First to Fight Box Set: Books 1-5

by Nicole Blanchard

  Donnie spins and shoves past his brother, dumping the puppy on the floor. His footsteps thunder up the stairs, punctuated by the slamming of his bedroom door.

  I start to go after him, but Sofie rushes by and grabs me by the arm. “Don’t,” she says. She moves around me to stand by Rafe, who looks up at me with a frown. “I’ll handle it.”

  I don’t give myself the luxury of second guessing my decision, I just walk out the door.

  And it’s both the easiest and hardest thing I’ve ever done.

  Sofie

  The boys know I’ve been crying, but they don’t say anything. For the first time since I moved back in with them, they’re silent, almost concerned. They wake up before me and have a pot of coffee ready by the time I come downstairs the morning after Jack left—this time for good, it seems.

  I should feel relieved, knowing that he’s safe from whatever sinister fantasies Damian has planned, but all that’s left inside me is hollow. My chest cavity is scraped raw. It hurts to do simple tasks like breathing. Even sipping the cup of over-sweet coffee is almost too much for my system. I have to clamp down on the rise of bile in my throat and paste on a wobbly smile for the boys expectant faces.

  “Thanks, guys,” I manage, despite my raw throat. “Why don’t we do something today? There’s a new skating ramp at the park?”

  “You gonna skate?” Rafe asks, his face hopeful.

  It manages to pull a weak laugh from the cavern of my chest. “Sure, you would love that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’ll teach you,” Donnie says, already jamming his feet into his sneakers.

  “I think I’ll need more than one cup of coffee,” I reply wryly.

  Even though it’s a cool seventy degrees outside—which is mild weather for a sunny Florida morning, I wrap myself in a thin cardigan. Try as I might, I can’t seem to stop shivering, even with the sun as bright as it is. The boys erupt from the car the second we get to the park, their cheerful shouts buoying my rapidly sinking mood.

  Jack’s gym is only a couple blocks away and I sense its presence like a malignant tumor and a beacon. Both a reminder of the darkness there and a siren call to the man I’ve finally successfully kicked and shoved away.

  Blowing out a heavy, steady breath I remind myself it’s for the best. Then and now, to protect him. This aching, empty chasm is worth it.

  Or so I hope.

  I find a perch on the bleachers to watch over Rafe and Donnie as they scale the newly built skate park. Wincing, I try not to come to their aid as they crash into the unforgiving concrete repeatedly. Then I catch myself and I have to laugh, because I’m starting to sound like my mother, even if it’s just in my head.

  Wrapping the cardigan more securely around my middle, I turn into the sun, hoping it will warm me from the outside in. I knew coming back to Nassau would stir everything up and I was right. All the feelings, all the memories, all the regrets I’d smothered deep inside of me were coming back, determined to bubble up to the surface like a geyser.

  Maybe it’s fate.

  Maybe that’s the purpose of secrets. To be discovered.

  Like a bomb’s only end is to detonate, leaving everything in its wake torn to pieces, just like secrets. Or lies.

  I wonder as I watch the boys navigate the maze of ramps and rails, if the bigger the secret, the bigger the resulting fallout.

  I’m almost to the point where I want to pull the pin and see what happens when I do. The pressure building up inside of me is almost too much for even my walls to bear.

  “Hey, Sofie, a couple of our friends want to hang out today, if that’s okay.” Rafe jogs up and hops onto the bleacher seat by my side.

  “Sure, that’ll be fine. Do you need me to drop you off?”

  He swipes a hand over his forehead, his hair resettling around his eyes. “Nah, that’s okay. They’ve got a car. You can just pick us up at their house later.” He pauses, weighing his words. “I figured you could use some time alone, anyway.”

  My hand lifts and lands on his shoulder of its own accord, surprising us both. Warm affection flares in my chest at his compassion. The first tender growth of connection we should have cultivated years ago—I should have cultivated—takes root. Emotion clogs my throat. “Sure, yeah, okay.”

