawson explains he’s now the detective in charge of Marrin’s case. We shoot the shit a bit more before giving our statements. I go first. Then Marrin.

  While she’s talking, Alice and Gavin show up, and the look on Alice’s face, in every line of her body, could put any mother bear to shame. She’s alive with rage and the instinct to protect. When she hugs Marrin, even I have to fight the urge to back up and give her the space she demands.

  But I hold my ground—a move that does not go unnoticed.

  When she releases her cousin, Marrin’s crying again. But instead of crying in Alice’s arms, she turns to me.

  I can’t lie, it’s grossly satisfying that Marrin chooses me over Alice. My inner alpha male growls like King Kong, baring his teeth in threat at anyone stupid enough to try and take her from me.

  She’s mine, I want to roar. Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine.

  Alice’s face is like a PowerPoint presentation on emotion. First slide is full offense, next is suspicion, then pleasant surprise, acceptance, then finally ending in a combo of smug and impressed.

  “Saw the video of you taking down Asshole,” Alice says to me. “You’d make a decent bodyguard.”

  Marrin whips around. “Don’t you dare.”

  “What?” Alice says, feigning innocence.

  Gavin waves his phone. “Not bad, kid. Kiley sent the security footage.” To Lawson he says, “We can send you a copy.”

  They square away the details and then Marrin continues giving her statement.

  “He wanted to talk to me outside. I told him he had to leave.”

  “Did he say what he wanted to talk to you about?” Lawson asks.

  She hesitates, grabbing my hand. “He asked if I liked the letter he left on my door about a month or so ago.” I straighten. “He wanted to know if that was why people had been following him.”

  Lawson blinks. “Wait, wait. He approached your door?”

  My thoughts exactly, dude.

  “Not directly,” Alice cuts in. “We believe he paid off a maintenance guy who worked in her building to leave the letter. That man’s since been fired, and no, we didn’t call the police because there was no way to prove it. Until now.”

  “Still,” Lawson says, “he’s escalating.”

  Marrin

  Damian’s quiet on the ride home. Guilt sours my stomach. I should’ve told him about the letter. We talked a little bit about it before we left, but not much. He asked when I got it and I told him. All he said was, “That’s why you pushed me away.”

  Before we left the arcade, Alice told us Frank slipped the team hired to watch him. He did such a good job, no one knew he was gone until over an hour later. They called Alice and she immediately started calling the bar. But by then, Frank was already in the building.

  Damian and I spend the rest of the day at his place. At some point, I ask him to show me some self-defense moves and that seems to get his mind off things.

  We run a few drills before he gets quiet again.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the letter,” I say. “I was going to. I swear. I just didn’t want to give you all of my baggage
at once. And I was scared it meant I might have to move.”

  He looks surprised. “Is that why you think I’m being quiet?” I nod. “I don’t like the idea of him trying to get close to you. It’s one thing to approach you at work, it’s another thing to approach you at home. But I’m not mad you didn’t tell me. I was just… wondering what it was he said that made you freeze up.”

  I know what he’s talking about. I was handling Frank fine, but then he said something that sort of… I don’t know, triggered some bad memories or something.

  “‘You white-trash whore.’ He said that on Thanksgiving, and when he said it today, I kinda got stuck in my head, replaying the moment.”

  Damian nods stoically and I wrap my arms around his waist. He cages me in his and I get the sense he’s savoring the moment, like his eyes might be closed.

  “Can I ask a favor?” I say, listening to his heartbeat.

  “Anything.”

  “Can you show me how to get away from someone once you’re pinned on the ground?”

  26

  Marrin

  I lay on my back in the middle of Damian’s living room, he kneels between my legs. We did this in reverse, me attacking him, so he could show me how it works. The move is called a triangle choke and it’s basically going to allow me to strangle him with my legs.

  He leans over me, planting his hands on either side of my head.

  A shiver of anxiety runs through me.

  Every time he’s mounted me like this I’ve been more than willing, but this time feels different. We both know why I asked him to show me how to defend myself in this position. Where I’d normally feel aroused by his proximity, I feel vulnerable, aware of my physical disadvantage. I know he can sense it. He’s done this a hundred times with people whose trauma is way fresher than mine.

  He leans over me and I grip his shoulders. My breath shallows.

  “Use whichever leg feels best,” he says calmly, “but we’ll try it enough that you’re comfortable with both.”

  I nod and pull my left leg off the ground, snaking it between us until it’s hooked over his right shoulder. I bring my legs together and hook my left foot beneath my right knee and squeeze. Then I “shrimp out” by turning to my right and pulling Damian’s left arm. He falls to the side, choked between my legs and his arm. From this position, I can gouge out his eyes or simply choke him until he loses consciousness.