by J. Lynn
And now it was Tuesday afternoon, and once again I was walking to Brock’s office, hoping this time the conversation didn’t veer into Crazyville. Rapping my knuckles off his door, I waited.
“Come in.”
Taking a deep breath, I opened the door. He was watching TV. I started to frown, but I quickly realized it was a video of one of the recruits from the second floor. “Do you have a couple of moments?”
“Your hair is down again,” he murmured, glancing over at me. “I approve.”
I made a face at him as I closed the door behind me. “Thanks, but wasn’t looking for your approval.
A brief grin appeared and then he picked up a remote and paused the video. “What’s up?”
Sitting straight, I folded my hands together. “I wanted to talk to you about possible expansion. It’s not something that the Lima Academy would typically get involved in, but I think it’s something worth looking into.”
His gaze centered on me. “Go on.”
I ignored the way his heavy stare made me feel, like there was no space between us. “Right now, the Lima Academy is very male-centric. Of course, with the exception of the gym and the few women we have training in one of our martial arts or self-defense classes. Now, we can always bring more women and young adults into our standard classes, something I am focusing on, but I think we can do more.” My shoulders rose. “You remember Avery, right?”
“Cam’s wife?”
I nodded. “And you’ve met Jase Winstead? His wife is Teresa. They’re about to have a child—a baby boy.”
The look on his face said he wasn’t exactly sure how that worked into expanding Lima Academy.
“Anyway, both Teresa and Avery were . . . are dancers, professional dancers. Teresa was actually with one of the most well-known dance companies before she injured her knee, preventing her from having a career in dance. For quite some time, they’ve wanted to start offering dance classes, since there aren’t many dance companies in this county or in the tristate. They want to eventually open their own studio, but they’re a long way away from being able to do that.”
Two fingers pressed to his lips as he rested his chin in his palm. “Okay.”
“What they’ve been looking at is space for classes, but as I’m sure you know, space isn’t easy to come by and neither are the type of funds necessary to start a studio from the ground up,” I explained. “What I was thinking is we have a lot of space available, large rooms that could probably be easily converted into dance studio space.”
Brock studied me for a moment. “You’re basically suggesting that we rent out some of our space for dance classes?”
I shot him a dark look. “You don’t need to say it like that. Some of those dancers are more badass than our fighters. Especially when you get into the tumbling and gymnastics aspect, which by the way, gymnastics would also probably be a great route to go down eventually.” Scooting forward, I gripped the arms of the chair. “And offering classes like that doesn’t just appeal to girls. A lot of boys are into dancing. There can be a lot of different age levels and styles. And not only that, we can upsell gym memberships to parents,” I told him. “And maybe even a few self- defense classes.”
Brock appeared to contemplate this for a couple of moments. “And we could probably get a couple of our lower-level martial arts classes out of cross-selling.” His eyes narrowed. “But if your friends are interested in eventually opening their own studio and potentially taking their clients with them, what long-term benefit is there for us? Because it seems like we’d be footing most of the cost to convert the space.”
I’d planned for that question. “If they do decide to leave and open their own studio, and that is an ‘if’ at this point, we bring in different dance teachers,” I responded. “We could also make it worth their while to stay with Lima, which would probably be eventually taking on more of a sponsorship role and allowing them to run it, but that’s neither here nor there at this point. With or without them, this could be a very successful endeavor and it’s not something we’ve ever done before.”
“Hmm.” He tapped his fingers on the corner of his lips. “This is different, going in a direction I doubt Andrew was thinking of, but your father is innovative.” He paused. “So are you.”
Fighting a grin, I nodded.
Brock appeared to mull it over for several moments and then said, “I’m not a hundred percent on board with this, but I think it’s worth looking into. What I would like to see is who our competitors will be, what they’re charging, and what kind of profit we can expect to make after the expense of converting spaces.”
It took great effort to contain my excitement. “I can do that.”
“Well, let’s set up a time when both of them can come see the space and we can figure out what they were thinking would be needed to meet their standards,” he said, lowering his hand. “Have them bring their husbands.”
I lifted a brow. “Why?”
“Because I’m pretty sure I’ll zone out at some point during that conversation, and I can use the guys as an excuse and show them around the facility.” He grinned when I rolled my eyes. “Hey, I’m just being honest. Plus, the six of us could grab dinner afterward. One big happy date.”
Now both of my brows were inching up my forehead.
He chuckled as he sat back in his chair. “If only you could see the look on your face right now. Cute.”
“Cute?”
“Very cute,” he murmured.
I gave a little shake of my head, not allowing myself to think much of that. “I don’t think that would be wise—the one, big happy date thing.”
“And why not?”
“Well, yesterday is a good example,” I found myself saying.
His head tilted to the side as his brows furrowed together. “What about yesterday?”
“Well, you know, when Kristen showed up.”
He started to frown. “I’m not really following what she has to do with us having dinner with your friends.”
