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I pour every ounce of my internal rage into throttling the asshole who touched Emberly. His eyes bulge, and spittle gathers in the corners of his mouth. I tighten my grip around his scrawny throat, turning his face from red to purple.
“You touched what was mine,” I snarl.
“We were just talking,” he rasps.
“Don’t even look at my wife,” I snarl. “Don’t even think about my wife. Don’t come within a mile of my wife. If I see you in Carmel again, I’ll break your fucking back.”
He nods. “I won’t. Please, let me go.”
Noise from within the community center alerts me that Emberly’s friends are approaching. I release his throat, allowing him to stagger toward a blue sedan. The door opens, letting out the first few pregnant mothers and their husbands. By the time I turn around to check on Emberly, she’s already halfway down the road.
My stomach sinks. Choking the shit out of a man in broad daylight probably isn’t earning me brownie points.
“Shit.”
I jog after her, but she doesn’t look around or even flinch at the pounding of my feet on the sidewalk. Instead, she stares straight ahead and keeps her head high. This aloof version of Emberly is more challenging than the hellcat who used to fly into destructive tantrums.
“Why did you walk away?” I place a hand on her arm.
She doesn’t even shrug me off. “Go back and collect all your equipment. Those bolsters are pricey.”
“Fuck the bolsters. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“You’re so much like Jim Callahan it isn’t even funny,” Emberly mutters. “I can’t believe I didn’t see that until now.”
The words hit like a meat tenderizer to the balls, making my steps falter. My hand drops off her arm and I glare at her retreating back.
“A drug-addicted, corrupt cop who can’t keep a woman unless she’s imprisoned?” I ask.
She shoots me a glare over her shoulder and quickens her pace.
My jaw tightens. Was that expression on her features fury or fear and did she just put me in the same sentence as a sick coward who threatened to rape women in police cells only to silence them with overdoses?
No, she fucking didn’t.
I walk behind her, my nostrils flaring. “You’re seriously comparing me with that bastard?”
“There’s more than one type of abuse.” She rounds the corner.
“I never hurt you.”
“Only in the worst possible way,” she says.
Picking up my pace, I glare down at her pretty profile. “What does that mean?”
Her face tightens, and she draws in a long breath as though powering up for a tirade. “You think you’re a good guy because you didn’t pound into me with your fists? Or maybe because you didn’t hurl the usual insults men use against women?”
I swallow hard and brace myself for what she’ll say next.
“You’re more sophisticated than the average brute. Your brand of abuse is psychological.” She taps her brow.
“Because I lied to you about the paintings?” I ask.
She whirls around, her eyes flashing. “Every day I was with you, I was terrified Jim would find his way through the gates to carry out his threats.”
I’m about to protest, but she continues. “You fed into that fear and built yourself up to be the big protector. Whether or not it was true, you chalked up any negative thing that happened in that house to Jim.”
“Believe it or not, Callahan was trying to get to you.”
