Page 27 of Fractured Hearts

Harlow drops her chin to her chest and sighs. “I guess I’m going to meet a puppy now.”

I snort. “Text me. I miss you.”

“Miss you too, Joey.”

When the call ends, I pull up the contact list, hoping to see a name I know I won’t. It’s still disappointing when Maverick’s name isn’t there. Ezra’s is, along with Harlow’s, Cal’s, Darren’s, and Martha’s. I don’t allow myself to cry like I want to. I miss Maverick so much it’s physically painful.

My new laptop is sitting where I put it on the coffee table. I open it up and quickly sign into our podcast site. I may know who killed Noelle Price and Gianna Delgado. And that Anderson Sinclair won’t stop until he gets justice for his sister and, by default, her girlfriend. But I don’t know who they really were. Murder seems drastic for a refused marriage proposal, even for Eva. There has to be something else we’re missing, and I have access to some of the best internet sleuths at my fingertips. I’m going to use them.

twenty-four

EZRA

I wake up at the ass crack of dawn like I do every day. I don’t even need an alarm. My brain is probably just sick of the nightly slideshow of Maverick’s panicked face and worried eyes that were directed at someone who isn’t me. I groan, scratching my beard and blinking the sleep out of my eyes.

I’m being such a jealous asshole that I’ve barely spoken to Jo in the week we’ve been here. She really only speaks to me to see if I’ve had an update on Maverick or to ask what I want for dinner. It somehow became routine for me to cook breakfast and her dinner. We figure out lunch on our own. It would be a cute domestic picture if I were here with Maverick.

“You need to fucking stop,” I tell myself out loud. This isn’t me. I’m not the guy who blames someone else for their own actions. And this is my fault. I was dead for all Maverick knew, and he moved on. Which was his right. I need to do better. Be nicer. That doesn’t mean I’m giving up on him. It just means I need to play the long game.

I quickly swap my sleep pants for workout clothes and make my way to the gym in the basement. I’m tying my hair back when I notice the door is open a crack and the light is on. Quietly, I inch over to the kitchen counter behind me and grab one of the many guns I have hidden all over the house. Which I really should let Jo know. As far as she knows, there was only the one that was in the car. I should probably teach her how to shoot, too.

The stairs leading to the basement are cement covered in high-traction carpet so I make no noise as I descend the stairs. As I get closer to the bottom, I can hear feminine grunts and what sounds like hits to the punching bag. I peek around the corner to see Jo in nothing but a blue sports bra and her purple checkered sleep shorts, absolutely wailing on the bag. She’s not sloppy either. She punches and jabs like someone who’s been training for years. I lower the gun and slip it into the back of my shorts so I don’t scare her.

“Should you be doing that on your ankle?” I ask, walking up to her and looking at the brace she’s still wearing. A piercing scream fills the room at the same time blinding pain blooms across my cheek. “Fuck!” I yell, holding my hands in front of my face. I can taste blood. Not only did she hit me, but she did it with so much force I was close to blacking out. It takes a few blinks and a shake of my head for Jo’s concerned face to swim into my vision.

“Ezra! I’m so sorry! You scared the shit out of me!” Jo says, pulling my arm away from my face so she can look where she hit me. “Shoot. That’s bruised and swollen already.”

“Where did you learn that?” I ask, gesturing to the punching bag behind her. It would probably be more apt to point at my face, but I’m still reeling from the hit and the embarrassment of letting it happen.

“I left home when I went to college at eighteen and never went back. I was on my own, and I refused to be a statistic. So I took self-defense classes, and one teacher talked me into joining a mixed boxing and MMA gym.” Jo shrugs. “I’m not an expert at anything, but I know a little of everything.”

My story isn’t all that different. I started taking MMA classes after everything that happened, and I was forced to run. I didn’t want to be forced into anything ever again. Or so scared, I felt like there were no other options for me. Meeting my friend Jasper in that little town in New Hampshire where I ran to first was lifesaving for me. He was playing for his college baseball team, an MLB prospect, and so far in the closet he still hasn’t left.

Jasper grew up in a small-minded town and went to an equally small-minded college where hazing wasn’t banned and being gay was the worst crime a person could commit. He was terrified of being outed, and I was terrified of being found. We became fast friends. I told him everything. He was just so easy to talk to. It was his suggestion to drive the hour into Vermont to train in Krav Maga. My dad taught us how to shoot a range of weapons in the dense forest surrounding the town. It was a time in my life when I was happy and grateful for where I was, but hurting so much from missing Maverick that it almost overshadowed everything else.

“But kickboxing is my favorite,” Jo says, executing a perfect roundhouse kick to the bag. “Let me go grab you some ice.” I don’t respond, just watch her run up the stairs.

Everything I learn about this woman just makes it more obvious why Maverick is with her. I hate her because she makes it impossible to hate her. I told myself I was too busy this week to really interact with her, but if I’m being honest with myself, it was to avoid a situation like this. One where I’m literally and figuratively punched in the face by her.

Thinking about Jasper has me calling him as I ice my face outside on the back patio. Someone who weighs about as much as a large poodle should not be able to pack that kind of heat behind her fist. I hiss as I adjust the ice pack.

“Did you just hiss at me? I’m not really into snake roleplay, but I can try it for you, Ezzy baby.”

I roll my eyes even though Jasper can’t see me. “Remind me why I’m friends with you again.”

“Because I’m rich, handsome, and talented with a bat. It saddens me I have to remind you,” Jasper says, humor lacing his words. I can picture his stupid smirk with the dimples that women go crazy over. Too bad none of them ever had a chance, and they didn’t even realize it.

“I thought you would be worried about me disappearing on you, but I guess I was wrong. I’ll go now,” I threaten without heat. This is our game. It’s how we tell if the other is okay without coming right out and asking the question. I made that mistake within earshot of his college teammates once, and they teased him mercilessly about having a boyfriend for the rest of the very long season. Imagine caring about another man, platonically or not, being something worth being made fun of over. Men are the fucking worst.

“You’re like a cockroach,” Jasper laughs.

“I started my day with a punch to the face and now this? I need a new best friend,” I grumble.

“Who punched you in the face? That hockey player you replaced me with?” Jasper isn’t joking. He’s been pretty jealous of my friendship with Declan. Or the friendship I had with Declan, anyway. I don’t know where we stand.

“Jo,” I admit. There’s a long pause before Jasper laughs so hard I have to pull the phone away from my ear. He doesn’t even know she stabbed me. Which he will never know if this is his reaction to a punch.

“She came to one of my games. She’s not someone you should mess with. I got big fuck around and find out vibes from her.”