His

by Brenda Rothert

  I’ve almost reached him when I hear the sound of someone clearing their throat behind me.

  I freeze for a second, then turn. Three men are standing just a few feet behind me. They all have on ragged coats and worn-out shoes. Their faces are weather-worn, and two of them have scraggly beards. I can see the hunger in their eyes. Whether it’s for food or something else, I’m not sure.

  I just know I’m in a bad situation.

  “I’ll take that purse,” the tallest one says, eyes narrowed. “Your clothes and shoes, too.”

  Quinn

  It’s not there. I know my knife is back at the warehouse, tucked into my underwear drawer in my bedroom. But instinct sent my hand to my hip just the same.

  “Your fuckin’ purse,” he repeats. “Now.”

  I stand, mentally kicking myself for leaving the warehouse without my knife. But I’m resourceful. These assholes are not getting my letters from Bethy.

  “You don’t know who you’re fucking with right now,” I say in a steely tone. “You’re not getting my purse.”

  I tighten my hold on the strap over my shoulder and hold the tall man’s gaze. One of the men behind him laughs and takes out a handgun, holding it low and pointing it at me.

  “Put it away,” the tall one says without even looking at him. “You ain’t shooting nobody here. Too many people close by.”

  He charges toward me then and shoves me against the brick wall by my shoulders. I raise a knee to his stomach, hitting just as my teeth start rattling from the impact of the wall.

  After he cringes and huffs out an exhale, the man slaps me across the face so hard it knocks the wind out of me.

  “Fucker,” I mutter.

  He takes hold of my purse and starts pulling. I secure my arm around it as tight as I can.

  “Let go, you rich bitch,” he says. “You got more purses at home.”

  “No,” I say through gritted teeth. “You can’t have it.”

  I stomp on one of his feet, putting all my weight into it. He swears at me and rears back, punching me full in the face. I stagger back against the wall, the dark colors of the men’s clothing swirling together.

  Spit flies against my cheek as I scramble to keep hold of my purse. Someone is pulling on it.

  “No,” I cry. “No. Please. Just let me have the letters.”

  “You ain’t gettin’ shit,” a voice says before laughing. The purse is wrestled away from me.

  I get up but am immediately shoved back to the ground, where a hard boot to my stomach makes me howl in pain. Whoever is kicking me keeps going, hitting so hard with each blow that my whole body moves.

  I think I’m being choked. Someone is pulling off my coat, and I don’t even care. I taste blood. I want to breathe so badly.

  Thank God Bethy’s not here. She’s safe. I picture her on the beach in Mexico, smiling. She’s buying groceries with Maria and learning how to pronounce them in Spanish.

  “Is this who we were fucking with?” a voice cackles from over me. “You should’ve just given us the purse, bitch.”

  Another kick to my stomach, and I can feel hands on the waistband of my jeans. They won’t just leave me to die, then; they’re going to violate me first. Pigs. Bean would gut these men and feed them their innards if he were here.

  There’s a loud bark, followed by another. And another.

  “Shut that fuckin’ dog up,” one of the men mutters.

  “Let’s get out of here, Tony. We got the purse.”

  The dog is still barking, over and over. I hear gravel flying as the men run away. Finally, I suck in a few breaths of air, though it hurts.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to the dog. “Thank you.”

  He’s still barking. I pull myself into a sitting position just as a man’s voice calls out, “Hey! Is everything okay?”

  “No,” I say, my voice coming out a croak. “Help, please.”

  A figure comes closer. He’s middle-aged, with a thick waistline and a rumpled suit.

  “Oh, Christ,” he says when he sees me. “I’ll call 911.”

  “No,” I say frantically. “No, please don’t.”

  I want to get up and walk back to the warehouse, but I can’t. It’s about a mile away, and I just can’t do it.

  “I’m okay,” I say. “I just . . . I want to go home. It’s not far. About a mile. Can you hail a cab and ask if I can have someone pay for it over the phone?”

