by Rye Hart
It's Jack.
I scream for him. “Jack! Help me, please!” I cry out. “Please, Jack! Help!”
Peter rushes off, leaving the door open. I slide out of the limo just in time to see Jack and Peter standing in the middle of the road, throwing punches at one another. I scream when Peter's fist connects with Jack's face and a spray of blood goes flying from his mouth.
They grapple together, and I see Jack land a few shots to the side of Peter's head, opening a cut just below his ear. The fists are flying and there's blood in the snow – I just don't know who's blood it is. When I see them separate, I see that blood is covering both of their faces.
Peter rushes forward, swinging his fist wildly, but Jack sidesteps him, sticks his leg out, and sends Peter sprawling face first onto the icy road. Before he can get to his feet, Jack moves in and delivers a vicious kick to Peter's ribs. He grunts and wheezes, rolling onto his side and goes sliding across the ice.
Jack backs off and wipes the blood from his face. His eyes are narrow and a look of dark anger colors his features. He barely resembles the kind and compassionate man who's been caring for me all this time. He looks so angry and so fierce, his expression almost animalistic, and I don't even recognize him.
Peter gets up and rushes him again, but Jack is ready. Slipping to the side, Jack delivers a hard shot to Peter's face that sends him staggering to the side. He drops to a knee and pauses there, as if catching his breath. Blood runs down his face, coloring the snow beneath him red.
He looks up at me and gives me a predatory little grin. Peter is not a man who likes to lose, and I know he's got something up his sleeve – something that is bad news for Jack. Panicking, and wanting to stop it all before something bad happens, I search for my phone and find it sitting on the seat of the car. I hurry and dial 9-1-1 just as Peter pulls something from his pocket.
A knife. I watch in horror, seeing the cold sunlight of the afternoon glinting off the wickedly sharp looking blade.
No, please God, no...
Peter rushes forward, his knife at the ready, but Jack is prepared for it. He steps to the side and grabs the hand with the knife, twisting it away from Peter's body. Jack pulls him close and it looks like the two of them are talking.
Whatever was exchanged between them is brief though, and a moment later, I hear the crack of bone as Jack twists the wrist viciously, and Peter lets out a howl of sheer agony just as the 9-1-1 operator picks up. I stand there, completely numb for a moment as I watch Jack release Peter's wrist.
Peter doubles over, crying out in pain, cradling his injured wrist in one hand, the knife lying in the snow at his feet. Peter's movement is lightning fast – so fast I barely see it happening. With his good hand, he grabs the knife from the snow and buries it hilt-deep into Jack's forearm. I scream as I watch the scene unfolding before me.
Jack grimaces but doesn't cry out. Instead, he lashes out with his foot, kicking Peter in the balls. Peter doubles over and Jack delivers a vicious kick to Peter's face. The man's head snaps back and he falls flat on his ass. He's lying on his back, his face turned up to the sky. He's out cold.
Peter pulls the knife from his arm and I see the blood flowing, see the ground beneath him turning a vivid shade of scarlet and my heart races. He's hurt and needs help. Jack stands over Peter's unconscious form, the knife in his hand, looking down at the man.
In that moment, I see the Marine, the man fighting a war, not the man I loved so deeply so long ago. His eyes are wild, his expression animalistic. I can tell that he's thinking about killing Peter right then and there. He's got self-defense in the bag, given his wound. He can kill Peter and walk away.
“Jack, no,” I say.
He glances up at me and the look in his eye chills me to my very core. It's so foreign. So – cold. Like a shark in the ocean, Jack smells blood, and he wants to finish the job he's set out to do.
“9-1-1 response, what is your emergency?” the voice cuts through the fog in my brain. “Hello? Are you there? Do you require help?”
I slowly come back to myself and realize where I am and what's happening. I press the phone to my ear a little harder and explain that we need the police.
“Where are you located?” the operator asks.
Hell if I know. I look around for a sign, any sign, and then finally see one. A street sign. I read it off to her and tell her there's a grocery store directly in front of us.
