Page 42 of The Fixer

Maybe, just maybe, Nathan was right.

“No,” I whispered, gripping my head and giving it a hard shake. “You’re wrong. Get out of my head.”

Hands gripped my hips, and without thought, I spun, lashing out in a way I never would have before. It became clear in an instant my inexperience extended far beyond the bedroom. Without so much as a nudge from me, both my wrists were caught in a tight grip, neither hand coming in contact with anything but air.

Jet stood before me, clean and dressed, though no less dangerous than when he’d been half-naked and attacking the bags in this room. His face was pinched with something like worry.

But that couldn’t be.

Why would he worry about me? Why would he care? Why would he put his life on hold to keep me close when my ex-fiancé wouldn’t so much as look at me unless he was tearing me down?

Unless…

“No.” The word came out a whimpered plea, everything inside of me shriveling in anticipation of being hit. I pulled my hands toward me and met with resistance I knew I could never break. My knees shook, my legs trembling, and my entire body started to collapse.

“Eliza.” Jet’s hold on me released and I fell. But the man, he caught me. Held me. Cradled me against his chest as he lowered me carefully to the ground. “What is it?” He whispered against my head. “What’s wrong?” he begged, hand smoothing over my back.

There was no bite. No pain.

Unless you counted the pain in my heart.

Heat attacked my eyeballs and I squeezed my lids shut. Dark memories flourished and vanished, just like my life two years ago.

* * *

Soft music drifted over the gathered crowd, loud enough to be heard yet quiet enough not to impede conversation. The cello groaned as the rest of the four-man orchestra played their jaunty song. I felt that cello in my soul, the groan, the ache of every string being plucked and played without any say of its own.

Summer sun shone in through the large windows, warming the already too-warm room. The air conditioner fought to keep up, and sweat trickled beneath my long-sleeve blouse, down my back and into the waistband of my floor-length skirt.

There was that small gift—the light fabric of the skirt allowed the slightest bit of air to circulate, to cool. I cradled my aching wrist as I rocked slowly back and forth, trying to stir up a breeze. I was desperate for a drink. For wine to get me through this afternoon, for something harder to ease my pain. For simple tap water, anything to quench my thirst.

“You gotta keep your eye on her,” Nathan told his cousin, Jude. He motioned with his drink to Jude’s fiancée, Eloise, where she stood among a mixed group of men and women, most of them her age. Nathan’s hand grabbed for my neck, his thick fingers digging in, stopping the slow rocking motion that had brought me an iota of relief. “You let the leash get too long, she’ll be on her back with her legs spread for any man she can get.”

Jude’s face pinched, even as their group of friends murmured their agreement. “Elle isn’t like that. We trust each other.”

“That’s what my buddy, Wes, said before his wife’s baby came out black.” Aiden lifted his glass, pointing a finger at Jude, and my stomach roiled at the racist words I’d heard too many times before. “Wes got himself a divorce, and the fuckin’ judge slapped him with alimony and child support for that bitch’s baby. Clear as fuckin’ day that piece of shit isn’t his.”

Nathan’s grip on the back of my neck tightened to the point of pain, and thoughts of Aiden’s friend slipped from my head. “You’re not going to do that to me, are ya, baby?” His voice was a harsh whisper, one loud enough for his buddies to hear. “Anyone else going to fuck you, it’s going to be me telling them to. You got that?”

Jude’s discomfort rode the jeering of his friends, and his eyes swam from where I stood locked in Nathan’s grasp, across the room to the pretty girl whose name hung from the banner over the food table. “Congratulations, Elle and Jude.”

I could feel my skin bruising beneath Nathan’s grip. Bruising the bruises that were already there. Yet he refused to show me any mercy, holding on tight. There was no use in complaining. In telling him how much it hurt. He thrived on my pain, and telling him would only make it worse.

A lightning bolt of hot agony shot up my left arm as I clenched my fist, and I gasped.

“What’s that, baby?” Nathan asked, pulling me into him, squeezing my neck.

“I need to use the restroom,” I told him, teeth grinding as my jaw clenched.

“Oh, yeah?” A wicked sneer lifted his lip. “Think you’re gonna sneak off on me? Help some old man get his jollies off?”

“No,” I whimpered. “I just need to pee.”

Nathan grabbed my wrist—the same one he’d twisted until I’d blacked out before we left home for the party—and tsked. “I find out you touched anyone here, I’ll make sure you don’t piss for a week. Let my boys here take a crack at that pretty little ass of yours, too, huh? You like that, you little bitch? You want them to take turns with your ass?”

“No, Nathan. Please.”

“Mmm, you know how much I love to hear you beg. Say that again.”