  “Here,” the man says, leaning down to me. His scuffed black dress shoes are now stuck in an inch of mud. “My name’s Jim. I’m gonna help you up and get you home, okay? I’ve got the cab fare.”

  My eyes fill with tears as he reaches for my waist. “No. Please . . . not there. It hurts so bad.”

  “What can I do?” he asks.

  “Can you give me your arm? If I can pull myself up on it, I think I can get up.”

  “Sure.” He holds out his arm and I clutch it, forcing myself not to cry out from the pain all over as I get into a hunched over standing position.

  I look down at myself. I’m wearing a mud-splattered white camisole, which I had on under the sweater that came off with my coat. My jeans are pulled halfway down my thighs. I have no shoes. Bastards took my coat, shoes, and cashmere sweater.

  Cringing, I pull up my jeans and button them.

  “I think we should call the police,” Jim says. “Were you . . . assaulted?”

  “I just want to go home.” I look over at the dog, back in his spot next to the Dumpster. “Can you pick him up and carry him for me?”

  “You want to take that thing home? Is it yours?”

  “He is now.”

  Jim shrugs and picks up the dog, who is visibly shaking.

  “I’ll repay you for this,” I promise Jim on the slow walk out of the alley. “For your suit and the cab fare and everything.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s okay. I got a wife and two sisters. I hope somebody would stop to help them if they needed it. I’m just sorry I didn’t get here sooner.”

  Jim wouldn’t have been much help against the three thugs, but I smile with gratitude anyway. We draw a few stares as he hails a cab. I’ve got blood and mud all over me, and he’s holding a dog that looks like it belongs in an ASPCA ad.

  “I’ll give you some extra for the mess,” Jim promises the cabbie who pulls up and gives us a skeptical look.

  “Meatpacking District,” I say, grimacing from the pain of getting into the car. “I don’t know the address, but I can get you there.”

  The cabbie just shakes his head and drives. I direct him, feeling a wave of relief as the warehouse comes into view. The cab pulls up out front, and Jim gets out, still holding the shaking dog. I slide out after him.

  “Can you carry the dog to the front door for me?” I ask.

  “Sure thing.” Jim gestures to the cabbie to wait, and he follows me. I don’t even make it to the front steps that lead to the door before two men in dark suits walk over briskly to stop me.

  “Miss Jones,” one of them says, “what happened?”

  I furrow my brow and stay silent.

  “We’re part of Mr. Wentworth’s security team,” he says. “Who is this man?”

  They look at Jim.

  “I was attacked,” I explain. “He helped me. Got me the cab to get home.”

  “Let’s get you inside,” the man in the suit with short dark hair says.

  The other one is thanking Jim and taking the dog, which makes me smile. He looks unfazed by the mud-covered beast ruining his nice suit.

  “Jim, thank you,” I say, turning. “Thank you so much.”

  He nods, smiles, and walks back to the cab. The other security guard follows us up the steps, where he keys in a code to open the front door.

  “Turner!” the dark-haired guard calls as we walk into the open living room.

  “Hmm?” Andrew’s housekeeper and cook sticks her head around a corner and sees us. “Oh, sweet Jesus! What happened?”

  She runs tow
ard me.

  “I’ll phone Mr. Wentworth,” one of the guards says.

  “Let’s run a full property sweep,” the other one says. “Just to be safe.”

  Turner leads me into Andrew’s bathroom, where she looks me over from head to toe.

  “Girl, what happened?” she asks, her big, dark eyes swimming with concern.

  “I was mugged,” I say miserably. “Three guys took my purse and my sweater and shoes.”

  She shakes her head with disgust. “Thug bastards. You’re a mess, girl. I think we need to get you to a hospital.”

  “No. I think it looks worse than it is. Can you just help me clean up?”

  “’Course I can.”

  I remember the picture of Bethy that was in my purse, and my eyes flood with tears. I want to hold them back, but I can’t. Her precious letters are gone. I bury my face in my hands and cry angry tears.

  “I’m gonna make you some of that chai tea you like,” Turner says softly. “You just sit here.”

