by Kendall Ryan
Since I don’t do feelings, I go into captain mode, lifting Ana from the floor and setting her on the counter. Her bare feet dangle, one cut and bleeding.
“Where is your first aid kit?”
“I’m fine. It doesn’t even hurt.”
That’s the adrenaline talking. She’ll retract that statement as soon as she tries to put weight on it.
I meet her eyes. “I need to make sure there’s no glass inside the wound. Where is your first aid kit?”
She nods and then points down the hall. “In the bathroom cabinet.”
I have no idea where Kress is, or when he might be returning, but I focus on one thing at a time. Behind a box of feminine pads, I locate a first aid kit and carry it back to the kitchen.
Working methodically, I clean the wound and dress it in a light bandage. Ana stays quiet, watching me as I work.
“As far as I can tell there’s no glass in it, and it’s not deep enough to need stitches. But it’ll be tender for a few days, and you should avoid putting too much weight on it.”
She nods, her eyes watering as she stares back at me. “Thanks, Grant. I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call. My friend Georgia didn’t answer her phone, and I don’t know many other people I trust enough to come here, and who know what Jason is like.”
She doesn’t need to apologize. When I gave her my number, I was serious about her using it if she needed something, but didn’t expect it to be so soon—or to be for something like this. I’m just glad I didn’t walk in to find her . . . Fuck, I couldn’t even think of that.
“Has he done this before?” My voice comes out stern, and her gaze drops to the floor. “Ana, talk to me.”
She doesn’t reply, just keeps her eyes down and tries not to cry.
Fuck.
I take a deep breath, trying desperately to control my need to unleash hell on something or someone.
Fuck Jason. Fuck any man or woman who hurts the person they’re meant to protect. Fuck!
I shove the unused items back inside the first aid kit, snapping the plastic lid closed while anger continues to boil inside me.
“Pack a bag.”
“What?” She looks up at me again, confusion lacing her delicate features. Her eyes are wide with worry.
“You can’t stay here.”
“I know,” she says softly. “I need to book a hotel room. Or maybe I can ask Georgia if I can stay with her . . .”
“Pack a bag,” I repeat slowly. “We’ll figure it out once I get you out of here.” I offer Ana a hand and she accepts, lowering herself carefully from the counter. “Put some shoes on, okay?”
She nods. Limping, she disappears down the hall, and I’m finally able to take a deep breath to get my need to hunt down Kress under control.
I consider sweeping the kitchen floor, then decide against it. It’s his mess—let him clean it up, see his girlfriend’s blood on the floor.
Part of me almost hopes Kress comes home, because I would love to exchange some words with him right now. But I know it’s better for Ana’s sake if he doesn’t. She doesn’t need to experience any more trauma today, and she certainly doesn’t need to watch me beat the shit out of him.
Ana returns, still wearing a pair of fitted jeans that show off how slender she is, and the T-shirt she had on before. But now she’s in sneakers and an oversized green cardigan with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She’s carrying a small white fluffy dog, and has a duffel bag slung over one slim shoulder.
Crossing the room toward her, I take the duffel bag and glance at the dog. “Who’s this?”
She clears her throat, looking shy for a moment. “This is Hobbes.”
I frown down at the creature currently wiggling in her arms. “Where can I take you?”
“I have a car,” Ana says, shifting Hobbes in her arms. Clearly, the dog wants down, but with the glass still on the floor, she won’t let him out of her grasp.
“Your foot isn’t in great shape. Let me drive you somewhere for the night, and I’ll bring you back tomorrow to get your car.”
“I don’t know.” She chews on her lower lip, thinking it over. “Let me try my friend Georgia again.”
Pulling her cell phone from her back pocket, Ana dials, listening quietly as the phone rings. The frown that pulls on her lips tells me there was no answer.
“She didn’t pick up,” I say.
Ana shakes her head.
“Where can I take you?”
