by Jessica Ames
My tongue dips out to wet my bottom lip as my fear climbs even higher. I’ve never been confronted by a partner outside the shelter before. This is new and completely overwhelming. Nothing could prepare me for the sense of helpless unease I feel at being cornered alone by this man—a man who has no qualms about using his fists to solve his problems.
Stay calm. You’re in control.
I take a steadying breath as I scan the car park. We’re completely alone and isolated away from the charity market, which is located on the other side of the grounds. The school building is between the two, meaning while I can hear the bustle of people visiting the stalls, I can’t see anyone. I wonder if anyone will hear me if I scream. Given the amount of ruckus filling the air, I doubt it. This realisation does nothing to calm my thrumming heart.
“This is not the time nor the place to have this conversation,” I tell him, impressed by how little my voice wavers.
But my words have no impact. He moves right into my space. I back up instinctively, my spine hitting metal—the side of Holly’s Jeep.
Fuck.
He’s not a big guy, but he’s big enough. His actions are clearly meant to unsettle me, and they do. I meet his gaze even as my breath saws out of me in ragged bursts.
“You need to back up and get out of my way.” Firm, polite but calm—that’s what the training says we should be when faced with this kind of situation. Except all the training I was given when I started volunteering isn’t worth the paper it is written on when faced with a real-life situation because Mr Monroe clearly didn’t get the memo about what his response should be. He’s supposed to back down and the whole thing is supposed to de-escalate. This is not what happens. In fact, my words only seem to enrage him further.
“I know you work for that fucking shelter and I know you took my wife there! I went over to save her before you fill her head with lies, but your staff wouldn’t let me through the gates.”
Of course not. You’re a first-class lunatic.
Besides, Hattie is no longer at the shelter for him to find. It’s been over a week since we brought her into Hope House—a lot can happen in a week, and we’d been busy. Holly moved her to a Safe Shelter site in Herefordshire a few days ago. I’m not telling him that though. The longer he thinks she’s in town, the safer she is. It gives her time to work through things, and to disappear if she needs to.
“Please move.”
“You’re poisoning her against me!”
“Step back,” I order in my most authoritative tone. It’s calm, considered and it has no effect whatsoever. And that sends my anxiety through the roof.
“Where’s my wife?” he demands.
“Step back!” I repeat, this time my words a gasp of fear.
I place a hand on his chest and push. Hard. This does have an effect but not the one I want because his fingers wrap around my wrist tight. I can’t stop the gasp of surprise and pain as he squeezes.
“Where’s Hattie?” he roars in my face, and my heart clatters beneath my ribs.
Despite working in a potentially hostile environment, violence at the shelter is rare. The security systems we have in place mean it’s difficult for partners to get into the grounds and the police are fast to respond when we do have problems. I’ve never been cornered outside of the shelter, never. This is uncharted territory and all my training on how to deal with these situations goes out the window the moment he touches me.
I have no idea what words I form, but I garble out something even as I fumble for the zipper on my coat pocket. My phone is in there; I may be able to dial for help, but Monroe has other ideas.
He tightens his grip and sneers in my face, “Where the hell is my wife, you fucking cunt?”
Fuck.
His words send me tumbling back into the past. It’s Simon, not Monroe, holding me, screaming in my face, promising pain. Fear, unimaginable fear claws at me, clogging my throat.
It’s not Simon, it’s not Simon…
Not that Monroe is any less of a threat; he’s not. His grip on my wrist is iron-clad and unrelenting. I tug back and find no leeway. I fight against the growing panic as I try and fail to get free of him.
But instinct is a powerful thing because my flight response, which had been prevalent when I lived with my ex is no longer present. Time spent rebuilding my confidence through therapy means my fight reflex is the one vying for attention, and I give in to that.
My knee jerks up and slams hard into flesh. I find my target without really trying. Right between his bloody legs. The response is instantaneous and satisfying as all hell. He releases my wrist immediately and howls as he cups his balls.
“You fucking bitch!” he wails at me, but I don’t feel remotely sorry for him, and I also don’t stop to make sure he’s okay. Instead, I deliver a savage kick to his side, triumph racing through me as he grunts in pain.
Bastard.
I go to dart around him, escape the only thing on my mind. I need to find help. I need to get back to civilisation and people who can stop him.
I barely make two steps before I’m yanked savagely by the back of my coat. The momentum pulls me clean off my feet and I go down hard. Pain shoots up my spine and hip as I hit the tarmac with enough force to rattle my teeth in my head.
And then he’s over me.
I kick out as hard as I can, pain reverberating through my legs as I connect with him. It’s enough to push him back from me but he comes straight back, rage in every line of his face. Adrenaline is racing through me as I let out a sound that is somewhere between a cry of frustration and a wail for help. And then my world darkens for a moment.
I think I’ve blacked out until I see a huge figure jump over my downed body and shove Monroe with enough force to knock him into the nearest car. Unfortunately, this happens to be Holly’s vehicle. That is definitely leaving a dent.
I manage to come up to my knees, ignoring the sting in my hands and shins in time to see Dean Lawler get in his face, his fingers fisting into the front of Monroe’s jacket.