  She leaves and I try to get ahold of myself, but I just can’t. It’s all hitting me at once: the beating, the fear, the near-sexual assault, the dog, my letters . . .

  I cry until I have snot running down my face, and when I hear someone walk through the bathroom door, it’s not Turner, but Andrew. He’s breathing hard, and his forehead is soaked with sweat.

  “Quinn!” He drops to his knees in front of me. “What the hell happened? Are you okay?”

  “I was . . . mugged,” I say, trying to sniff away more snot.

  Andrew takes out a cloth handkerchief and gives it to me. I wipe my nose, cringing when I see the bloodstained handkerchief.

  “You can dock my pay for that,” I say, trying to laugh. But I can’t.

  “Stop it. Are you okay?”

  I nod. “I think so. I was walking home, and I heard a crying sound. There was a dog in an alley, and I was trying to approach him when three dickless thugs jumped me from behind.”

  “Three men?”

  “They wanted my purse, but I wouldn’t give it to them.”

  Andrew’s eyes widen. “Quinn . . . it’s replaceable. You are not.”

  The tears are welling in my eyes again. “But Bethy’s letters . . . and her picture, they aren’t replaceable. They’re gone. I don’t have her address and she wanted me to write her back, but I can’t now.”

  I’m crying again. Andrew sighs softly.

  “Your sister.”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “I’m so sorry.” He closes his eyes for a second. “What did they do to you?”

  I shrug. “Just your typical mugging. Punched, kicked, pushed . . . and I think choked.”

  Andrew’s jaw tightens. “Fucking cowards. What about your clothes? Did they . . . ?”

  “No. Almost.” I laugh through my tears. “Guess who saved me?”

  His brow furrows with confusion. “The guy who brought you home?”

  “The dog. He barked and barked until the guys got scared of being caught and ran. And then he barked until help came.”

  “Smart dog.”

  “I’m keeping him,” I say. “And if you don’t want him here . . . I understand, but I won’t be able to stay, either.”

  “Relax, Quinn. The dog can stay, okay?” He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing my knuckles. “I’m so sorry you’re hurt.”

  “You got here really fast.”

  “Roy was driving me here but we got stuck in traffic, so I ran the last two miles.”

  “In your suit?”

  “Yeah.”

  I smile at him. “I’d hug you if I wasn’t such a mess.”

  He reaches for me. He’s on his knees on the bathroom floor, and I’m sitting on the edge of the bathtub. I sink against him and close my eyes.

  “You’re okay now,” he says softly.

  “Turner said she’ll help me clean up, but . . . can you help me instead?”

  Andrew has seen all of me, and I’m more comfortable with him than Turner. I also just want to be near him right now.

  “I would but . . . I have to go take care of something,” he says.

  I lean back and meet his gaze. “Oh. You mean work?”

  He shakes his head. “I’ll be back in a little while. My security team is on alert, and I promise you are completely safe here.”

  “But . . . you’re leaving?”

  He kisses the back of my hand and stands up. “I have to. I’m calling Ty to come over and look at you.”

  I nod and swallow hard. I don’t want him to go. Andrew is the comfort I need right now. But what can I say?

  “You have to go?” I ask.

  “I do. I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  He walks out of the bathroom, and a couple minutes later, Turner walks in with a mug of chai tea and a stack of fresh clothes. She helps me take a shower and dress in yoga pants and a T-shirt. I try not to think about Andrew the entire time, but I can’t help it.

  Why would he run two miles to get here and then leave within a few minutes? Doesn’t he know how much I need him right now?

  Ty arrives right after Turner settles me into Andrew’s bed. Like Andrew, he’s ridiculously handsome. Blond, blue-eyed, and tall, he has a contagious smile.

  “Let’s have a look,” he says kindly, checking over my stomach, neck, and face. I hope he doesn’t ask any questions about Andrew and me, because I’m too emotionally fragile to think of a good cover story right now.

  “Can you look at the dog, too?” I ask as he presses on my stomach gingerly. “Ow, that hurts.”

  “Yeah, I’ll take him to an animal hospital,” Ty says.