“A hotel will be fine.” Her voice is steady, even if I can tell she’s a little more shaken than she’s letting on.
I’m fine being the one to drive the getaway car, but she’s going to need someone to lean on, someone she can talk to. And let’s be honest, I’m not that guy. I need Ana’s friend to pick up the phone just as much as she does.
“Which one?” I say on an exhale.
She considers it for a moment. “That place with the orange roof next to the highway should be okay.”
I nod. I know of the place, but I’ve never stayed there. It’s a budget motel, cheap and no frills. “Got everything you need?”
“For now,” she says, taking one last look around the apartment.
I hope Jason’s not the vindictive type to destroy or dispose of her belongings. I doubt all the books lining those shelves are his. And it seems highly unlikely he would have picked out that funky purple armchair. But for now, I just want to get her out of here, so we have little choice but to leave it all behind.
“Is there food for him?” I ask, pausing by the door to look down at a still struggling Hobbes.
“Oh, crap. Yes, there is,” Ana says, turning back toward the kitchen.
“I’ll get it. Just tell me where to find it.”
“In the pantry. On the floor to the left,” she says, offering me a grateful smile.
I grab the small bag of dog food and then follow down the stairs behind Ana. She’s not limping, which is a good sign. Maybe her foot is okay. That, or she’s really good at faking.
When we reach the street, I do a quick sweep, looking for Jason, and Ana does too. Then she meets my eyes, and her mouth lifts in a shaky smile. I really have no idea how she’s so composed. Maybe she’s tougher than she looks, or maybe she’s barely holding on and will crash into a heap when she’s left to her own thoughts.
Shit.
Guiding her toward my car, I pop the trunk and place the duffel bag and dog food inside while Ana climbs in.
When I slip in beside her and start the engine, she lets out an exasperated sound.
“No, Hobbes. I have to hold you. You’ll mess up the leather.” Then she shoots me an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry about him. I’m sure you’ve never had a dog in your car. But I’ll hold him the whole time, and he really doesn’t shed much.”
The truth is I don’t even like this car. It was a stupid impulse buy after my financial advisor got on my case about the fact that I never spend any money on myself. Frankly, it pissed me off that he even noticed. But I guess when you manage other players who are buying themselves and their significant others sports cars and second homes, and vacationing in exotic locales multiple times a year, it doesn’t take a theoretical physicist to string together that I wasn’t exactly living large despite my $8 million salary.
My weekly visits to the grocery store and gas station, and getting my hair cut once a month, aren’t exactly on par with someone pulling in millions. Even if I do shop at the fancy organic grocery store.
“Don’t worry about the car. I’ll have it cleaned.”
She nods, still struggling to get the ten-pound beast settled in her lap.
When we reach the hotel, Ana heads inside to see if they have availability while I open the trunk to retrieve her things. But a few seconds later, she returns, shaking her head and wearing a frown.
“No vacancy?” I ask.
“The hotel doesn’t allow dogs.” A slow exhale leaves her lips, and her tone is defeated. “Nothing is going right for
me today.”
A strange knot of pressure builds inside my chest as I close the trunk again. She looks so small, so sad, standing in the parking lot holding her dog. I thought I’d outgrown emotional responses like this, but maybe the occasional pang of concern is normal. Either that or I’m going soft.
That couldn’t be it, though. Protecting others has always been part of who I am. Growing up in foster care, I looked out for those smaller than me, which was most kids, since I’ve always been tall for my age. In hockey, I defend the puck. As the captain, I look out for my team.
And now that a woman has reached out to me and needs my help? Of course I’m going to offer it up. It’s not even a question, and I don’t hesitate for a second.
“Come on. Get in.”
Ana climbs in beside me, dialing her friend again. There’s still no answer, and she hangs up after a few minutes.
“Why don’t you come to my place?” I ask. “At least to have some dinner, and you can try your friend again after we eat. Have you already eaten?”
She shakes her head and puts away her cell phone.