For a moment, all I could do was stare at him. Sure, people who were involved with others had dinner with all sorts of random people all the time, but that wasn’t the same here. I wasn’t a random coworker. I never would be. Brock knew that.
I glanced around, wondering exactly how obvious I needed to be. “Kristen seemed very unhappy yesterday.”
“That’s pretty much a constant state of affairs for her,” he commented wryly.
Okay then. “Well, perhaps as her fiancée, you should help fix that then, instead of making it worse?”
“What?” Brock laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “Her fiancée?” As his laughter died off, a look of understanding settled into his expression. “Oh. I see.”
“You do?”
His eyes seemed to darken as his thick lashes lowered. “Kristen and I are no longer engaged. I broke things off with her about a year ago.”
Chapter 12
“What?” I shrieked, and then cringed when Brock blinked. Yikes. “I’m sorry. That was loud. I just . . . I’m surprised.”
“I can tell.” A slow grin played across his lips.
He wasn’t engaged? My thoughts whirled at a hectic pace. “Why?” I blurted out and then blushed. “I’m sorry. That’s probably none of my business.”
“I thought you already knew. I’m kind of surprised your parents haven’t said something,” he said, leaning back in his chair.
“Obviously, they haven’t.” Mom hadn’t even mentioned it last night. Why wouldn’t they say something? Then it hit me. Probably because she was afraid I would fall back in love with him if he was available. Geez. Did they really think I was that . . . predictable? Or pathetic. Either “P” word would work. “What happened?”
He drew in a deep breath. “We just grew apart.”
“That’s . . . that’s all?” I blinked. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Brock was and had been unreachable and untouchable for the last six years. I had long since accepted tha
t he was going to marry the beautiful, shiny Kristen. They would have kids, a whole cargo van full of kids. They’d practically grow up at the Academy. My parents would dote on them, because Brock was like a son to them, so their kids would be like grandbabies, and I would be okay with it. I had been okay with it, because there wasn’t a choice to not be.
I sat back, utterly shocked. “You were together for—”
“Almost six years. I know,” he said, fingers tapping on the arm of the chair. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
And that’s all he said.
Realizing that he obviously didn’t want to talk about it, I let it drop. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He studied me a moment. “That’s nothing to be sorry about, Jillian.”
My breath caught a little, and his large office suddenly felt entirely too small, so I started to rise. “Thank you for hearing me out about the potential for expansion. I’ll call them and see when they have some time available.”
Brock waited until I reached the door and said, “Don’t forget to tell them to bring their husbands and to plan to grab dinner afterward.”
Slowly, I faced him.
He smiled at me as he picked up the remote. “One big, happy date, Jillian.”
* * *
“I’m just a girl, standing in front of an oven, asking it to hurry up and bake my pizza.”
Sighing, I all but planted my forehead on the oven door. There were still twenty-some minutes left. That meant forever. Turning away from the oven, I watched Rhage chow down, his tail sliding across the floor like he was angry-eating. I glanced at my phone as I nibbled on my lower lip. The desire to call Abby and talk to her about Brock was burning through me.
Brock wasn’t engaged.
Was this common knowledge back home?
And even if my mom thought knowing Brock was now single would somehow send me down a path to heartbreak number five hundred, how could she or my father not say anything?
My heart started jumping all over the place as I folded my arms across my chest and leaned against the counter. Brock was a flirt, teasing and playful. He’d always been. He was the kind of guy you shouldn’t take seriously when he showered you with attention. I had done so foolishly before and I wouldn’t make that same mistake. Not when it was so easy to blur the lines of friendship with him, but him being engaged had helped keep my head on my shoulders and my heart firmly secured far, far out of his hands.
Not that I was trying to give my heart to him.
So really, him not being engaged meant absolutely nothing.
Nothing at all.
Brock was actually single again.
That barbed-wire wall was gone, as was that mile-deep line in the sand. I wanted to pretend they were still there, but that required a whole lot of lying to myself. Too much effort right there. Brock was available. He could still be dating Kristen. He’d gone back to Philly over the weekend and she was here on Monday. Though he hadn’t seemed exactly thrilled to see her, but I hadn’t poked around with questions, so—
“Oh my God,” I muttered, unfolding my arms and rubbing my hands down my face. Thank the Lord I’d washed the makeup off first or I’d look like that dude with the melted face at the end of one of the Indiana Jones movies.
I could call Abby, but it was close to dinnertime, and talking about Brock to her, to anyone, would make them think—
My phone rang from where it sat on the counter, startling me. I walked over to it, seeing an unfamiliar Pennsylvania number. I almost didn’t answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s Brock.”
My eyes widened as my heart did a dumb, stupid jump in my chest. Thinking about him and having him call out of the blue made me want to look around to see if there were hidden cameras in my apartment.
“Heeey.” I drew the word out.
There was a deep chuckle on the other end of the phone. “I realized something. Since we have the dinner tomorrow night, it would make sense that I pick you up in the morning.”
“What?” I so did not see how that made sense.
“There’s no point for both of us to drive to work and then to the restaurant. Parking in town is terrible. So I can pick you up.”
