A Good Man

by Rosanna Leo

  Emily walked inside her unit, numb, and tossed her purse onto the hall table. She closed the door behind her and locked it, wanting to lock out the world.

  Cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater. Had a fiancée but couldn’t keep her.

  She’d been foolish. What an idiot.

  When her cell phone rang inside her purse, she jumped. Emily gawked at her handbag, wondering if Trent might somehow burst from it. It figured he wouldn’t leave her to her misery. He’d refused to talk to her for months and now he wouldn’t leave her alone. How had he ever managed to drag himself away from his girlfriend in order to place the call? What a multitasker.

  She marched over to the table and yanked her phone out of her purse, not even sure what she would say.

  It was Michael. Guilt, anger and relief waged war in her stomach. She tasted her coffee again, but it had soured.

  It rang two more times. She picked up. “H-hello?”

  “Hey, Em. It’s Michael. I wanted to make sure you weren’t sore after teaching that wall a thing or two.”

  If only he knew she’d taught Trent’s face a thing or two. “I’m…um. How’s Eli?”

  “He’ll live. He’s tougher than he looks.”

  She wanted to laugh but couldn’t. All the Zorn brothers looked tough. “Good.”

  “The medic made him ice his shoulder and is forcing him to lay off the heavy lifting for a couple of days. I’m sure he won’t listen. Anyway, it could have been worse.”

  She nodded in acknowledgment, even though she knew Michael couldn’t see her.

  He didn’t need to see her. After a pause, he responded. “Something’s wrong. You sound like me when I can’t find any coffee in the house. Are you okay?”

  “Do you want the truth or the polite answer?”

  “I’d like the truth even more now.”

  “I’m not okay. Oh, and I think I broke my hand.”

  “What? How?”

  “Actually, I don’t think it’s broken but the color is weird. Should blood under the skin look red or purple?” Her voice went up in pitch with each syllable. She was just about ready to lose her shit big time.

  I see the way Michael Zorn looks at you.

  “Where are you?”

  “My condo.”

  “Alone?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She snickered. “Definitely alone.”

  “I’m coming.”

  Another strange laugh. “But you’re a big TV star. You shouldn’t care about my problems.”

  “Fuck that shit. Where do you live?”

  “Southport Street.”

  “Really? I live on The Kingsway. We’re practically neighbors.”

  “The Kingsway. La dee da. I’d better break out the fine china.”

  “Well, I am a major TV star.”

  She wanted to laugh at his joke, but tears swarmed her eyes. As her last shred of loyalty to Trent dissolved, a sliver of relief infiltrated her darkness. She had to talk to someone or she’d burst. Her brother would only lecture her, and rightly so, but she couldn’t listen to him at present. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to talk to Michael either. She liked him a little too much, but had stopped feeling tortured about it the moment she’d set foot outside that coffee shop. “I’m at number sixty. Unit 1013. I’ll buzz you up.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Thanks, Michael. By the way, you wouldn’t happen to have any gauze, would you?”

  “I think I can spot you some gauze. Be right there.”

  He ended their conversation, but it was a whole five minutes later that Emily realized she was still standing in the hallway, cushioning her sore hand, staring at the closed door and waiting for answers that refused to materialize.

  Chapter Eight

  Standing at Emily’s condo door, Michael smoothed one of the wild curls near his forehead. He tucked his first aid kit under his arm and knocked. Every time he contemplated why on earth she might need gauze, he got heart palpitations. It had only been seconds since his last knock, but he knocked again.

  Emily opened the door and poked her head around it. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  Oh, God. Her skin appeared bleached and her green eyes were red and haunted. A funny sensation tightened in his chest, making him want to pull her into his arms. Someone had hurt her, big time.

  She knew.

  Michael bit his lip so he wouldn’t jump down her throat, demanding answers. Settle down, dumbass.

  She held the door open. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  He walked in and set the first aid kit on the hallway table. “Why wouldn’t I? I said I would.” He reached for her right hand, wincing when he saw the cut there and the start of a fascinating bruise. “Good Lord, Em. Are you an MMA fighter in your spare time?”

  “It does seem I missed my calling.” When he fingered her knuckles, she sucked in a breath.

  “Sit down. Let me patch you up and you can tell me all about it.” Michael put his hands on her shoulders and urged her to sit on the hall chair. He knelt before her, examined her hand and opened his first aid kit. “It doesn’t look broken, but that cut stretches right across all your knuckles. Looks like the paper cut from hell. Can you move it?”

  “Yeah, but it hurts.”

  “I bet the other guy feels worse.” When he applied rubbing alcohol, causing her to squeeze her eyes shut against the pain, guilt tore through him. He reached for the ointment and she chewed on her lip, bracing herself. He rubbed a thin layer on her skin, careful not to apply too much pressure, then gently wrapped her hand in gauze. His wary gaze was trained on her the whole time. “Talk to me.”

  “The short answer is I punched my fiancé in the face. Well, it might have been the neck. He’s pretty tall. I’m not actually sure where I nailed him, but I managed to knock him down.”

