by Casey Hagen
Just existing.
If she survived this, she was going to do all the things she had always loved, but taken for granted.
She was going to fall asleep reading a good book under the maple tree by the hay barn on her grandparents’ horse farm in Minnesota.
She was going to climb that beloved river bank and take a ride on that old rope swing as she jumped into the cool mountain water.
She was going to skinny dip in the Pacific under a blanket of stars.
Shaking off her daydreams, she powered off her cell. She’d have to find a place later to ditch the phone before she turned in for the night.
There were three more just like it, one in her glove box, the other under her seat, and the third in her purse. All still in the packaging.
There’d been no signs so far that the son of a bitch she had married had her followed by professionals, or had followed her himself, but still, she spent every minute her eyes were open searching the darkness, searching the daylight, and fostering a general distrust for technology.
Because it was only a matter of time before he found her. It always was.
He’d promised until death do they part.
Romantic words.
Until you find out you married a psychopath.
With one last look, she darted out her door and jogged to the entrance of the gym. She’d overheard the women working at the counter at the laundromat talking about the new self-defense classes running every Tuesday night, more specifically, about the man running the class, a former Navy seamen turned recreational mixed martial arts fighter. They’d gone on and on about his prowess in the ring. When it turned to his other “attributes,” she had left.
She needed to learn the moves. More than kneeing the groin and raking the eyes. She needed to learn how to go up against a man almost a foot taller than her who enjoyed doling out punishment.
Carter Pierce enjoyed pain. Her pain.
His cobalt eyes lit with hysterical glee every time a whimper or cry slipped from her too often split lips. He laughed manically at the sound of his knuckles connecting with her cheekbone.
She couldn’t do it again. Not for another day. Not for another minute.
She curled her fingers around the cool, metal handle, took a deep breath, and took a step toward whatever the future held for her.
The chipped vinyl floor with a roadmap of scratches gleamed despite the fifty-plus years it likely spent under aggressive foot traffic. The concrete walls were thick with paint, the layers evident where they peeled along the tall windows that looked out to the back lot of the neighboring car wash.
A light scent of pine antiseptic hovered in the air, tinged with a lingering hint of raw sweat.
It was like walking onto the set of Rocky, kind of surprising considering this was Long Beach where everything was new, flashy, and manicured to the hilt.
She half expected to hear Stallone’s voice call out, “Yo, Adrian!”
Okay, so maybe she’d fortified herself on movies where the underdog took a beating and came out on top. After all, she hoped for the same outcome.
Free weights occupied one side of the room, all lying at an angle in a neat row on their racks while a ring rising a good three feet in the air dominated the other. An open floor space lay just beyond it, running along a wall with no windows, giving Destiny a measure of relief.
She missed the days where she loved windows. Now she dreaded them; even with window treatments, there always seemed to be a crack or sliver impossible to cover.
Which was why she stayed in the hotel.
Top floor, one wide set of windows. Chances were, no one was pulling a mission impossible move and traversing the building to hover outside her room.
A blond woman crowded near a muscled mountain of a man in the back. Her bike shorts looked a good two sizes too small despite her tiny frame, leaving nothing to the imagination. Destiny might have glimpsed her cervix as she bent over in front of the guy with a giggle that stabbed Destiny’s brain like an ice pick and made her eye twitch in irritation.
Of course, the distraction meant they hadn’t even realized Destiny walked in, giving her a chance to see what she was getting into.
“I heard you were kind of new to the area. You know, I’m a Long Beach native. I wouldn’t mind taking you under my wing and showing you the nightlife,” the blond purred as she ran the tip of her finger down the man’s forearm.
“I appreciate the offer, ma’am, but my night life opportunities are few and far between with a full time job and the hours I put in here. Thank you for thinking of me, though.”
Ouch. That had to sting Malibu Barbie over there.
Destiny kept her gaze trained on the man’s profile, but she saw no flicker of attraction from him toward the desperate woman. Well, for what she could see of his face. Nothing but a professional politeness before he turned back to his paperwork.
His disinterest in anything unprofessional was a welcome relief, leaving her locked muscles groaning in its wake as she unclenched. She hadn’t even realized they’d seized up so tight, her shoulders sat just under her ears. Was it the constant looking over her shoulder, taking unfamiliar routes with her gaze flicking to the rearview hundreds of times over, and changing cars periodically making her tense?
Or was it trying to accept that her best bet was going to a man for help, a man cut from the same cloth as her husband?
Ding, ding, ding…we have a winner.
Logically, she knew that the abuse wasn’t a military thing. But fear had a funny way of working itself inside you. Once it did, it destroyed bonds, obliterated peace, stole personality, and distorted logic.
She’d been lucky; the stubborn streak that propelled her into shirking warnings from her mother and leaving home anyway was still pulsing with life, although well-buried deep inside.
It might just be the one thing that would keep her alive.