“Let’s have something to eat, and maybe your friend will answer by then.”
“Okay,” she says slowly, her voice shaky. “As long as I’m not interrupting any plans you’ve got.”
“No plans tonight.”
We reach my place ten minutes later and park beneath the building in my designated parking spot. Ana waits in a strip of grass for Hobbes to pee while I unload the bags. Inside the elevator, I hit the button for the penthouse while Ana stands quietly beside me.
When I unlock the door, Hobbes goes charging inside like he owns the place while Ana flits nervously after him.
“He’s fine,” I say, watching him sniff the blue wool rug beneath my living room couch. “Let him explore.”
“If you say so.” Her eyes scan every inch of my place. “This condo is incredible.”
“Thanks,” I mumble.
“Have you lived here long?”
I nod. “I moved in about three years ago.”
The building was new, and I put down a deposit that made my stomach cramp at the time. The condo cost $3 million, which seems crazy given that it’s only two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and about 2,000 square feet. But this part of the city is pricey because it’s centrally located, and I felt at ease in the minimalistic style of the finishes—light wood and quartz countertops, and large windows overlooking the city beyond.
My real estate agent even talked me into hiring an interior designer to furnish the place, which I agreed to only because I travel so much and didn’t want to be bothered with picking out couches or throw pillows. It cost me a pretty penny, but when I saw the final result, I didn’t regret it for a second. Decorated in shades of slate gray, blues, and creams, the effect is calming and relaxed. And exactly what I needed.
When I realize Ana’s watching me, still standing silently beside the kitchen, I say, “I’ll show you around if you want.”
She gives me a genuine smile for the first time today. “I’d love a tour.”
I show her around. The living room and kitchen are open, and there’s a compact terrace beyond with two oversized rattan chairs.
“The view is amazing.”
I nod. “It’s nice at night. If you don’t mind the sound of traffic.”
She gazes out at the highway in the distance. “It doesn’t bother me. I actually kind of like the sound of it. My grandparents’ house was right next to a busy main road, and I’d stay there a lot in the summer. The sound of traffic kept me company as I fell asleep.”
The sound of traffic reminds me of my childhood too, but I don’t mention that since I don’t often speak about my upbringing. Not even my teammates know I was raised in foster care before being adopted.
Inside, I head down the hallway and show her the home office, which holds a desk and my laptop, and then the master bedroom and attached bathroom.
“Oh, wow.” She peeks into the huge bathroom with marble and glass and two floating vanities in sleek bamboo wood. There’s a glass wall surrounding the shower, and the oversized free-standing egg-shaped bathtub takes up the far end of the room. “This is incredible.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, feeling self-conscious about the dirty towel on the floor and the overflowing hamper in the corner. I’m really not used to having a woman here, or a dog underfoot.
As we head back toward the kitchen, Ana pauses. “Is there a bathroom I can use?”
I tip my chin toward the hallway. “Of course. The guest bath and bedroom are right down there.”
“Thanks,” she murmurs, heading off.
When Ana reappears from the hall—swallowed up by that oversized cardigan, her dog at her feet, her golden hair hanging loose over her shoulders—a pang of worry hits me again. She’s just so small, so damn vulnerable.
I meant what I said about helping her, even if it is a little awkward having her in my space. She didn’t deserve what happened to her today. No one does. Feeling awkward, I don’t know what to do with myself, shifting from foot to foot at the edge of my kitchen, muttering one-word answers.
“So, dinner.” She pushes up her sleeves again. “What can I help with? I love to cook. Unless you were planning on ordering in, in which case, I’m not picky and I’ll chip in.”
I shake my head. “I’ve got it covered.” Pulling open the massive fridge, I survey its contents and find eggs, milk, butter, a package of spinach that’s on its last days, and a block of pepper jack cheese. “How about omelets?”
She nods, smiling. “Omelets sound great.”
While I whip up the ingredients and pour the mixture into a hot skillet, Ana sits on a stool at my kitchen counter and watches me.
