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“Banks!” I call out.
Banks.
O’Malley shoves my twin brother, and Banks pushes him angrily back.
“What in the fuck is going on?” That harsh-edged voice comes from the doorway, Sinclair and the other leads entering the gym.
Hands drop to sides. We all go still.
Akara looks from O’Malley to me, his eyes descending to my fat lip. He shakes his head in disbelief, like he, too, doesn’t even know who I am anymore.
My nose flares.
O’Malley is just one person I hurt. But he’s one of many. Everyone on Epsilon feels like I betrayed their trust, their respect, but the person I betrayed the most is standing right there. And the look Akara gives me now—it cuts me open and spills out my insides.
It hurts the absolute worst.
Price, the Alpha lead, glares at everyone. “Who punched Moretti?” He’s asking who should be fined three-grand.
Bodyguards can’t hit other bodyguards without punishment.
No one speaks.
No one points fingers.
With an inhale, I announce, “I started the fight.” I touch my lip. It’s already swelling. “You can fine me.”
Banks gives me a hard look like you idiot.
O’Malley frowns.
Akara wears even more disappointment.
Price nods. “Will do.”
Sinclair nears and weaves between boxing bags. “You ladies done having a tea party, we need to get down to this Scotland business.”
My mouth is full of blood, and I’m not about to spit it out on the mats. Quietly, I excuse myself to use the gym bathrooms.
Showers and toilet stalls are empty. I immediately spit a wad of blood in the sink basin. My pulse is racing.
I swivel the faucet and splash water at my face. Come on. I squeeze the edge of the sink, staring at myself in the mirror. Droplets trickle down my temples and slip off my jaw.
My eyes are bloodshot.
I can barely blink, and I can almost feel her curious hands sliding across my waist. I can almost see her rising smile peek around my body, and her chin perched on my side. Her eyes glimmering up at me with uncommon strength.
I want to turn around and lift her in my arms. To press my forehead to her forehead and stare into the bluest depths of her gaze.
But she’s not here. She’s back at the townhouse.
The sound of a leaking shower bleeds into the quiet.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
It drives me insane. I scrape a palm down my wet face. My hand is shaking. Christ, I just want to hear her voice. I should compartmentalize my feelings and shove off.
But I pull my phone out of my pocket.
Without much thought, I’m calling Jane. Like this is an ingrained reaction.
Jane picks up on the second ring. “Thatcher? Is the meeting already over?”
I can’t move. I stare at the faucet.
“Thatcher?” Her voice pitches in worry.
“It hasn’t started yet.” I grip the sink with one hand and swallow a rock. And then I rehash everything that happened with the team.
I promised myself I’d never hit another bodyguard, and even if I was provoked, I shouldn’t have pushed O’Malley.
With every word I say out loud, I’m sure that I’m painting myself as the biggest villain. “It’s good that he got a punch in,” I continue. “I just don’t want my brother in the middle of it.”
I don’t want her in the middle of it either. But she’s on the phone, and I don’t want to hang up. I just want to hear her.
“You don’t deserve to be punched, I hope you realize,” Jane says fiercely. “I know you want to take fault for what’s happened, but this won’t make you feel any better.”
My chest caves. I can’t speak, but she fills the quiet.
“And I’m terribly proud of you.”
It knocks the wind out of me. Slowly, I shake my head. “Why?”
“You handled everything well, especially under stressful conditions. It could’ve rattled you more, and you could’ve said worse to provoke him. You tried your best I truly believe. So…um, I…” She sounds flustered, and I almost smile because she’s mostly only like this with me. “I’m very, very proud of you. Which I’ve already said, but it doesn’t hurt to say twice.”
I hear her blow out a measured breath.
More quietly, she asks, “Are you still there?”
“Yeah.” My pulse slows. “Thanks, honey.”
I can practically feel her smile. “Talking is my specialty.”
“It’s my weakness,” I say bluntly.
“You’re not so bad,” she whispers. “And we even each other out. It’s why we make a disastrously good team.”
I exhale and release my tight grip. We start saying our goodbyes. “I love you,” I tell Jane.
“I…” She sucks in a sharp breath.
It’s okay.
Still, something stings. Her hang-ups shouldn’t hurt because she warned me that she’d be pushing and pulling, but I feel like I’m fucking up. Unable to be there for my girlfriend the way that she was just here for me.
“You know how I feel.” Her voice is higher-pitched. “What I feel for you is…” Her words carry the swell of emotion that could topple buildings, but she stops herself from adding more.
“I know, and you don’t have to say I love you back every time,” I remind her.
She’s silent.
My pulse thumps in my throat. “Jane?”
“Je suis désolée.” I’m sorry.
“You don’t need to apologize,” I say strongly. “I love you, that’s it. Nothing else has to happen.” My chest tightens. I’m not sure what she needs from me. She’s someone who rarely looks to be reassured, but I feel like I need to console her.
How?
“I’ll let you go, Thatcher,” she says in a whisper. “Um, I’m…you know…” She sighs in frustration at herself. “À la prochaine.” Until next time.
I stare at my reddened eyes in the mirror. “See you, Jane.” I feel like a jackass. Should’ve stopped her. Should’ve said more.
We hang up.
And I could rattle the sink and scream. Instead, I stay in a lunge, clutching the life out of the porcelain.
I smother the
sound of the shower drip by turning on the faucet again, and I rinse out my mouth, blood washing down the drain. As I splash more water at my face, cooling off, the bathroom door swings open. I expect to see my brother.
But it’s someone else.
12
THATCHER MORETTI
The white-haired, tattooed bodyguard saunters inside the bathroom. Shutting the door behind him. Farrow’s barbell piercing rises with his brows. “You look like shit.”
“You must love this.” I wipe water off my face with my bicep.
“Eh, I don’t hate it.” He smiles.
It causes my lip to twitch in 1/1000th of a smile, which is more than usual. Especially around him.
Farrow leans on a stall door. “See, I know what it’s like to be decked in the face for sleeping with a client.”
I almost laugh. Yeah, I’m the one who punched him. I can’t find any words, and we end up just staring awkwardly at each other.
He combs his inked fingers through his hair. “You okay?”
I nod once.
“Your eyes were glazed back there.” He touches his dangling earring. “It’s none of my business, and prying is not my favorite thing but I just remember you saying you only have nightmares.” Farrow Keene has become one of the only people on the team I feel safe enough to talk with about PTSD, because he’s experienced some form of this shit too.
I nod again. “I don’t know what happened,” I admit.
“Okay.” Farrow thinks for a second. “Could you tell if there was a trigger? A sound or maybe a feeling?”
“I don’t know for sure.” I curl longer pieces of my hair behind my ears. “Could’ve been me getting punched. But I’ve been hit before and not been thrown back like that.”
He rubs his lip piercing, tilting his head from side to side.
“What?”
“You let O’Malley hit you.”
I’m quiet.
Farrow nods a couple times. “Have you dropped your hands before?”
Not like that.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Your natural instinct is to survive.” Farrow stands off the stall. “Putting your body in a panicked state could potentially throw you back.”
Makes more sense, and this fog starts clearing. He didn’t have to come in here and talk to me, but I appreciate it. “Thanks.”
