by Banks, R. R.
“Relax,” he says. “I'm not going to hurt you. I just – I miss you, Emma.”
“You need to get over that,” I say. “We’re done.”
“See, it hurts me that you say things like that,” he replies. “I only ever wanted to be good to you. Only wanted to love you and give you everything you wanted.”
“Yeah, you had a funny way of showing it,” I say. “I remember you hitting me –”
“I slapped you once. Once,” he says. “And I apologized for it.”
“It doesn't matter,” I hiss. “It happened. You put your hands on me in anger, and I'm never going to forget it.”
Mark looks deep into my eyes with something that kind of resembles affection. He reaches out and traces his fingertip along my jawline, a faint smile upon his lips. I recoil from his touch, my eyes darting around wildly as I look for help and a way to escape.
“We were really good together, Em,” he says. “We could be again – if you'd just give me a chance.”
“Never gonna happen,” I say and start to push my way past him.
I let out a squeak when he grabs hold of me, his hands clamping down on my shoulders like vices. He pushes me back, slamming me into the wall of the bar. The adrenaline starts to flow inside of me as my heart beats a staccato rhythm in my chest.
Mark's eyes burn into mine, the look of affection now replaced by something darker. Angrier.
“Let go of me, Mark,” I say. “I have to go.”
“You're not going anywhere,” he hisses. “Not until we've had a chance to talk.”
“There's nothing to talk about,” I say. “I don't even live here anymore.”
“You can change that,” he says. “And you will change that. You belong to me, Emma.”
Tears roll down my cheeks, and my heart is beating so hard, I'm half-afraid it's about to explode inside of me. I struggle to break free of his grasp, but he holds me tight. I drive my knee upward, trying to connect with his balls, hoping it will break his grasp but he deftly blocks it with his own leg.
“Tomorrow morning, we're going down to where you're living right now, and pack up all your things,” he whispers. “After that, you and I are moving into your daddy's house. We're going to be together, just you and me. Like it was always meant to be.”
The sound of Mark grunting and his hands being ripped away from me makes me open my eyes. When I see Brice pulling Mark away from me, I want to cheer. The two struggle for dominance for a minute before the sound of Mark's fist catching Brice in the face echoes out across the parking lot, like a baseball hitting an old mitt. It's a solid thud and a sharp crack, all at the same time.
Brice's head snaps to the side and he stumbles but remains standing. I see a cut open up beneath his eye and a stream of blood begin to flow down his cheek.
He touches a fingertip to the cut before pulling it away and looking at the blood. And then Brice smiles. It's a cold, emotionless smile that sends a tendril of ice straight up my spine. That grin is dark, mysterious, and unsettling.
“You really fucked up now.”
Brice’s movements are a blur as he steps toward Mark, taking him in a tight chokehold. Even Mark looks taken aback by how quickly and gracefully a man as big as Brice can move. Mark's face is red, his eyes bulging out of his head as he struggles in Brice's grasp. Brice is so much larger and stronger that he doesn't stand a chance.
“I think you better apologize,” Brice growls.
“Fuck you,” Mark sputters, grunting as he struggles to break free.
Brice looks at me and shrugs. “Your move, Em,” he says.
I honestly don't know what I’m thinking as I close the distance between Mark and me. Maybe, it's all the years of fear he forced me to live in. Maybe, it's that he made me betray my true self to appease him. Maybe, it's that he took me away from all my friends. Maybe, it's just the overwhelming mix of emotions stirred up inside of me because of him, because of Brice, and Dad’s death. If I’m being honest, it’s probably a combination of all those things and more.
Whatever the reason, I find my body in motion before I have a chance to really stop and think about what I'm doing. Stepping up to Mark, I drive my foot upward as hard as I can. My shoe connects with his balls, and I hear the air exit his lungs in a whoosh. His body suddenly goes limp in Brice's arms, and his face goes from red to a shade of purple.
Laughing, Brice lets him go, and Mark crumples to the ground in a heap. He curls up in the fetal position, making mewling sounds, as he gasps for breath.
“Well, I didn't expect that,” Brice says. “Though, I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. You never took shit from anybody.”
I step back and put my hands on my head, my eyes wide, as I look down at Mark's whimpering, pathetic form. I look up at Brice, unable to speak. Unable to move. Unable to do anything but stand there like a complete idiot.
Brice crosses over to me and pulls me into a tight embrace. All at once, I feel a rush of emotion as the adrenaline leaves my body. I start to shake, and the tears spill down my face. Brice just holds me, stroking my hair, and lets me cry. I bury my face in his chest, clutching to the lapels of his jacket, my body heaving with sobs.
“You're okay,” he says softly. “Everything's okay.”
I don't even know how long we're standing like that – it was a few minutes, at least – when I become aware of the fact I’m hugging Brice goddamn Kelly. Suddenly feeling embarrassed, I let go and back up, wiping the tears from my face.
“Go tell his buddies to get their asses out here and help him,” Brice says. “I have a car coming for us. It'll be here any minute.”
I stand there for a moment, looking at the sniveling mess that was once my boyfriend. I'm rooted to my spot, stunned with disbelief about everything that just happened. I never intended for any of this to happen.