“Please, hurry,” I say and look at Peter's prone body, stifling the urge to laugh – I'm not quite sure how that'll be taken. “We need medical assistance.”
Jack and I stand there looking at one another and I can see he's torn. I can see part of him wants to kill Peter for everything he's done to me and the other part of him wants to spare me the sight of it. With sirens wailing in the distance and drawing ever closer, I walk over to Jack and lay my hand on his arm.
He looks at me and I can see the darkness and anger in his eyes starting to clear. It takes a few moments, but by the time the police cars and the ambulance come to a halt near us, the deputies jumping out of the cars with their guns raised, Jack the Marine is gone again, replaced by the Jack I've gotten to know over this last week or so – a man I can definitely see myself falling for. Hard.
“It's going to be okay,” I say.
He nods. “Yes,” he says. “It will be.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JACK
I couldn't just sit there and watch Sydney drive away with that man. Sure, his story sounded good. Plausible. Reasonable, even. But, something about it – and about him – isn't right. I know, deep down, that he's dangerous. It's more than jealousy, I can feel it, and am just as sure of that fact as I am that Sydney is in danger.
Which is why I followed them. I'm not going to let Sydney get away again. I promised that I was going to protect her and I'm going to keep that promise at all costs.
Peter is a decent, but sloppy fighter. He's got a heavy punch, but he's undisciplined. And when he's riled up, he's prone to making really dumb mistakes and putting himself in positions where he's going to get fucked up. Positions that, if he were in the military, would only end in his death.
Moron.
We're both bloodied and breathing heavy, but I've still got plenty left in the tank. I can go a few more rounds with him. No, the ice on the ground isn't making it any easier, but I've got pretty steady footing and I can keep dancing a lot longer than this walking, talking, sack of shit.
I expect him to cheat – that just seems to be his way – so, I'm not entirely surprised when he pulls a knife out of his pocket. I don't have a weapon on me. Don't need one. And if Peter thinks he can intimidate me with a blade, he's about to learn that I don't scare all that easy.
My only regret is that Sydney is watching. She doesn't need to see this. She shouldn't be seeing this. But, it's Peter who forced the action and I'm going to protect her at all costs. I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do after the fact, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.
Right now, I have to neutralize the threat in front of me. And that threat is Peter.
He growls as he rushes me, swinging his blade wildly. Fucking idiot. It's child's play to disarm him. As I sidestep him, and he goes rushing by, trying to keep himself from slipping, I grab his wrist and twist it painfully. The knife falls to the ground, embedding itself in a small drift of snow as Peter howls in pain. I keep twisting and hold his hand away from his body, speaking to him in a low voice so Sydney doesn't overhear. Like I said, she doesn't need to be a party to this.
“You have one of two choices,” I growl. “Get in the fucking limo and leave, never bothering Sydney again – ”
“Fuck you,” Peter spits in my face.
“Okay,” I say, a cruel little grin touching my lips. “I guess that means you take choice number two.”
I grip his arm and put pressure right on the elbow. I see his eyes widen when he realizes what I'm doing. With one sharp movement, the bone cracks, the sound sh
attering the still afternoon like a gunshot. Peter screams, his voice echoing down the street and down through the valley.
I let go of his arm, and Peter doubles over, crying out in agony as he clutches his busted wing. If I'm being honest with myself – and I always try to be – I'll admit that it feels good to see him in pain. After seeing Sydney nearly bleeding out on the street, I want the same fate for Peter. I want him to hurt the way she did.
Although he's doubled over and screeching in agony, I can see his eyes. They're fixed on the knife that's hilt-deep in the snow before him. I'm positive that he's about to make a play for it. Which means, I need to shut that shit down immediately. All I need to do really, is just push him over onto his back. Maybe punch him in the gut and knock the wind out of him. I see Sydney on the phone and I assume she's calling the cops, so really, all I need to do is put him down and wait for the cavalry.
