by Kendall Ryan
“I can handle it,” I say gruffly.
It turns out it’s not as bad of a job as I imagined since his shit is the size of a Tootsie roll.
When I get back with Hobbes, Ana has finished making up the bed, and is pulling some clothing out of her duffel bag to set on top of the dresser.
“Thought I was going to make the bed?” I ask, slightly amused.
“Oh, uh, sorry. I just wanted to help. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it.” She drops her attention to the floor as her shoulders droop.
Fuck, what did Kress do to her?
“Hey, Ana, it’s okay. Honestly, it’s totally fine. You never have to say you’re sorry to me, okay? And please never feel like you have to look down around me. You wanna make the bed, make it. You wanna cook, cook. You wanna watch a chick flick, watch one.”
Her eyes meet mine and a thankful smile lifts her lips. “Okay, Grant. Thank you.”
“Will you be okay in here?” I ask, rubbing one hand over the back of my neck. I realize that I’ve never had someone stay in my guest room before. It’s a little surreal seeing her stack of clean clothes for tomorrow and a floral-patterned toiletry bag on the dresser.
“Yes, it’s perfect. Thank you for everything. I truly mean that.”
With nothing more to do, I don’t want to linger, so I grunt an affirmative and head to my room. On the way, I lock the front door and turn off the lights in the apartment, still trying to wrap my head around the events of today that led to a woman sleeping just down the hall from me. It certainly wasn’t what I expected when I woke up this morning.
Inside my room, I strip off my jeans and T-shirt, tossing them onto the overflowing hamper, and vow to myself to take care of it tomorrow. I’m wearing black boxer briefs, my usual sleeping attire, and trying to decide if I need to put something more on, when Hobbes comes barreling in and launches himself onto my bed.
Ana is right behind him, her eyes widening as she takes me in. Pausing at the partially open door, she makes a choking sound as her gaze tracks down my chest and over my abs, then lower to the bulge inside my briefs. Her chest shutters as she releases a breath, and her face turns pink.
When I clear my throat, she stammers out an apology and darts away, only to return a second later with another apology but doesn’t look my way. This time, she grabs Hobbes from my bed, where he’s busy wagging his tail, and disappears down the hall with him tucked under her arm.
Chuckling softly, I close my door, making sure it’s latched this time, and climb into bed. It’s been a long day that started with practice, so when my head hits the pillow, I don’t expect to feel so unsettled.
Even though I should be tired, I don’t know how I’ll get to sleep. All I want to do is hunt Kress down and kick his ass for putting fear in Ana, for leaving those bruises on her skin and scars on her soul.
4
* * *
Moving On
Ana
The brisk air nips at my already rosy cheeks as I shuffle down the street, Hobbes scampering ahead of me. I swear, if I ever took this little rascal off the leash during a walk, I’d never see him again.
I imagine Grant taking Hobbes out, like he did last night, his giant shadow paired with the pup’s tiny one. I smile, a little sadly, as I watch Hobbes sniff the new sidewalk, grass, and mailboxes. It must be a thrill to experience a new place. I wish I felt the same way.
Grant’s neighborhood is absolutely stunning, with ornate buildings and even a little park around the corner. I don’t spend too much time admiring my surroundings, however, because I know I won’t be here for long. My thoughts are stuck in a slow spin, focusing on why I’m here in Grant’s neighborhood instead of my own, and where I’ll end up after I leave Grant’s later today. Georgia’s, most likely.
I yawn, even though I slept like a baby.
Grant’s guest room has some really nice features, most notably the queen-size, memory-foam bed that lulled me into a deep slumber last night. I dreamed about the previous evening, but none of the damage and heartbreak. Instead, I dreamed about Grant’s hands on my foot, wrapping my cuts with a touch softer than I would have imagined from a man of his size. I only woke up because Hobbes was tearing around the room, desperate to go pee.