“Why don’t you try that shit with someone who can fight back?” he growls and my stomach fills with ice at the coldness in his voice.
Monroe’s gaze slides from Dean to me, but his eyes barely connect before Dean seizes his face with one tattooed hand and tears it back so he’s forced to look at him.
“Eyes on me—not her.”
“I just want to see my wife,” Monroe appeals. “Please.”
Dean glances over his shoulder in my direction. “Are you his wife?” I shake my head. “Is this guy allowed to see his wife?”
“Absolutely not,” I return, sounding winded.
He snorts as he turns back to Monroe. “Then you stay away from her—” he jerks his head in my direction, “—and your wife too.”
“You can’t—”
“I can. You don’t and we’re going to have problems,” Dean interrupts. “And trust me, you don’t want the kind of problems I’ll give you.” Dean steps back, getting out of Monroe’s space and says, “Now, fuck off.”
Monroe doesn’t need telling twice; he takes off like a rocket. And my anxiety doesn’t lessen. Did I just replace one problem with another? Dean Lawler is the last person I need to be alone with right now, especially given what happened the other day.
A hand suddenly appears in front of me, and I follow the tattoos and leather up to Dean’s face. It’s softer now, although there is still an underlying anger there. I hesitate but only for a split second before taking his bare hand in my gloved one. Carefully, he helps me to my feet, steadying me as I come upright.
He’s wearing a leather zip up jacket beneath his Club vest and a pair of jeans so dark blue they almost look black. His head is hidden beneath a grey beanie hat and on his feet are a pair of heavy motorcycle boots. He looks every inch the bad boy, but even so I can’t help but be a little affected by him. Maybe it’s a superhero complex developing (he does keep pulling me out of trouble), but it’s hard to ignore.
I nod, even though I’m so far from okay it’s untrue. “Uh, yeah. I think so.” His eyes drop to my hands and I follow his gaze. I’m shaking. “So maybe I’m not okay, but I will be.”
“Did he hurt you?” The softness, the kindness in his voice surprises me, although I don’t know why. Every time I have an encounter with Dean he shows me he’s so much more than the biker, than the stereotypes suggest.
“Only my pride.” I force a smile. This is not strictly true. I’m definitely going to have a few bruises in the morning, not to mention some emotional turmoil to work through, but I’m not about to have a breakdown in front of this man, even though I really want to. “Thank you.” My voice trembles and I hate that it does.
I am strong. I am safe.
“For what?”
“Stepping in. Not everyone would have.” I’m lucky as hell he was here. Come to think of it: why was he here? Not that the car park is out of bounds but he and the other bikers are set up on the playground. What was he doing?
As if sensing my question, he mutters, “I was stretching my legs. I didn’t expect to see that shit happening.” His jaw tightens and I want to tell him to relax, but I don’t. I can’t.
Instead I say, “Well, thank you for stopping.” Then I clasp my hands together to control the tremors, which seem to be getting worse by the second.
“I wasn’t walking by and turning a blind eye to some fucker assaulting you. Although, if you’re ever in that situation again you kick them in the balls until they can’t stand up. Don’t give the fucker the opportunity to get up again.”
I can’t help but smile a little at his words and the image it invokes.
“Well, hopefully there won’t be a next time.”
His eyes narrow on me. “You live across the street from me.”
I blink. Did he not recognise me right away? I’m not sure if I should be offended or relieved, although I’m leaning towards the former.
“Uh, yeah…”
“You’re grocery girl.”
My brow arches and I forget for a moment the chaos around me. “Grocery what-now?”
“You spilt your shopping.”
I did, but we really do not need to relive that embarrassing moment, do we? I also completely overreacted, although he also went off the deep end unnecessarily, so I guess we both should be humiliated, although I get the feeling Dean is not a man who apologises or feels embarrassed by anything.
“What’s your name?”
I blink and then frown at his question. “My name?”
There’s the slightest twitch of his lip and the hint of a dimple. “Well, I can’t keep calling you grocery girl, can I?”
I suppose not, although I have no idea why he wants to call me anything.
“It’s… It’s Liv.” I have no idea why I say Liv and not Olivia, but giving him that name, the name used by Simon, feels wrong.
“Liv.” He tests it on his tongue, as if trying it on for size. “I’m Dean.” He confirms what I already know but I nod anyway.
“Well, Dean, it’s nice to properly meet you.” I rub the back of my neck. “Speaking of which… I’m sorry if I upset you that day with the shopping. I was beyond rude.”
“You didn’t upset me.”
I’m pretty sure I did, but I’m not about to argue with him—not after he just saved me.
“Okay, well, I’m still sorry. It’s just… you’re a big guy and I don’t know you. I wasn’t exactly comfortable letting you into my house, even though you were trying to do something nice—and that’s not because of who you are. I would have had that reaction to anyone—man or woman—because… well, because trust is earned, not just given.” I risk glancing at him and see he’s staring blankly at me. Shit. “Well, anyway, I’m sorry if I did offend you, even though you say I didn’t. I’m still sorry.”