There's a part of me though, that wants to cause him pain. A lot of pain. Images of Sydney bleeding, knowing everything he's done to her, flash through my mind. The anger rises up within me like some dark, malevolent tide and I'm nearly overcome with the desire – no, the need – to hurt this man. Badly.
I want him to reach for the knife. I want him to give me the excuse. If he grabs it, and I kill him right here and now, it's a clear-cut case of self-defense. It's not like I haven't ever killed a man before. I killed plenty when I was overseas, fighting a war. What's one more body on my karmic account? Especially one who deserves it as much as this prick does.
“Pick it up,” I whisper. “Go ahead and grab it. You know you want to.”
In that moment, I imagine shoving the blade into his chest, carving out his heart. I imagine the intense release and satisfaction that will come with it. All the years of repressed anger and resentment come flooding back, filling me with bitterness and the desire to hurt this prick. I gave up so much, and for what? Because her parents hated me? Yet they like this prick?
I look up and see Sydney. She's looking back at me with wide eyes, a look of absolute fear on her face. I can tell she knows what I'm thinking, can see what I want to do, and she's willing me with her eyes not to do it.
Peter takes advantage of my distraction and makes his move. He's fast, I'll give him that. Fast, but stupid. He has the knife in his hand and drives it into my arm. It hurts like a motherfucker, but my training has taught me to compartmentalize and keep my priorities straight. My biggest priority right now is to neutralize the threat.
With Peter's knife sticking out of my arm and a persistent burning sensation of pain racking my body, I step forward and do the only thing I can think to do in that moment. I kick him in the balls. I'm wearing heavy, steel-toed boots, so I know it hurts. When my foot connects with his groin, Peter lets out a strangled sounding gasp and doubles over, clutching his injured nuts.
I reach back again and deliver a vicious kick to his face. I hear the satisfying crack of bone and see his head snap back as I make contact. Peter falls flat onto his back, completely not moving – out cold before he ever hit the ground.
With him lying there, dead to the world, I slip the knife out of my arm, releasing a flow of blood. The snow at my feet is turning red and I stand there, faced with a dilemma. I have the knife in my hand and really want to kill the motherfucker at my feet. The release I'll feel ending this piece of shit – for everything he's done to her – will be intense.
When I look up and see Sydney looking back at me though, another wave of feeling starts to tug at my conscience. Ending Peter might feel good in the moment, but what will the long-term ramifications to Sydney be? What will the long-term ramifications to “us” be?
I'm not even aware that she moved until she's standing right next to me. She gives me a small smile as she lays her hand gently on my arm. She looks up into my eyes and I can see that I don't need to kill Peter to be rid of him. He's done. He's out of her life forever. We've won.
“It's going to be okay,” she says.
I nod and give her a soft smile. “Yes,” I say. “It will be.”
It's only then that I become really aware that there are cops jumping out of their cars, their weapons drawn on me. The world around us is awash in red and blue flashing lights and voices shouting orders at me. I drop the knife and hold my hands up, admitting defeat. I'm ordered down to my knees and to put my hands behind my head. I do as instructed and a large, burly cop grabs my wrists, cuffing me tightly.
This whole scene looks bad. I can't really blame them for jumping to conclusions and thinking that I straight murdered Peter in the middle of the road. But, as they drag me to my feet, Sydney screams at them.
“It was self-defense,” she roars and points to Peter. “He's the one you need to arrest. It's him. All him. Jack was defending me.”
The cops look at the man on the ground. He's beaten to a pulp and is pitiful looking, I can't blame them for thinking I was the bad guy. They don't remove my cuffs though, and I call out to Sydney as they march me to a squad car.
“It's okay,” I say to her. “Have them take you back to my place.”
A female cop throws a blanket around Sydney's shoulders and ushers her into the back of a police car. Sydney can't stop looking at me, tears streaming down her face. Even in that state, bedraggled, dirty, and in a near panic, I can't help but think she's the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on.
“I'm sorry, Jack,” she calls out.