We eat, making small talk. It’s not a skill I usually possess, but I make do, asking about where she’s from—Las Vegas—and how long she’s lived here—one year.
During dinner, her phone rings several times, but I assume it’s not her friend, because she huffs out a sigh and eventually places the thing on silent. Fucking Kress.
After we eat, I make her sit on the couch while I load the dishwasher, and she does, right after pouring some dog food into a cereal bowl that she places on the floor for Hobbes. It doesn’t smell very appetizing to me, but he inhales it in about twenty seconds flat.
“How’s your foot?” I ask, joining her in the living room.
She slips off her sock, shrugging. “It feels all right at the moment.”
“Let me see it again. If it needs it, I’ll change the dressing.”
“Okay,” she says, nodding.
I head to the bathroom to wash my hands and gather up more gauze and tape. When I return, Ana is waiting for me with Hobbes asleep in her lap. I remove her sock, relieved to see the cut doesn’t look too bad.
“How’d you get so good at this?” she asks, watching me work quickly and efficiently.
I shrug. “Hockey’s a rough sport. You learn how to fix up injuries pretty quickly.” I recall one of my coaches teaching me how to wrap a sprained wrist, and another showing me how to stop a nosebleed—with a tampon, of all things. I’ve picked up all kinds of things over the years.
Ana pushes her hair over her shoulder, and I notice a purple bruise on her wrist. I touch her forearm and gently wrap my fingers around her wrist, holding it up.
“He do this to you as well?”
She pulls it away and drops her gaze to the space between her feet.
My voice drops. “Ana?”
“He doesn’t mean to, and he’s never normally this rough. Things just got really heated.”
My protective instincts kick into overdrive, and I feel like breaking something. Rising to my feet without a word, I storm away, needing to cool down. Inside my bathroom, I toss the roll of athletic tape and gauze inside a drawer, barely resisting the urge to slam it shut.
I take a couple of deep breaths to get myself under control, and when I’m calmer, I march back into the living room where
Ana is still waiting. She looks up at me with a mix of worry and confusion.
Adrenaline at having discovered those bruises is still coursing hotly through me, and my posture is stiff. Hearing that this isn’t a first-time thing pisses me off, and it’s then that I make a decision that I hope she agrees with.
“You’re not going back there. Not ever.”
“I know,” she says quietly. Almost like she needs to do something with her hands, she dials her friend again. There’s still no answer.
“You’ll stay the night here,” I say. “I’ve got a guest room, and it’s yours. It’s either that, or you and I are calling every goddamn hotel in Seattle to find one for you and your dog. It’s your choice, though, Ana. Are you two staying here, or are we getting on our phones and calling hotels?”
She nods, and I barely hear her when she speaks. “I’d like to stay here for the night.”
I stand from the couch with a nod. “Okay, let’s get your room set up.”
I grab a set of sheets and a couple of pillows from the hall closet, and Ana follows me to the guest room, which is just down the hall from my bedroom. After shaking out the sheet, I’m fitting it over the mattress when Ana touches my arm.
“I can handle it. You’ve done enough. Picking me up, making dinner, letting me stay here . . .”
I shake my head. “I’ve got it.”
“Then I’ll just take Hobbes out. He needs to go outside before we go to bed.”
Abandoning the bed, I turn to her. “I’ll take him out. You should stay off that foot.”
She lifts one eyebrow. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. And I’ll finish setting up the bed when I get back, so don’t get any ideas while I’m gone.”
“Okay, I’ll leave the bed making to you, but you’ll need this for when you take Hobbes outside.” She hands me a tiny black plastic bag from inside her purse.
“What’s this?” I ask, looking down at it.
“For his business.”
Oh. Right. My eyebrows dart up. I’m going to have to pick up her dog’s shit in this bag.
“Never mind, Grant. I’ll take him.” Ana looks almost amused by my reaction.