She circled around the back side of the ring, leaning against the edge just a few feet shy of the corner. From this vantage point, she had full view of the room and the other women, nine in all, that sat on benches along the back wall.
The door opened, setting off a buzzer, and the instructor turned to smile at the ladies walking in.
Whoa.
Okay, maybe she didn’t blame Malibu Barbie so much.
He had one of those smiles, a mix of Midwest farm boy with the kind of manners that came with a healthy fear of his mama and the grinning confidence of Thor, ready to save the world while barely breaking a sweat.
How did a man over six feet with thick muscles manage to appear both formidable and harmless at the same time?
Had Carter ever seemed harmless?
No, he carried a worldly air of authority that turned into a smug arrogance, before finally turning into something else altogether.
The instructor welcomed them, seemingly unaware that Destiny had entered. Fine with Destiny, she’d rather not make small talk and be left alone to observe.
“How many of you have taken a self-defense class before?”
Two hands shot up.
“Good, then you can be my assistants for the night…”
He went on to explain what they would learn and of course, he talked about hitting hard and fast, being vocal to draw attention to the situation to enlist help, making sure the minute you break free that you run, and what to do in order to break free.
“Will you teach us some of your MMA moves or combat skills you learned in the Navy?” Malibu Barbie asked.
He strolled back and forth, his arms waving with his words. “MMA is a fair fight and a whole different skillset. When it comes down to saving your own life, there’s no fair. There’s surviving.”
“And what about those Navy moves?” she asked again.
He dropped his hands to his hips and let out a gruff laugh as his cheeks reddened. “I don’t know what you think we learn in the Navy, but hand-to-hand combat isn’t the norm. I was an aviation rescue swimmer.”
They practiced evasion and breaking free once someone had their hands on you, before moving into hits with the flat of their hands, making sure to put the force of their body behind each thrust.
The door buzzed again, and goosebumps rose on Destiny’s arms. She didn’t want to turn her back on the group, but she had to see who had arrived.
About the same build and height as the instructor, a dark-haired guy strolled in and leaned against the wall.
The instructor gave him a firm nod before turning back to his group but not before his gaze landed on hers.
His eyes narrowed a fraction, and he tilted his head, studying her.
The only indication that he spotted her was a slight dip of his chin, as if he recognized her desire to be in the shadows for now, before turning back to the group.
Just under an hour later, the man had left and the women all gathered their things and headed in chatty clusters to the door. Malibu Barbie turned back, gave Jake a look of regret that he didn’t notice, and ducked out.
“You were welcome to join us,” Jake said, grabbing a towel from the stack of clean, folded towels on the wall next to the water cooler.
“I’m not looking for your average self-defense class,” she said.
The towel he’d scrubbed over his sweaty hair froze. His eyes wide, he watched her.
Really freaking watched her.
“Okay, well, you’ve got my attention. What can I help you with?”
She yanked her cap off and shoved a hand through her hair. “I need someone to teach me to fight.”
Tossing his towel off to the side, he stood, his height making him tower over her. He kept his distance, but his shrewd gaze ran over her as if he were testing her to see how she would react. As if he expected her to back away. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
Little did he know, she’d been trained not to shrink away, from the very man who used her as his own personal punching bag. It had taken her three years to finally learn. “That’s okay. I don’t like the sound of it either. We’ll both get over it. I have money.” She dug a thick manila envelope from her purse and thrust it at him before she lost her nerve. “Enough to make it worth your while.”
His gaze never left hers despite the stack of cash she held between them. “I don’t need your money, but I’m going to need to know a little bit more before I can tell you if I can help.”
Her hand fell to her side, and the air whooshed from her lungs. She expected him to be driven by money. The whole world operated from greed. If he didn’t care about the cash, how the hell was she going to get him to help her? “Like what?”
“Like, does he know where you are right now?” he asked as he crossed his arms. His thick biceps flexed; shadows and valleys dipped along the muscles jumping under his skin.
She cleared her throat and tore her gaze from his arms. “How did you know—”
His eyes softened. Not with pity, but understanding. Like a confidant who wouldn’t judge. “I’ve seen it before.”
Yeah, well, they would see about that. “No, he doesn’t know where I am right now.”
“Good, because being here could have serious consequences if he found out,” he said.
She ran her hands up and down her arms to ward off the sudden chill. “I won’t make problems for you.”
“I’m not worried about me. I’m talking about for you,” he said quietly, a note of concern in his voice that told her he understood just what this all was costing her and what it could cost her still.
“Oh,” she whispered for lack of anything better to say. He put her wellbeing first. She didn’t know what to do with that.
“How long has he been hurting you?” he asked, ducking his head to look her in the eye.
Just thinking about it made shame fill her. “Too fucking long.”
He raised an eyebrow and tapped his foot, waiting out a more specific answer.
“Six years,” she said.