Apology done, I feel a sense of relief. I can go back to worrying about bills and the ladies in the shelter and not whether my neighbour is going to take me out.
Pale eyes rise to meet mine and my breath just about stutters because he’s so intense.
“That’s ‘not because of who I am?’” He tilts his head to the side in a way that makes my neck feel clammy again. “And who am I?”
Oh, God. Am I making this worse?
“Well… look at you.”
This is the wrong thing to say. His brows arch.
“I’m not sure where the hell you’re going with this.”
You and me both, buddy…
“I don’t mean look at you like that... I mean… well, you’re a frigging giant and you’re built like a tank. Who wouldn’t be intimidated by that?”
“You find me intimidating?”
I have eyes, of course I do. But I also have a brain and insulting Dean is not the best idea.
“Well, a little, but that’s a good thing. If you weren’t, that whole situation just now could have got out of control fast.” I give him a wry smile. “Anyway, I promise I’m not usually such a damsel.”
“You’re not a damsel.”
The two times we’ve met beg to differ, but I don’t get a chance to argue this because he adds, “Are you here on your own?”
“Uh, no, I’m here with a friend. We have a stall.”
“Do you think you can walk back to her? Or do you need to call her to come to you?”
I’m not about to make Holly leave the stall just to hold my hand, even if I feel in dire need of handholding right now.
“I can walk.” I may actually stop shaking by the time I get back to her. He nods and I’m surprised when he falls in line beside me. “What are you doing?”
“Walking you back.”
His statement confuses me.
“Why?”
“That guy could still be hanging around.”
That makes my entire body go colder than it already is. I scan the car park for any sign of him but see nothing and no one.
“He’s not going to touch you again, darlin’,” Dean adds. “I’ll make sure of that.”
And I’m not going to lie; the way he says darlin’ to me makes my body sit up and take notice. It would take more notice if I wasn’t coming down from the adrenaline rush.
“You’ve already done enough—more than enough, in fact,” I tell him.
“I’m heading back that way anyway, so it’s no trouble and to be honest, I’d feel better seeing you safe.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Anyway,” he continues, “I told you; I was only stretching my legs. Well, truthfully, I was trying to give my ears a break from Sofia. I love that girl, but Jesus fucking Christ can she talk.”
I don’t know who Sofia is, but I’m not prepared for the pang of jealousy that hits me as I consider the possibility he may be taken. Why? I don’t know. I have no claim to Dean and even if I did I don’t want him. I’m off men. Forever.
But I can’t help but react when his hand comes to the small of my back, urging me to start walking. I’m not going to lie; I like how it feels there. I shouldn’t, but I do. I try not to let that show on my face as I stay close to his side.
“Well, all things considered I’m grateful Sofia is a chatterbox. Otherwise that whole situation could have ended a lot differently.”
We walk slowly back across the car park, his hand still at my back. His lack of concern puts me at ease, even though I know I should be worried about the man who just attacked me in broad daylight—and in public. That’s the most frightening part. Monroe’s desperate, and that is not a good thing because desperate people do rash things.
As soon as Holly locks eyes with me, her own flare wide. This is probably because Dean is standing at my side, his hands now on my shoulders. The weight of his touch on me feels natural, like his hand is meant to be there. I should be uncomfortable but I’m not; I should have at least some reaction, judging from Holly’s expression.
She shifts her
eyes between him and me.
“Hey, Holly,” he says, clearly remembering her—although whether from their school days or other charity events, I don’t know.
“Dean, hey.” She blindly hands change to a man she is in the middle of serving. He takes it with a grumbled “Yeah, cheers, love”, and mutters something about customer service being dead as he wanders off. “Everything okay?” she asks,
“Not really,” Dean answers before I have a chance, and I glare at him. The last thing I want to do is frighten Holly half to death. Too late for sugar-coating it though, because Holly’s demeanour changes instantly.
“What’s wrong?”
“I just ran into Hattie Monroe’s husband in the car park,” I say before he can add fuel to the embers of this fire.
“What?”
“He was a little hands-on,” Dean supplies unhelpfully.
I glare at him.
“It’s not a big deal,” I grind out and Holly’s jaw tightens as Dean steers me through the entrance at the back of the faux log cabin stall. He guides me to one of the camping chairs we brought with us and, more gently than I thought possible, he pushes me into the seat.
“She’s a little shook up,” he tells Holly.
I could legitimately throttle him.
“I am not,” I counter instantly, because the last thing I need is for Holly to freak out.
“Sweetie,” Holly says, as she crouches in front of me, “you’re trembling.”
I glance down at my hands in my lap and see I am still shaking. “Bugger,” I mutter.
Holly twists to look behind her before turning back to Dean. “Hey, uh, can you pass me the flask under the table?”
He moves without question and bends down to grab it. He hands it to Holly who takes it with a murmured “thanks”.
“Drink this,” she orders.
I do as I’m told and the hot sugary coffee hits the back of my throat, spreading down into my stomach and settling me a little.
“What happened?” she asks when I pull the flask back from my lips.
I sigh as Dean gives me the nod, urging me to tell her. The unspoken threat lingers that if I don’t he will.