  “We can stay if you want to, I dunno, hang out or something.” He makes a face, ever the teenager, and I find myself laughing.

  “No that’s okay. I don’t need a babysitter. You guys go have fun. Just not too much.”

  He grins, throwing an arm around my waist and squeezing tight for a few packed seconds, bridging the gap between my years of absence, then he releases and jogs off to join a group of boys in the parking lot. I wave them off and head back to my car.

  Maybe I’ll do some freelance work when I get home to take my mind off of everything else. I’ve got a couple security clients on the side, some design work. I’ve lived frugally over the years, save for my penchant for good wine and expensive shoes, so I don’t really need the money. The simple, mind numbing tasks would keep my thoughts and hands busy—something I desperately need.

  I’m pulling up the plans for the website I plan to work on as I cross the parking lot to the shaded area where I parked my car, so it takes me a moment to recognize the piece of flapping paper on my windshield. My knees lock and my heart makes the tremulous leap into my throat, lodging there and stealing my breath. I have to force myself to take the remaining steps to my car.

  I’m being stupid. On edge. It’s just another one of those advertisements. But no matter how much I repeat those sentiments, the weighted feeling in my stomach grows heavier with each step.

  The paper is face down, pinned by the wiper blade. My fingers don’t tremble when I reach to free it, but they do fumble with releasing the blade, having grown thick and clumsy. The first thing I notice is the paper is thick, definitely not the flimsy sort they use for ad circulars, but it’s also not the printer type from a home computer. Damian’s preference. The paper is more substantial and glossy.

  A picture.

  I flip it over, nearly dropping it to the muddy ground in my haste. As it comes into focus, I hear soft, plaintive whimpers, like an injured animal. It takes me a few seconds to realize the mournful sound is coming from me, reverberating through my empty-feeling chest.

  I recognize Jack’s body first—I’d recognize it anywhere. He’s naked from the waist up, a sheen of sweat coating his muscular chest and another of dust coating his jeans. He’s leaning against the rails with two-by-fours at his feet and tools scattered on the ground. The picture must have been taken yesterday.

  It takes a few stunned minutes for my brain to wrap around the meaning of the picture.

  Jack’s face has been circled, angrily, sloppily, by thick pungent permanent marker and then scratched out like one would scratch off a lottery ticket.

  My stomach plummets and I dive into my car without thinking. My tires squeal and gravel crunches, spinning out, bulleting the tin building behind me until they gain traction and I swerve onto the deserted street.

  I barely remember making it to the gym. Leaving the park, the drive over, and finding a parking spot is all a blur. The walk up to the door is arduous, my legs nearly unmoving. The chills return with full force and by the time I get to the front door, I’m coated in a cold sweat. I swipe furiously at my forehead with shaking fingers and it takes two tries before I can grab hold of the doorknob to yank it open.

  Oh God.

  I nearly lose the two cups of coffee on the lobby floor the second I step through the doors. The smell. God. It smells just like my nightmares.

  I breathe deeply through my mouth, but it barely helps. My fingers clench around the picture I still hold in my hands, the sides cutting into the flesh of my palm. I focus on the sharp bite of pain and it centers me, brings me from the edge of panic.

  Knees still watery, I walk to the double doors and see through the picture windows to the guys practicing on the other side. I almost
expect to see Damian in the ring or leaning against the wall on the far side. I can almost feel him behind me waiting to pounce. A furtive glance over my shoulder shows only the empty lobby.

  With my free hand, I grab the handle and pull it open, the grunts of a punch hitting home and the squeak of sneakers against the mat wash over me. White settles over my vision and I press my back against the door to keep myself upright.

  When the ringing in my ears subsides, and the white spots recede, Jack’s face swims into view. At first, I think I’m seeing things, recalling memories of the times we spent here. I reach out to touch him and my hand jerks back when it meets the warm skin of his cheek.

  Hands on my shoulders shake me gently. “Sofie,” he says. Then again, firmly. “Sofie.”

  “Jack,” I whisper as the visions of past and present collide.