  Michael had to shut his mouth. Kind-hearted, dainty Emily had beaten up the big bad douchebag? He couldn’t believe it. “Did he hurt you? Because if he touched—”

  “No. He didn’t touch me. He hasn’t for a while, truth be told.” She looked down at her hands. “But you’ve probably already figured that out, haven’t you?”

  Only then did he notice she no longer wore her engagement ring. He rubbed his thumb over her bare ring finger, caressing the pale strip of skin that used to hide under her ring. “Em, I’m sorry.”

  She nodded, ready to cry. Or was she? She might be fighting the tears with everything in her, but she looked as if it would only take one wrong word to set her off. She kept blinking and her bottom lip quivered. For some reason that played havoc with Michael’s mind, he wanted to be there when the dam broke. Not because he cared to see her in tears, but because he wanted to be there for her, period.

  “Let’s sit in the living room.”

  She nodded and stood, and he rose as well, his mind racing. Michael followed her into the living space and waited for her to take a seat first, but she motioned for him to go ahead. He appraised the seating area. A small condo, it didn’t boast a lot of options as far as seating went. There was a comfy modern loveseat and two antique chairs with embroidered designs of country scenes. They appeared too petite to hold him, so he sat at one end of the loveseat.

  To his simultaneous horror and delight, Emily sat next to him.

  He stood up again. “I can take one of the chairs if you want to spread out.”

  “No, you’re fine. Sit. We usually sit on the loveseat anyway. Trent says my grandmother’s chairs are too fussy to be comfortable.” She frowned.

  “About Trent…”

  “We rescued the chairs from Nonna’s place. I don’t know much about antique furniture, but I researched these ones. They’re Queen Anne chairs. My mom took a couple too. Everyone in the family adopted some of Nonna’s things. I’ll be honest. I might even have taken a doily or two, but I keep those in a drawer.”

  Okay. She obviously wasn’t ready to talk about her fiancé yet. He wouldn’t push her. He could make small talk if that was what she ne
eded. “Doilies, huh? My grandmother had a few of those too. Do you want me to get you something? A drink, maybe?”

  She shook her head. He didn’t much feel like drinking either.

  Conversation stilled. Michael didn’t hide the fact that he was staring, but it wasn’t so much to check her out as it was to inspect her for signs that Trent had fought back. Aside from her sore hand, she seemed physically sound. Emotionally? She looked ready to drop.

  Dragging his gaze away so he didn’t resemble a crazed stalker, he cast a glance around Emily’s home and tried to decide how to broach the subject of her argument with Trent. She had a nice home, feminine but not too frilly, with colored cushions and a purple orchid near the window.

  No sign of Trent anywhere. There were a couple of small photos on the bookshelf nearest him, both of them turned face downward. Must have been photos of the douchebag.

  “I assume Trent has moved out.”

  “He never lived with me. He has his own place downtown.”

  “I guess I assumed you lived together. Most of the engaged couples I know do.”

  “Same here, but if he lived with me, it would make it hard for him to cheat and get away with it.”

  “Did he finally talk to you?”

  “Oh, no. That would have required balls.”

  Michael tried not to smile.

  “I saw them together outside a bar. Kissing.” She snorted. “Even from a block away, I could see their flailing tongues.”

  He nodded at her bandaged hand. “Is that when the brawl started?”

  “I don’t know what happened to me. I saw them and, all of a sudden, I turned into this hungry lioness who just found her mate sharing his kill with another female. I lashed out. His girlfriend, his other girlfriend, threatened to call the police.”

  “I had no idea you were such a hell raiser.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Do you want me to rough him up some more?” Although Michael meant it as a joke, he was surprised at how badly he wanted to follow through. His dick radar had never failed him and the day he’d met Trent, it had been on full throttle.

  “Could you? I’d sell tickets.” She looked at her lap and picked at her leggings, plucking at the fabric and letting it snap back. “I’m sorry, Michael. You’re being nice, but I shouldn’t be crying on your shoulder.”

  “You’re not crying at all.”

  “Oh, well.”

  “You can, if you need to. I don’t mind. I realize we haven’t known each other long, but I form quick impressions of people. I like you and I don’t want to see you upset.”

  The left side of her face twitched. “Thanks. I feel the same way.”

  “So feel free to shout or hurl some plates at the wall. It’ll be good for you. Just maybe don’t use your sore hand.”

  Her sad grin curled farther up her face. “Boy, do you counsel all the Handymen guests?”

  “No, just the ones with a killer right hook who scare me a little.” Her pathetic giggle tugged at his heart. “And I’m not trying to counsel you.”

  “What are you trying to do?”

  “I don’t know. Be a good TV host. Be a friend.” He winked. “A good first aider.”

  “I’ll be honest, Michael. I don’t tend to talk about my personal problems a lot, but right now, I appreciate seeing a friendly face on the other side of the loveseat.” She stared at a spot in the distance, but her eyes remained unfocused. “Trent tried to pin this on me.”

  “How?”

  “He accused me of flirting with you.”

  Michael’s skin grew hot from the collar up. “Can I call him a turd now?”

  “Please do.”

  “Fucking turd. Look, Em. You’ve been through hell. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to take some time away from the show. I can talk to Lacey.”

