“Come on, sweetheart. You’re okay now. I’ve got you. No one’s going to hurt you. You’re safe; you know me, Jules. It’s Ben. Mouse. I’d never hurt you.”
“Ben?”
“Oh, thank you, God.” He loosens his hold, but the instant he does my body is wracked with shivers. “Okay. Okay. I’ve got you.”
“What…? Where’s Dad? Did I get him? Is everyone okay?”
“Everyone’s fine. They’re safe, remember? They’re with Carlo and your mum. They got away. They’re safe.”
A memory flashes. They were in the car, Aiden driving them to their new life. Then everything else sinks in, like reality falling through the gauze of fakery that my mind conjured up. As the truth sinks in, so do the facts.
I’m at the Trevainne compound.
I confronted Mr Trainor.
I’m with Ben at the gym.
Something bad just happened.
Ben unravels himself from me. I watch, alarmed at just how pinned I am by his entire body. When I’m free, I try to scoot away from him, but my bones are like jelly. I barely get a couple of inches before he wraps around me again, but this time, his embrace is softer, comforting, rather than restrictive. I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my head against Ben’s shoulder.
I can’t remember much of how I got into this position. Only Ben pulling out gloves and expecting me to fight him. What happened? What have I done now?
Ben feels like a furnace compared to the damp chill that settles across my skin. I let his heat warm me and listen to his deep,exaggerated breaths that force both our bodies to undulate in a shared rhythm. Eventually, the movement becomes natural as our breaths synchronise, and the shivers subside.
“I need to get you a drink or something. I think you’re experiencing shock. Are you okay if I leave you for two seconds? The kitchen is just across the way. I’ll be back so damn fast…”
“I’m okay.”
“Don’t move.” Ben scurries across the room before I can retort to his bullish command. Though I find I don’t really have much to say. He slips through a door at the far side of the gym and returns carrying a couple of cans of cola. It takes me a couple of extra beats before I figure out that the room must be a kitchen or at least houses a chiller.
He slips in behind me again, as if he never even left, and reaches around me to open one of the cans. The other he places next to his left thigh. A click, clunk, and fizz tell me the can is open, and then he lifts it to my mouth.
“Sips, Jules. Slow.”
I take it from him and am relieved to find my hands have also stopped shaking. I’m still off and unsteady, but the longer I sit here, the better I feel. The syrupy hit of cola is frigid against my tongue. I swallow it down and fight the urge to drain the can in one go. He warned me to sip, and something tells me my stomach will riot if I do anything more.
Two more sips and the sugar works.
“Did we fight?” I ask lamely.
“You don’t remember?”
“I remember you telling me to hit the gloves.” I try to visualise it in my head and as the scene forms, I recall him getting pissed when I wouldn’t punch the pads. Then I hear his voice in my head saying nasty, shitty things.
“Why did you say those things?” I ask so quietly I fear I didn’t even say it aloud.
“I’m so sorry, Jules. I thought I was helping. I watched you from the control room. What you said to Trainor, it rang true. It felt like you were venting the things you were most afraid of.”
“Then why throw them in my face? I thought we were okay with each other?”
“We are. I care about you, pretty girl. I thought letting you punch it out would help. You looked ready to fight when you left the interview room, and rather than leaving you to do something stupid with that energy or getting hurt, I thought it safer to offer to be your punchbag. I said those things to get you angry, to encourage you to hit it out.”
“It worked?”
“I said something I shouldn’t have. You lost it.”
“Lost it?”