  “The boys. Tell me now. Are the boys okay?” He looks over my shoulder for them, then back in my eyes. His hold on my shoulders grows vise-like and he pulls me closer. “Goddammit, Sofie. Are they okay?”

  I shake my head, my frantic thoughts rattling around. “They’re fine, I’m sorry, they’re fine.”

  He lets out a breath. “You look like you’re about to pass out. What the hell is going on?”

  I remember the photo, Damian’s threats. My eyes bulge and my hands grip his wrists, then map his face, his shoulders. They travel down his chest to grip the T-shirt hanging around his waist. Safe. He’s safe. I bow my head, resting it on his shoulder.

  He’s safe.

  My feet are moving. I hear voices, then a door opening and closing. Beneath my arms, Jack’s muscles bunch and release. He tries to move away, but I cling to the material of his shirt and he murmurs. I don’t quite make out the words, but they’re comforting enough for me to release my grip. He moves away, and I hear sounds, then footsteps as he returns.

  “Here,” he says. “Drink this.” He pushes one of those cone-shaped cups from the water dispenser into my hands and brings it to my lips. I swallow obediently, my vision focusing and my mind clearing thanks to the cool, crisp water and his direct observation.

  As I come back to myself, my cheeks flush and I look down at my feet under his stare. Oh God. What do I do now? How do I explain this?

  I glance at the door, but Jack gets to his knees in front of me, bracketing my legs and hips with his arms and hands, wedging his chest between my legs and bringing us face to face while invading my space and making sure I won’t be going anywhere.

  “You’re gonna tell me what the hell is going on,” he demands.

  Jack

  My heart thunders in my chest and my ears and neck are hot. She glances at the door again, and I snap, “Look at me,” and her wide eyes lock with mine. “I’m done playing these games. Done with your excuses. Tell me why you ran in here looking like someone died. You said the boys are okay. What the fuck is going on?”

  Her shoulders shudder with a broken inhale as her gaze falls. It’s a fucking wonder, but I watch her shore up her walls. She straightens her spine, squares her shoulders. If I could see her face, I imagine she’d wipe it clean of expression, maybe twist on a scowl or a glare. Her eyes would be blank, nearly dead of emotion.

  But recognizing it for what it is, I bring one hand to her jaw before she’s finished the routine and catch her panicked expression. I’ve seen enough men cornered to recognize the desperation I see in her eyes. What would make her so afraid? My first instinct is to protect her, even after the betrayal and abandonment, and I curse her and myself for it. I lock my arms beside her thighs to keep from cradling her into my lap.

  “Get your hands off me,” she snarls.

  My simple “no” makes her nose flare in indignation. Her hips wriggle, but I’m bigger and stronger. She’s not getting out of this unless I want her to.

  She switches tactics. “I’m sorry, I don’t have an explanation. I just thought you were in trouble. Freaked myself out about it.”

  “So you come running here after you just kicked me out? That doesn’t make sense, babe. Try again.”

  “Fuck you. Let me go.”

  “I told you, not until you tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  “You mean, why did I come here, or why did I leave you?” If she could put her hands on her hips she would. “Because we both know the reason you’re so interested is because I left you.”

  I shrug. “That’s not news. What I want to know now is why you’re as white as a fucking ghost and lying about it.”

  “Everything is—”

  “Keep lying to me, Sofie, and you’re going to piss me off.”

  “You’re already pissed off.”

  “I’m irritated, and I can get pissed off real quick if you want, but that’s not going to make me less interested in what you’re doing here.”

  She trembles underneath my palms. “Just let it go,” she pleads. “Please.”

  Finally, we’re getting somewhere. “I don’t think I will this time. I let it go when you left me. When you kept leaving me. When you pushed me away. I don’t think I will now.”

  She growls. “Is this because you found out I fucked someone else? Some twisted need to reclaim your territory. If it is, I’m not interested.”

  “Stop trying to dodge the question. What are you so afraid of?” The last part I direct more towards myself. What would cause her to come flying into the gym like a bat outta hell? I know it isn’t the boys, she said so herself. If it were Livvie or Cole she would have gone straight there.