  “No way. I want to do Handymen more than anything. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for an opportunity like this?”

  “A while, I’d expect.”

  “Yes, and do you know what my job was before?”

  “What?”

  “Handling complaint calls from angry grocery store owners who didn’t get their shipments of hot dogs on time.”

  “Not your dream job, I guess?”

  “Not by a long shot. I don’t even eat that crap. I quit my corporate hellhole of a job and sank most of my funds into this venture. I want to do this show. I need to do this show and I’m thrilled the producers chose me. I would never walk off the set like some sort of backlot diva. Or Trent.”

  “What happens with him now?”

  “I was sort of hoping he might fall off the nearest cliff.”

  “Emily, can I be brutally honest with you?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “You dodged a bullet.”

  “Thank you, but did I really dodge it? It doesn’t feel that way. So many things make sense now. His moods. His ambivalence. I saw the signs but I thought he might be depressed. I thought it was my job to help him through it and he treated me like dirt. I should have walked away long ago.”

  “You loved him. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to help others through bad times. Unfortunately, some of them don’t deserve our help.”

  She quietly searched his eyes. “I hope you don’t think I’m a fool.”

  “No. Trent’s the fool.” If anything, the only thing Emily had been guilty of was forgiving too easily, but Michael didn’t necessarily consider it a fault.

  Michael, however, didn’t forgive and forget quite so easily. There might be a lot of good people in the world, but he knew for a fact that there were just as many bad ones.

  The dull throb at the back of his head flared into a pain that sliced through his temple. He cursed under his breath as he was struck by a flashback.

  Jane Ashton, collapsed in the corner of her living room, a gunshot wound in her chest.

  Her ex, wielding a gun, his hand shaky.

  The children from her daycare, rounded up in a corner, screaming.

  The blood…

  “Michael, are you okay? You just went white.”

  He looked up, and for a second didn’t recognize the blonde woman sitting next to him. Michael took a deep breath and his pulse resumed its beat. Emily Daniels. Handymen. Dickweed fiancé.

  Right. He was okay.

  “Yeah. I’m fine. I just…I get headaches here and there.”

  “Is it because you haven’t been sleeping well?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Do you want me to get you something?”

  “No, thanks.” He grabbed his jacket from the side of the loveseat and produced the bottle of acetaminophen. “I came prepared. Do you mind if I grab some water?”

  She jumped off the loveseat and headed into the kitchen to fill a glass. She returned and he popped a couple of pills, downing them with water.

  Emily seemed ready to say something, but her cell phone buzzed from its perch on the table. “For heaven’s sake. What does he want now?” Her breath escaped in a defeated huff.

  “Would you like me to talk to him?”

  “Tempting, but no. I want to hear what he has to say, then I’m done.”

  “I can go.”

  “I’d like you to stay, but if you don’t mind, I’ll take the call in the other room.”

  “Of course.”

  Cell phone in hand, Emily padded toward her bedroom. As she closed the door behind her, she gave him a tight grin. Michael threw her a thumbs-up for luck.

  He sat still and tried hard not to listen to her muffled voice, but his curiosity got the better of him. Her voice grew louder anyway, and it was impossible not to get the gist of the conversation. A few phrases made their way to his ears.

  “Veronica, of all people?”

  “You felt resentment over my new business? Well, that makes everything okay.”

  “There’s no excuse.”

  “I’ll never forgive you.”

  Shaking his head, Micha
el grabbed the TV remote from the table and turned on the TV, hoping to drown out the sounds of her pain. At the same time, he felt he needed to be a witness so he could support her better.

  He couldn’t deny that he was pleased to see the back of Trent Andrews, and he hated himself for thinking it. He wasn’t the sort of man to yearn for the demise of another couple’s relationship. Even though he no longer harbored feelings for Lacey, he remembered how shocked he’d been to discover she’d cheated with Alistair. No one wants to be the person who discovers their partner is cheating.

  The door creaked as Emily opened it. Michael inhaled, expecting tears or grunts of frustration or…something. She stared blankly.

  He eyed her warily. “Well?”

  She picked her way back to the loveseat and sat, unnaturally poised, like that guy who walked the tightrope over Niagara Falls. Her eyes were dry.

  “He tried to tell me it was a lapse in judgment.”

  Didn’t Lacey use those same words? Can’t people come up with better excuses?

  “He said he felt a need for excitement. Apparently, I didn’t excite him. He felt stifled by our engagement, and after he lost his job, he became resentful of my plan for starting my career. When Veronica showed interest a few months ago, he thought it might be a chance at a cooking job, a way into her bar. Looks like he found the way into her pants instead.”

  “Didn’t he used to cook gourmet food? Why would he want a job frying chicken wings?”

  “He’s trying to justify his actions. At the end of the day, he’s a cheater and a liar.” Her long bangs fell across her forehead and she blew them up out of her face. “I had no idea I was so boring.”

  Her curvy figure and sweet voice inspired anything but boredom in Michael. “Em, this was never about you. You must know that. This has everything to do with Trent’s inability to commit. He clearly has fois gras for brains.”