“Don't be sorry, Syd.”
A male cop roughly shoves me in the back of a police cruiser as a pair of EMT's check on Peter. Hopefully they listen to Sydney, believe her that Peter is the aggressor here, and hopefully it's fast.
We sit in the car for a long time, and an ambulance takes Peter away, a cop riding in the back with them – a good sign. An EMT patches me up as well, telling me that I'm going to need to go to the hospital for further examination and stitches to close the wound completely. I nod absently, not really listening. The pain's faded and that's all that matters to me right now.
I look over and see a few other cops milling about, talking to Sydney, and I just sit and wait. It's our word against his, but considering everything that had happened recently, I'm pretty sure that they'll believe her. Given my own wound, they better believe her.
Still, even if they believe her, it doesn't mean I won't end up behind bars when all is said and done. If I do though, at least I know it will have all been worth it. She's free of that son of a bitch and won't have to worry about him for a long, long time.
“Can you give Sydney a message for me?” I ask the cop in the front seat. “Can you tell her to take care of my dog? He's going to be really upset if I don't come home.”
The cop chuckles to himself but doesn't answer me. Another cop knocks on the window, and the one in the front seat opens the door.
“Cut him loose,” he says. “Her story checks out.”
I let out a long sigh of relief. I've been behind bars in the past, as a juvenile, and it's no fun. While I'm willing to go to jail for assaulting Peter in order to protect Sydney, I'm really glad it's not going to come to that.
They let me out of the cruiser and remove my cuffs. Before I even know what's happening, Sydney rushes toward me, still wearing nothing but my shirt. She throws herself into my arms, and I wrap myself around her to keep her warm. She presses her lips to mine, and I feel her heart thundering in her chest.
“I love you, Sydney,” I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“I love you too, Jack.”
I look at her for a moment, a numb shock spreading throughout my body. It's not what I expected to hear from her, but she looks up at me with her emerald eyes, and I know she remembers me. She remembers our past, all of it. Even the ugly stuff. And I know she means what she just said.
“So – you forgive me?”
“How can I not,” she laughs. “You've saved my life twice now.”
“I'd do anything for you.”
“Even break m
y heart, apparently,” she teases.
“I didn't want to hurt you – I felt like I didn't have a choice.”
“Shut up,” she says, slapping me in the chest. “I don't even care anymore. It was a long time ago and it's water under the bridge. We can start over. I want to start over.”
Relief washes over me as I kiss her again, holding her tighter to me, never wanting to let her go.
“But you still have some explaining to do about this Marianne chick,” she says.
“I'll tell you everything. Promise.”
“You better,” she says. “But, let's go home first. I'm freezing.”
Home. It's exactly where I want to go right now.
EPILOGUE
SIX MONTHS LATER...
“I said I'd never move back to California,” I groan.
“No, you said you'd never move back to Southern California,” Sydney reminds me. “And we're not moving to Southern California. Palo Alto is much different than Los Angeles.”
“Still a bunch of super wealthy people who've got way more money than sense.”
She side-eyes me. “You're one to talk.”
“Hey, I may be rich, but I don't flaunt it.”
We're looking at homes in the Palo Alto area – much to my chagrin. Sydney's started medical school at Stanford, and the long-distance thing isn't working out. It's been her life-long dream to be a doctor, so who am I to take that away from her? Besides, once she graduates, we can go anywhere, and we will. Together.
“The hipsters are going to love your furniture,” she teases. “Lumberjack is totally in right now.”
I roll my eyes. Great. Hipsters and yuppies. Just what I need in my life. Still, I can't help but smile, seeing her so happy. Soon, we'll be living together. For good, this time. Over the last few months, Sydney recovered completely, and is back to her old life now. With a few, small changes, of course.
Peter was locked up for a bit, but money can buy the best lawyers on the planet and he's already out, unfortunately. Sydney took out a restraining order, and after breaking his arm like I did, I don't think he's going to be messing with her again anytime soon. He's a distant memory now.