“Emma,” Brice's commanding voice cuts through the haze in my head. “Go get his friends. Now.”
I nod my head and turn away, running back into the bar to find the guys Mark came in there with. I find them, tell them what happened, and hustle back out to Brice, who has Mark sitting up. His head is down between his knees, and his breathing is ragged.
Mark looks up at me when I approach them and opens his mouth to say something, but then closes it again, looking down instead. Brice nudges him in the small of the back with his foot as if to encourage him. Mark finally looks up at me, and when he speaks, his voice is thick and slurred.
“I – I'm sorry Emma,” he says. “I – I won't bother you again.”
“Good man,” Brice says, a satisfied, devilish smirk on his face.
Mark's friends arrive and help him to his feet, casting dark glares at Brice the whole time. Brice stares them down, never taking his eyes off them until they get Mark out to a car, and into the backseat.
A moment later, headlights cut through the parking lot as a dark Town Car pulls in. Brice puts a hand gently on my forearm and guides me over to it.
“I'll drop you off at your dad's place.”
I give my head a small shake. “I have a cab on the way. Thanks, though.”
At least, I think I do. It's been a while, and I haven’t checked the app in over thirty minutes.
“Cancel it,” Brice says. “And get into the car.”
Still shaking, and almost numb with disbelief, I do as he says. I move toward the car, the driver holding the door open for me, and climb into the backseat. Brice stops and says a few words to the driver, then joins me in the backseat.
A moment later, the door is closed, and we're on our way.
Chapter Nine
Brice
The ride to her dad's place is quiet. In fact, Emma hasn't said a single word since we first got in the car. Instead, she's huddled against the door, staring through the window. I know she's rattled – whether it's because of me, or what happened with her ex, I can't say.
“You okay?” I finally ask.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “I'm fine.”
/> She falls silent once again and doesn’t speak the rest of the way. When the car pulls into her driveway, she has the door open before it even stops moving. The back of the car is flooded with light, and when she looks back in to say something, her eyes widen, and she grimaces.
“Jesus,” she says. “Your face is a mess.”
“You're not the first woman to tell me that.”
She rolls her eyes as I touch the spot where Mark had punched me, and wince at the sharp sting of pain. The area is sticky to the touch as the blood on my face dries.
“He was wearing a ring,” she says. “That's probably what cut you.”
“No big deal,” I say. “I'll wash it off at the hotel.”
“Yeah and give yourself an infection so bad they'll have to remove half your face,” she teases.
“Careful,” I say and grin. “It almost sounds like you care.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Get out of the car,” she says. “Let me clean that up. I mean, I guess it's the least I can do, considering how you got it.”
I tell the driver I'll call when I need him and get out of the car before following Emma up the walkway to the house. We step inside, and I pause for a moment as I take a look around at the house that was such a large part of my younger years. For the most part, it hasn't changed a bit. The same pictures are on the walls, bookcases crammed with books, memorabilia, and knickknacks, are everywhere. Even the walls are the same shade of sage green they'd been all those years ago – though, it looks like a fresh coat had been applied somewhat recently.
It's like I’ve stepped into the past. Into a place completely untouched by time.
“Yeah, Dad didn't much care for change,” Emma says, noticing me looking around.
“I can see that,” I say. “It's like we just got out of a time machine.”
She laughs softly. “In the kitchen,” she says. “Go have a seat.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” I say.
Emma's high heels click on the hardwood floor as she retreats further into the house as I walk into the kitchen, still marveling at how virtually untouched everything is. I take a seat on the high stool at the center island – the one I used to think of as “my stool,” back in the day. Other than more updated, modern appliances, this room is as unchanged as the rest. The center island has a stainless steel sink in it, and space for four stools on the other side.
There's a large, round table in front of a set of French doors that look out onto the backyard. The light shimmers below the surface of the pool, sending wild, undulating shadows across the walls. A faint smile touches my lips as I reminiscence of summer days back there, swimming and having fun while Mr. Simmonds grilled for us. The wave of nostalgia that rushes over me is almost suffocating.
“You have a look on your face like you’re reliving the glory days.”
I turn and find Emma standing on the other side of the island. I guess I was so caught up in my memories, I didn't hear her come in. She wets a rag in the sink, and with a first-aid kit in her hand, steps over to where I'm sitting. Her steps are light, nearly silent, and it's then I notice that she's taken off her heels, that’s why I didn't hear her walk in.
“They were killing me,” she says, obviously noticing me looking at her feet.
I give her a small smile and a nod. “I can imagine,” I say. “I know my feet always cramp up if I wear heels too long.”
Emma rolls her eyes at me – a gesture that seems to be her signature move these days. She sets the first-aid kit down on the counter beside me and opens it up. Although Em is doing her best to keep an annoyed and put-off expression on her face, there's a tangible difference in her attitude towards me. It's not quite as tense. Not quite as hostile as before.
At least, she’s not nearly as tense and hostile as she had been back at the bar.
I wince as she wipes at the cut on my face with the rag. She has to rinse the rag a couple of times before she's satisfied that she's gotten all the blood off my face.