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Sure I do. He’s important to you, and you’re important to Andrew.”

  My heart pounds faster. Am I important to Andrew? Am I any more important than anyone else on his payroll?

  “You’re lucky,” Ty says. “Bruised ribs for sure, and you’ll be sore for a few days. But I don’t think it’s anything more than that. I’ll need to run blood work today and again tomorrow because we want to make sure none of your internal organs are damaged.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  “I’m prescribing some pain medicine. You’ll need it.”

  I sit back against the pillows and nod. Ty takes a syringe and a small bottle from his medical bag.

  “Would you like something to help you rest?” he asks.

  “No. Thanks, but no.”

  “Okay. You guys call me if you need anything at all, okay? Anything. I’ll text Andrew when I get the dog taken care of. I guarantee they’ll admit him. He’s not in good shape.”

  “Don’t let them put him down,” I say, my voice shaking. “I don’t want that. He saved me.”

  Ty pats my hand reassuringly. “I’ll treat him like he’s my own, Quinn. I promise.”

  He leaves, and I lie back on the pillows Turner fluffed up behind me. Where is Andrew?

  The reception. I sigh as I realize he probably went to that reception we were supposed to go to together. The thought of Dahlia hitting on him again makes me irrationally angry. I’m not thrilled with Andrew right now, but still. He’d better manage to fend her off without my help this time.

  I cry about the letters some more and try to commit Bethy’s photo to memory. If karma is a thing, I’ll see those assholes again, and I’ll have my knife next time.

  Afternoon turns into evening, and the bedroom is dark when Andrew pushes the door open. I’d almost drifted to sleep, but I sit up when I see his broad-shouldered silhouette in the doorway.

  “Andrew?”

  “Hey,” he says softly. He walks into the room, and I turn on the nightstand lamp so I can see him as he approaches the bed.

  It can’t be. It can’t possibly fucking be. But it is.

  My mouth falls open in shock as he holds out the black bag to me. I recognize it immediately.

  It’s my fucking purse.
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  Andrew

  She grabs the large black purse and throws it open, digging into a pocket. When she pulls a couple envelopes from inside, her eyes widen and fill with tears.

  “What is this?” she demands. “What . . . how?”

  I sit down on the side of the bed. “The how doesn’t matter. You wanted it, and I got it.”

  She scoots to the side of the bed and slips out of it, wincing from the pain. “The how does matter, Andrew. It matters a fucking lot.” She holds the letters up in the air. “How did you do this?”

  “Hey, you need to be in bed.”

  “Answer me,” she says, her eyes pooling with emotion. “Because right now I feel really violated.”

  “Violated?” I stand up and face her. This is not the reaction I was expecting. I thought she’d be thrilled to have her sister’s letters back.

  “You just happened to find the men who robbed me in the largest city in the world? How fucking stupid do you think I am?”

  “Quinn, look—”

  “No, you look.” She approaches me and points at my face. “Explain yourself.”

  I sigh deeply. “I can’t.”

  “You mean won’t.”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Andrew—”

  “Where are you from? Why’d you send Bethy away? Why don’t you have any ID?”

  Her nostrils flare with anger. “You know I can’t tell you any of that.”

  “Won’t,” I say firmly. “Same fucking difference, Quinn.”

  “What is this?” she yells. “Is this some mind game you’re playing with me? You want to get my story so you . . . what? What the hell did you do, Andrew?”

  “I got your letters back. That’s what you wanted. How about a thank-you?”

  “Thank you? You can’t possibly think I’m this stupid.”

  I roll my eyes, exasperated. One of those assholes who mugged her hit me in the stomach and I’m sore. Definitely not up for a fight.

  “We both have secrets, Quinn,” I remind her. “And the how behind this—” I point at her purse on the bed “—is one of mine.”

  “You hired them.” Her accusing tone makes me flinch.

  “Are you fucking serious?” I roar, not caring who hears me.

  “You set it up so you could save the day. Maybe they got out of hand with the beating, I don’t know.”