  The only reason why she’d come here is if she were worried about me. I look back at her and she looks away. Bingo.

  But why would she think something had happened to me?

  My fingers bite into her hips, my frustration growing. What the fuck had her so afraid she thought I was in danger? She’s one of the strongest people I know, so it would have to be something life or death. Something that would send her back to me, even though we’d been arguing.

  “Is someone…” I clear my throat, unable to say the words. “Is something, someone bothering you?”

  “No,” she says, a beat too quickly. Her gaze falters and her shoulders jerk.

  “Don’t,” I force myself to take a breath, then I say through my teeth, “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying to you.”

  “Well you’re sure as hell not telling the truth.” I pause, considering. “Makes me wonder what else you’ve been lying about.”

  Her face drains of color and she vibrates beneath my hands. Her lips are white and pulled thin when she says, “I asked you to let me go.”

  “I’m not gonna do it so forget it.” I get to my feet and settle on the couch next to her, making sure to put myself pointedly between her and the door. “We can stay here all day.”

  “Maybe you can, but I’ve got to get back to the boys.”

  “I’ll take care of them. Ben can pick them up.”

  “Jesus Christ, how many times do I have to tell you we aren’t your problem anymore?”

  I move in close, until she inches backward on the couch and hits the arm and can go no farther. Pinning her beneath me, I catch her gaze and say, “Until you mean it.”

  She sucks in a breath. “Please.”

  “Tell me,” I order.

  She shakes her head, turning away from me.

  “C’mon, baby. Just get it out. Tell me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “You’re going to hate me.”

  An ache starts in my gut, pulsing and white-hot. “No, I won’t.”

  “You already hate me.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  She wipes a tear from her cheek. “Yes, you do. You didn’t see the look on your face when you saw that letter. You hated me right then.”

  My brows furrow. “I didn’t hate you. I was mad at you. Madder than I’ve ever been, but I could never hate you.”

  “If you didn’t then, you’re sure going to now.”

&nb
sp; I pull her into my lap, draping her stiff limbs over my legs and tucking her face into my neck. The words pour out of me, drawn by her tears and her fear and the constant need to keep her here, close to me. Where she belongs. No matter what. “There’s nothing you could ever do to make me hate you, Sofie. I’ve loved you my whole life and I don’t expect I’ll ever stop.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you knew,” she whispers brokenly.

  “Try me.”

  “I slept with Damian,” she says, followed by a pregnant pause. “But I didn’t want to.” She can barely get the words out and when she does, they’re so quiet I have to strain to hear them.

  My breaths start coming more quickly and my arms vise around her. “You didn’t want to?” I repeat.

  “He attacked me that day when I came back from New Orleans.” Her head drops forward, her dark hair curtaining her face. Behind, I hear her sniffle and it makes me pull her closer.

  “It wasn’t consensual?”

  She shudders. “I tried to fight him, but he had a knife.”

  Nausea is a greasy roll in my stomach, but I force myself to stay calm, even though my control is paper thin at best. “Start from the beginning.”

  “I don’t really want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it.”

  “You’ve pushed it down for so long, you need to talk. I’m just going to listen. I’m right here. Let it out.”

  “I left the gym to go home and change. He must have let the air out of one of my tires because I had a flat when I came out and he offered to help me change it. I thought, you know, he’s your friend. I thought I was safe with him.”

  “What did he do?”

  She swallows audibly. “I went to pop the trunk for the spare and he came up behind me, dragged me to the back of the gym and through the back door.” She pauses and I rub her shoulders, down her arm. “There was a storage room down that hall, one that was full of old mats and equipment. He pushed me down on them and…”

  “He raped you,” I say.

  She nods into my throat. I sense there’s more to the story, but I don’t push her about it anymore, also sensing she’s had enough, more than enough. Her muscles twitch beneath my hands and she’s gone limp against my chest. “What made you come here today?”