“How long have you been wearing the beard now?” she asks.
“Few years now, I guess.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I needed people to take me seriously,” I say. “I think without it, I've got a soft face. And nobody would take me seriously.”
She laughs softly. “You did always have a baby face,” she says.
The comment surprises me, only because it's been so long since I've seen her – and the last time I did, she was so young, I doubt she even knew what a baby face was then. Emma looks up and either reads my mind or sees the look of disbelief on my face, because she rolls her eyes.
“My dad used to watch your games,” she says. “I saw you interviewed like once or twice.”
“Once or twice, huh?”
She snorts and rolls her eyes again. It really does seem like it’s her default gesture. Or maybe, it’s only the default for me. Somehow, I don't think that's the case, though. She tears open a small package, and the pungent scent of alcohol quickly fills the air. Slipping the small swab out of the wrapper, she applies it to the cut on my face, making me suck in a sharp breath, and wince.
“Sorry,” she says. “Didn't realize a big football guy like you could be such a baby.”
“Cute,” I say. “I appreciate the doctoring, but your bedside manner could use a little work.”
“Exactly why I didn't go into the medical field.”
It's not lost on me that we're having an actual conversation, rather than just sniping at one another. I have to say, it's a pleasant change of pace, and I find that I want to keep it going.
“So, what did you write about?” I ask. “At the paper?”
“I wrote for the crime beat,” she says, and I can't help but hear the tinge of sadness in her voice.
“I remember you always had your nose in a book as a kid,” I say.
“Yeah,” she replies.
Emma dabs at the cut on my cheek gently then applies a salve to it. Next, she grabs a bandage and opens it up, and I realize she's going to be done soon. Only, I'm not ready to leave just yet. Not when it seems like the ice is finally starting to thaw between us.
“Still into it?” I ask.
She nods. “Yeah, it never gets old for me.”
She gingerly applies the bandage to the cut and smooths it out. There's a look of sadness in her face that has nothing to do with her father's death – though, that sorrow is still very much present. There's something more.
“What is it?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Nothing,” she says. “I'm just tired.”
“It's more than that,” I say. “I can see it.”
“Right. I forgot. You're the all-seeing and all-knowing Brice Kelly.”
“Well – yeah,” I say and chuckle.
She looks at me stone-faced. Clearly, my charms are not working on this woman. Either that, or it's been so long since I used them, I’m rusty as hell. Regardless, she's not having it.
“Seriously,” I say. “What is it? You might be surprised to find that I'm actually a good listener.”
“I believe that about as much as I believe in Santa Claus.”
“Ouch.”
“Brice, you've always been about yourself,” she replies. “It was always what Brice wanted. Everybody always bent over backward to make sure Brice was happy. And all the while, you proved time and time again, that you didn't give a damn about anybody else.”
I look down at my hands, actually feeling the sting of her words. Emma’s right. When I was younger, I only cared about me, myself, and I. It's one of those hard lessons I had to learn when I was in recovery, trying to get myself clean and sorted out. It was one of the many ugly truths about myself that I was forced to confront.
NA held a mirror up for me, and in a lot of ways, I really didn't like what I saw.
“You're not wrong,” I say. “But, I'd ask you to consider that nearly two decades can change a person.”
“That remains to be seen,” she sna
ps back, her voice harder than steel.
“I promise you, I'm not the same person I was when I was younger,” I say. “Just as I'm sure you'd agree that you have grown and changed over the years.”
“Yeah, but when I was a kid, I wasn’t a huge asshole either.”
A laugh burst out of my throat, which seems to surprise her, and I just shake my head. She just won't let things go.
“Yeah, I had a little longer road to travel to learn how to be a decent person,” I say. “I'll grant you that. But, I've worked on it a lot. And I’m still working on it.”
There's a long stretch of silence between us, and I can see her eyes searching mine before Emma finally shakes her head and seems to come back to reality. “I think you're all patched up,” she says. “Thank you for your help with Mark. I – I appreciate it. A lot.”
“Glad I could be there to help.”
I get up off the tall stool and wince as a white-hot bolt of pain shoots through me. I hold my hand to my side and grimace, letting out a soft grunt. Now that the adrenaline has worn off, I'm starting to feel all the aches and pains from the fight with Emma’s ex.
Getting old is a real bitch.
“What's wrong?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing. It's fine.”
As I start to move past her, heading for the door, Emma puts her hand in the middle of my chest and stops me. There's a stern, stubborn look in her eye.
“Sit,” she says. “And take off your shirt.”
“It usually takes a drink or two before I get to that point,” I tease.
She narrows her eyes, and I see her jaw clench. Still not having it, I see.
“Seriously,” I say. “I'm fine. I'm just – not eighteen anymore.”
“Shirt,” she repeats and points to the stool to emphasize her words. “Now.”
“That really necessary?”
“Look, you saved my ass back there. You very well may have saved my life, for all I know. If I let you leave here, and you're like bleeding internally or something, and end up dying, I'm going to feel guilty. This is not an act of altruism – I just don't want to spend the rest of my life feeling like crap, because you croaked after I let you go. So, do me a favor and let me look.”