“Son of a bitch,” Jake whispered. “How long do you have to learn?”
“Thirty days if I’m lucky. Probably less.”
“I feel like I have to tell you, this is a horrible idea. Self-defense is one thing, but this, what you’re asking me…this is a line in the sand moment with him. You know that, right?”
She nodded, the weight of all that was to come trying to hold her back. “I’d have to be an idiot to not know. I’ve never been gone this long, and he’s been patient so far.” She shrugged and took a resolved breath. With her shoulders back, she met his gaze, her jaw tight. “But one day, he’ll come for me. Maybe I’ll even tell him how to find me. And it will be the last day. Maybe I’ll go down, but I won’t go down alone. Not this time. If I fall, I’m taking that bastard with me straight to hell.”
Chapter 3
Usually such declarations came from people who were a whole lot of talk but short on the action.
Not here. Not now.
Not with this woman.
Her quiet, resolute words were a promise, to him, to her husband, to anyone who dare lay a hand on her ever again.
She was the living, breathing specimen of what he wanted to teach victims in order to pull them out of that constant loop of fear, self-loathing, and guilt so they could become true survivors.
But she hadn’t broken free just yet. This wasn’t the result of finally shedding an abusive spouse, years of therapy, and the comfort of safety and independence.
He wasn’t sure where this quiet control came from, and he was almost afraid to find out.
For the first time in a long time, Jake was at a loss for words. He knew how to do deal with the typical abuse victim. He kept his voice low and soft. He’d sit so as to minimize his size. He kept his words even and unemotional.
But nothing about the woman standing before him screamed victim. She stood straight, her chin thrust out, and if there were a fan blowing her raven hair behind her with a camera catching her stance from a lower vantage point, he’d be convinced that Hollywood had just unveiled their newest superhero.
“What’s your name?” he asked. He wasn’t sold on this whole idea. As a matter of fact, he was pretty sure that if Dylan caught wind of what he was considering, he could kiss any chance of moving forward with his extensive business plans goodbye as they disappeared like brittle pieces of ash raining down on a town evading an erupting volcano.
“Destiny,” she said, her voice smooth and clear.
Christ. Of course it was. And just like he knew this might be the absolute worst thing he could do in terms of his future with Fierce, he also knew he was going to say yes.
“Okay, Destiny, I’m Jake. Why don’t you show me what you’ve got?” He could have gone easy, but he doubted the dynamo standing before him would settle for it.
Her canvas bag hit the floor with a resounding thud that echoed in the all but empty gym. With one smooth motion, she slid the flannel shirt off her shoulders and tossed it behind her. Standing about five four, maybe one-thirty soaking wet, she crouched and raised her fists in front of her.
Lean arms flexed with a surprising amount of sleek, tan muscle. Her jeans pulled tight on her flexed thighs.
A delicate gold cross winked from the hollow at the base of her slim throat.
He seriously didn’t know what he was going to do if she came at him. Or maybe that was just the point. A mock attack might be the only way to know how she was going to react.
Shit.
She slowly shuffled on the balls of her feet, her gaze never leaving his. “Don’t hold back. I can take it,” she said with a defiant smirk.
That’s what he was afraid of. He wouldn’t strike her, but the look in her eye all but dared him to do his worst. He crouched, leaned in, and moved with her, noting the change in her eyes when he adopted a predatory stance.
The fear crept in, and she blinked rapidly.
Her chin wobbled.
There she was. The woman who’d been beaten down, the woman who’d been fighting.
The woman who no longer feared death, but feared her cycle of abuse, pain, and blood being her forever.
He lunged for her wrist. His fingers wrapped around the delicate bone covered in velvety soft skin there, and he yanked her against him.
She twisted away and tried to wrench free as she brought her heel down with surprising, sharp force on the top of his foot.
He growled with the pain and realized too late that he should have done this with padding.
She jerked away, but he held her fast, waiting to see how much fight she had in her to break free.
The sound of their labored breathing and the squeak of their sneakers on the floor filled the quiet room.
With her eyes locked on his, she tugged again, once, twice, three times. Her pulse thundered under the grip of his fingers, and her eyes went wide with panic.
A sheen of sweat beaded on her forehead and upper lip as she gasped for air. She thrashed from head to toe, losing control, and losing any sort of advantage she had in getting away from him.
With a broken scream of sheer terror, the kind of scream he hadn’t heard since he was twelve, the very last sound he ever heard from his mother, Destiny slipped into another time, another place. Her eyes darted about like a panic-stricken animal desperate to flee.
Afraid she’d fall to the floor, he loosened his grip but didn’t let her go right away. “Whoa, easy. It’s okay. I’m not him. I’m not him,” he whispered.
She gulped in jagged breaths, the blood draining from her face, leaving her ashen.
“Destiny. Look at me.” He cupped her cheek and waited for her eyes to meet his, for them to focus and see it was him.
Just him.
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