Since I woke up before Grant, I have the upper hand. It may be strange to some to think of interactions in such a strategic way, but when you’ve lived with a volatile partner for as long as I have, it becomes second nature. Getting up early means I can wear out the little guy with a walk, which means he’ll be less likely to cause a ruckus in the condo and potentially annoy Grant. I can also take care of coffee and breakfast when I get back, as a gesture of gratitude to this virtual stranger who has been so unbelievably kind to me.
What’s in it for him?
I have to gently remind myself that some people just do good things, regardless of reciprocity. With my mind on breakfast and my stomach grumbling, I coax Hobbes back in the direction of Grant’s condo. He was thoughtful enough to lend me a spare key.
Yesterday was so unexpected. Grant was unexpected. The way his lips pressed into a firm, straight line as he studied the cuts on my foot. The careful way he stepped in to help me.
I watched, helpless, as his jaw clenched and unclenched. It was obvious he was thinking about saying something. What, I had no idea, because apparently Grant is a man of few words. But that’s okay because I’m an expert at reading between the lines, and it was obvious he was pissed off about something.
On the elevator trip up to his floor, I contemplate my next move. I’ll have to get ahold of Georgia.
Once we’re inside, I give Hobbes his breakfast, oddly satisfied by the familiar crunching of kibble. The bathroom door is closed, a dim light peeking from the crevice just above the floor. Steam seeps out. Grant must be in the shower.
I’m suddenly struck with an image of him, all lathered up with soap, water streaming in curving torrents down his defined muscles.
My stomach flips and I blink my eyes hard, knocking that vision right out of my head. It certainly doesn’t help that I have a very good idea of what Grant’s naked body looks like. Since I barged into his room like a perverted lunatic last night . . . a real class act, Ana.
He’s a large man, several inches taller than Jason, and broad, well, everywhere. You’d have to be blind not to notice how attractive he is, but I force the thoughts from my head.
Bread, eggs, brown sugar, butter, maple syrup . . . Grant has all the ingredients for French toast, I realize with a grin. I wasn’t lying when I told him that I love to cook. I’m not particularly adventurous with my kitchen experiments, and I’ll admit that they don’t always turn out like I hope. But the classics I have down to a science.
I crack the eggs and get to work, enjoying the sizzle of butter in the pan. Coffee trickles into the pot, percolating quickly in Grant’s fancy, expensive-looking coffee machine. The bread he has is fresh, like bakery bread, as if he just picked it up yesterday. I’m so engrossed with my work that I don’t notice the bathroom door opening down the hall, or the footsteps drawing near.
“Good morning.”
I jump with a gasp, dropping the spatula on the floor with a clatter. Grant steps forward, one hand raised in apology. Feeling silly for being so jumpy, I reach to pick up a dish towel. There’s some gunk on the hardwood floor, and I wipe it up.
“Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry for scaring you. People say I’m quiet on my feet for such a big guy,” Grant says, reaching down to pick up the spatula before I have the chance.
I get a nice long look at his muscular arms, testing the seams of his T-shirt sleeves. My breath escapes my chest in a whoosh.
“You are a big guy, yeah.” I laugh, and then immediately correct myself. “Broad, tall, muscular.” Why am I describing him to himself? Breathe.
Grant doesn’t seem to notice my awkward fumbling. Instead, he carries the spatula to the sink and rinses it off before bringing it back to me. “What are you
making?”
“French toast.”
“I haven’t had French toast in years. It smells good.” He focuses on the pan on the stove before turning back to me. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Yes,” I say, my anxiety slowly melting away like butter in the pan. “Hobbes too.”
“Good to hear,” Grant says with a grunt as the coffeemaker beeps. “Mind if I turn on the TV?”
“Nope, all good. I’ll finish making breakfast.”
Grant pours two cups of coffee, then slides one across the counter to me. He doesn’t bother telling me where the cream and sugar live, since I’ve already acquainted myself with his kitchen. He steps into the living room, his bare feet leaving imprints in the blue wool carpet that spills out from underneath his couch. I really like that carpet.