My thoughts raced to catch up with what he was saying. “But you’d have to drive past the Academy, come clear out here to pick me up.”
“It’s not clear out there. It doesn’t take that long and I like driving,” he replied. “I’ll be there at eight-thirty. Be ready.”
“But—”
“See you in the morning, Jillian,”
And then he hung up and I was left staring at my phone like an idiot. I could call him back, but once Brock had his mind made up about something, there was no talking him out of it.
“Why?” I said out loud.
Rhage meowed in response.
I looked over at the striped cat. He was sitting in front of his empty bowl, staring up at me like he actually thought he was going to get more food. “Not happening,” I told the little devil.
Glancing at the time left on the pizza, I then saved Brock’s number in my phone. I stood in the center of the small kitchen for several moments, unsure of what I was supposed to do now. Call him back and tell him no? And would that be me making too big of a deal out of him giving me a ride? Should I just leave before he got here and pretend I forgot? That would probably make me an ass. Or should I just go with the flow and stop stressing over it, because stressing led to reading between the lines?
And the last thing I needed to do was read between the lines.
I was extremely skilled at taking a simple statement and creating an entire paragraph of unspoken words out of it.
That was the last thing I needed to do right now.
“I need more than pizza,” I decided, pivoting around and walking toward the fridge.
I opened the freezer and pulled out a carton of Reese’s peanut-butter ice cream. I didn’t even grab a bowl. Just a spoon. It was going to be that kind of night.
* * *
Hours later, I jerked up in the middle of the bed, gasping for air. The sudden movement had sent Rhage scurrying from the bed and racing out of the bedroom.
Several minutes passed as I sat in the dark room, confused and struggling to make sense of why I was awake and feeling like I’d just run up a flight of stairs.
Then slowly, painfully, it came back in pieces. Shattered images of the night . . . It had been a nightmare, but the emotions that nightmare awakened in me lingered like the bitter smell of gunfire. The feeling of helplessness as I stared up—stared up at the skinny, dirty man, not fully believing what was happening. The terror had been stark and all-consuming, obliterating my ability to understand that every breath I’d been sucking in erratically was counting down to the last one.
Hand shaking, I lifted my arm and ran the tips of my fingers over the deep indent in my left cheek. I squeezed my eyes shut, hearing the deafening popping sound. The flash of pain had been so quick, intense and fiery, and there had been nothing . . . nothing except this.
I ran my tongue along the inside of my mouth as I dragged my fingers to the other side of my face. Sometimes I thought if I pressed hard enough I could feel the implant, but that could’ve been my imagination.
Lowering my hand, I opened my eyes, and as my vision adjusted to the darkness, I could make out the shapes around me. Back in my parents’ house, there were wall-to-wall bookshelves. They’d been my collection, a source of wonderful memories and new worlds.
I only had one bookcase here.
Most of the books I read were now on my Kindle, as they had been back then, many Kindle generations ago, but I’d still collected print books. I’d liked being surrounded by them, being able to reach out and touch them.
I didn’t know why I hadn’t done the same here, converting the guest bedroom into a library of sorts.
Drawing my knees up under the covers, I wrapped my arms around my legs. A question plagued me as I sat in the dar
kness with only the sound of a nearby fan running.
What would I’ve done if I hadn’t gone to Mona’s that night?
The question picked at me for years, because I . . . I couldn’t answer that question. I mean, I’d wanted to work at the Academy. I’d wanted to finish college. But those were surface things, and I didn’t have . . . a deep sense of self, of who I truly was before the shooting and who I became afterwards because of it.
I’d only been twenty when everything had changed for me. My life was paused before I got the chance to really discover what I wanted or who I was outside of being Andrew Lima’s daughter or the girl who was Brock “the Beast” Mitchell’s shadow. The remote control of life had slowly lifted its pause button, but . . .
I really should be asleep.
Tomorrow would be a long day—a big day. I would be meeting with potential investors, and not only was I representing the Lima Academy, I represented my father. The last thing I needed to be was half-asleep while trying to pay attention to what everyone was saying.
But there was too much noise—noise inside my head.
Lifting one hand, I folded it over my left ear and pressed down. The whirl of the fan faded until I could barely hear anything. True silence. I closed my eyes again and held my breath. In the stillness of my room, I acknowledged that I had wasted years of my life after being on the receiving end of a second chance. That was something hard to face even though I’d been doing just that over the last couple of weeks. To know one was only existing and not living.
I was starting to live, though. Truly. I believed that. Tears pricked my eyes. I could try harder, and I would . . . I would buy more bookcases. Then, when I was home over Thanksgiving, I would bring some of my most favorite books back.
I could do more.
I needed to do more.
Then, finally, my thoughts quieted, and for a few blessed seconds, there was nothing outside or inside me. Nothing.
My lungs started to burn, and only then did I draw in another deep breath. Lifting my hand from my ear, I touched the scar again and then shook my head. Cheeks damp, I pressed my lips together and didn’t move for a long moment.