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My whole body is shaking by the time he finishes.
My heart is shaking and I can barely stand up.
I can barely gather my breath after what he just said.
I know his words were supposed to scare me and humiliate me and embarrass me and I am all those things. And I want to smack his face for that. But then I also want to curl up against him. I also just want to hide myself in his impossibly broad chest and sob and sob.
I’m not sure why.
And this urge only grows when he continues, “This ends tonight, you understand? You’re not seeing him again. You’re not sneaking out. You’re not fucking dressing yourself up like a whore and going to a bar where you shouldn’t be in the first place because you’re underage. Not to mention where guys stare at you like they’re waiting to get you alone and tear into you like hungry wolves. Do you understand? Because if you don’t and there’s any confusion, I want to make it clear that I’ll not only deal with you, I’ll also deal with him. Which I probably should’ve done the first time.”
My breath catches in my throat. “No, please. Don’t.”
His eyes turn into slits.
“I understand. I do. I won’t see him again. Just don’t… Don’t do anything to him.” When all he does is stare at me silently, I tighten my fists in his jacket. “Please, Mr. Marshall, don’t hurt him. I promise I won’t see him again. I do. Please.”
His features remain so tight and for so long that I don’t think he’ll ever loosen up again.
I don’t think he’ll ever lose his anger again.
But he does.
He takes a deep breath and he goes on, “Remember that then.”
I jerk out a nod.
“And now,” he continues, “I’m going to give you my jacket and you’re going to wear it. You’re going to walk out of here, all covered up like you should’ve been in the first place. And then, I’ll drive you back and you’ll apologize to Mo for making her worry.”
That gets my attention and I say, “Mo was worried?”
His jaw clenches. “Enough to call me in the city, yeah.”
So she was the one who called him. And he came here.
Which is still extremely unlikely and strange to me. Like, how did he even…
It’s as if he can hear my thoughts, he explains in that same growly voice, “This is his regular haunt, yeah? This bar. This is where you used to sneak off to, years ago. So when Mo couldn’t find you anywhere and called me in the city, I put two and two together. Thereby chasing after a rebellious teenager and ruining my fucking night.”
My breath is coming in and out in bursts and puffs as I absorb his explanation. It all makes sense. Except…
“B-but how did you… know,” I ask, my wrist still in his grip. “That this is where I snuck off to.”
His abdomen tightens again before he breathes out. “Tracker.”
“Tracker?”
“On your phone.”
I guess my mind is still too slow to understand him. So it takes me a few seconds of blinking up at him, breathing haphazardly to finally get it.
He put a tracker on my phone.
The one I had when I lived with him.
I left it behind, in Mo’s care, when I went to St. Mary’s.
So that’s how he knew.
About Jimmy and my nightly excursions back then.
I’d always wondered about that. Because like tonight, I’d always been so careful back then as well. So it was a jarring shock when Mo came to me with the news of going away to St. Mary’s. But I know now.
It was the tracker on my phone.
I study his features. His carved in stone jaw that makes him look so dominant and authoritative, and his pretty harsh eyes with which he’s studying me back.
I want to fight with him. I want to argue but I can’t.
I don’t have the strength.
Dazed, I watch him take a step back and my hands fall to my side.
He takes his tweed jacket off, revealing his gray dress shirt, starched and stretching against his arched pectorals.
I know that I should reach out for his jacket now.
I should gather enough strength to take it from him and drape it around myself.
But I’m so tired. So exhausted right now.
I can barely stand here or even keep my eyes open.
And maybe it’s all clear on my face, my exhaustion, my misery and humiliation, that I don’t have to do any of those things.
He doesn’t let me.
He steps forward again and then before I can form a thought, he swings the jacket behind me, with tight and snappy movements, and settles it on my shoulders, jerking the collar up.
When he’s done, I hunch my shoulders and tighten his jacket, his warmth, around me.
I want to say thank you because I am grateful for the cover he’s provided.