As Grant flips through the channels, voices carry into the kitchen. Commercials, news reports, entertaining morning shows. For some reason, it reminds me of when I used to cook dinner for Dad while he watched the Monday night football game. My heart swells at the unexpected memory, and I’m suddenly positive this will be the best French toast I’ve ever made.
When I carry two plates to the living room, I find Grant on his feet, the remote suspended in his hand. He stares at the screen, his mouth pulled into a grim line. I follow his gaze to see one of those entertainment newscasts.
“We’re back from our break,” a male journalist says in a deep, smooth voice. “And just like we promised, we have breaking news on everyone’s favorite hockey team.”
Suddenly, Jason’s face is on the screen. My chest seizes painfully as I hold my breath.
“Jason Kress, left winger for the Seattle Ice Hawks, was caught on film this week in a physical altercation with a woman he’s reported to have been in a relationship with for two years. Please be warned the footage you are about to see may cause distress to viewers, so please turn away if needed.”
The screen changes to black-and-white security footage. I recognize it as the hotel hallway adjacent to the spa where I work.
There’s no audio, but a large man yells at a small woman before taking her roughly by the arm and yanking her down the hall at a pace she can barely keep up with. While they wait for the elevator, she speaks to him, placing a timid hand on his shoulder. The doors slide open and he forcibly shoves her inside, where she crumples to the floor like a rag doll, broken, fearful, and crying. He steps inside, and as the doors slide shut, the woman and the monster hovering over her disappear.
I watch the entire exchange as though it happened to someone else.
The journalist is back now, but I can only make out a few words and phrases like abusive, domestic violence, physical, and something about potential suspension. The announcer’s voice sounds garbled, like I’m floating in deep water.
When I realize I haven’t breathed for nearly half a minute, I pull in a deep, shaky breath, but my gaze remains locked on the photo of Jason that now fills the television screen.
“Ana, look at me. Let’s sit down.”
Recognizing Grant’s steady hand on my shoulder, I nod and sit on his couch, never letting my eyes leave the screen. They play the footage again, this time in slow motion, and I’m instantly thrown back to that moment. I was scared of the look in Jason’s eyes, scared of how far he’d go. Then the screen goes black.
I blink and turn to look at Grant, who gently sets the remote on the coffee table. He’s looking at me, concern drawn with heavy lines into his expression.
“We don’t need to watch that again.” His jaw is tense and his face is unreadable, aside from those dark brows that are pulled together in concentration.
I wish I knew what he was thinking. Wish I knew what it means when his full lips press together in a solemn line. Wish he never had to see that.
“Okay,” I whisper, clutching my hands together in my lap to stop them from fidgeting.
“When did that happen?”
“A couple weeks ago, I think.” My voice comes out hoarse. I’d completely forgotten that it happened. I’ve been in survival mode for so long . . . I must have wiped it away. So much easier that way.
Grant’s phone starts ringing from the kitchen, but he ignores it. And then I hear my own phone, back in the bedroom, buzzing with text notifications too. I ignore it as well.
“So I’m supposed to believe he really isn’t ‘normally rough’ with you?”
I bristle at the question and don’t respond. Grant’s tone isn’t harsh, but his words do sting. He looks like he has more questions. But rather than ask them, he clenches his jaw, locking his words away, and I’m grateful. I don’t know how much more humiliation I can take in one sitting.
His eyes are deep, soulful. They might even be pretty if it weren’t for the look of flat resignation reflecting back at me from their depths. The most infuriating thing about him, though, is that he seems to lack all basic human emotion. I’d rather he yell at me, scream, admit he thinks I’m an idiot for staying with Jason—anything but that deep, haunted look he’s giving me.
I told him at my apartment that Jason isn’t normally rough with me—and he’s not. But sometimes, well, sometimes he is, and those situations have the potential to get really bad. But he always stops himself before things get out of hand. That’s the truth.
But I can see, based on Grant’s expression, that’s not good enough. I can also tell that Grant’s the kind of man who would never lose his temper and turn violent.
Unable to take his silence any longer, I swallow and sigh. “I think I’m going to call my friend again,” I murmur.
His expression is dark and brooding, and he says nothing.
Rising to my feet, I wander like a ghost back to the guest room.
My phone has been plugged into its charger, and now it lights up with missed call notifications. Jason. Jason. Jason. Georgia. Jason. Georgia. Elise. Becca. Jason.
I stare at the phone, my fingers numb against the smooth screen. It lights up again, and my heart skips a beat. Georgia.
“Hello?”
“Oh my God, Ana! Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” I hear myself say, not sure if that’s entirely the truth. I quickly realize it’s my go-to response these days.
“I’m so, so sorry I missed your calls. I took one of those sleeping pills, early, at like eight last night, because I’m a practically a grandma and— Oh my God, you don’t need to hear this! I need to hear about you! Where are you right now?”
“I’m okay,” I say again, this time more confidently. Georgia’s chattering somehow draws me back from that cold, underwater place. I’m thinking a little more clearly now. “I’m with a friend.”
“Okay, good, because Jason is looking for you. He came to my apartment!”
“What?” Oh God.
“Yeah, he was banging on my door at like five o’clock this morning. Screaming your name. Definitely drunk. I guess he thought you were with me. I didn’t answer, I was so terrified!”
“I’m so sorry, Georgie . . .”
“Shut up, don’t apologize! You’re not the crazy one. This is his fault. Anyway, I’ve been calling you since he left. I just needed to know that you’re good.”
“I’m good, I promise. Thank you for checking on me.”
The line goes quiet for a moment, and then she asks, “Have you seen the news?”
I grimace, closing my eyes. “Yes.”
“Honey, the tape looked like that hallway at work. I had no idea he did that to you. I was just in the other room. I could have . . .” She pauses, not equipped with the right words for situations like these. Neither am I.
“No, Georgie, it’s no one’s fault. I didn’t tell anyone, so there’s nothing that could have been done.” Those words are a lie. It’s my fault. Tears unexpectedly well in my eyes. With a deep breath, I try to calm myself.
“Okay . . . but I’m not sure if I agree with you on that one. I want to help. How can I help?”
“Well, I really don’t think I should
go into work today. I don’t know if Jason will be there waiting for me, or if he’ll show up later. Although I’ll probably have to talk to him at some point—”
“No way. You’re not coming in today. As badly as I want to see you and hug you, you’re taking the day off. Actually, take off as much time as you need.”
I smile. Sometimes I really do appreciate her pushiness. And it also helps that she’s my manager. “Thanks, G.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve got your back.”
Georgia agrees to cover for me today, and my relief is instantaneous. We hang up with promises to talk later tonight. Even though I’d intended to ask Georgia if I could stay with her, the fact that Jason visited her apartment has me shaken, and I chickened out.
My phone still has twenty-one missed calls on it . . . seventeen of which are from Jason. My thumb hovers over the CALL BACK button.
Somewhere else in the apartment, a phone rings.
“Hello?” Grant’s voice comes from the other room as he answers the call.
I set down my cell phone on the duvet and tread carefully back to the living room. When I enter the room again, Grant is pacing back and forth, one hand clenched tightly around his cell phone and the other shoved deep in the pocket of his jeans.
“Yeah. I became involved yesterday.”
I strain to hear the other side of the conversation, but it’s just a low buzz. Who is he talking to?
“She’s somewhere safe.”
A little ball of tension in my chest unravels. Grant didn’t tell this mystery person where I am . . . that I’m staying at his condo. And I appreciate that more than he probably realizes.
“She’s a fighter. She has bruises, sir.”
Sir?
Grant’s gaze locks with mine, and softens for a moment. I don’t have enough time to read it before he turns away again. A lump sits heavy in my throat, threatening to choke me with emotion.
Am I really a fighter? Or am I just a survivor?
“I think that’s for the best. Thanks for the heads-up,” Grant says, his voice gruff. He exchanges good-byes and hangs up, shoving his phone deep into his back pocket.