Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
“Not him. Me.” His eyes shoot down to my arm when I spin it around to show him the mark. “And since he was taking any legal action necessary to evade further harm, you don’t have a goddamn leg to stand on.”
I would like to say his face whitens with remorse, but that isn’t the way Warren operates. He looks more pleased than repentant. “Jessmina…”
His condescending smirk is wiped off his face when I point out something his intoxication had him missing from his scheming calculations. “And it won’t be our word against yours since its all on tape.”
He’s almost steaming mad at me using ‘our’ when referencing Caleb and me, so you can imagine how red his face becomes when I nudge my head to the security camera perched above the back entrance of the reception area. Our exchange was taped, and for the first time ever, I’m pleased to be on the other side of the lens.
“Leave, Warren.”
I give him no other option when I guide Caleb into the industrial kitchen at the back of the reception area and lock the door behind us. My steps to the massive freezer in the corner of the sparkling space to fetch some ice for Caleb’s knuckles should be shaky, but for some reason, they’re not. Watching Warren hobble to the cab idling at the end of the alleyway is extremely satisfying, not to mention the fact his beatdown was well worth the lengthy delay.
I can’t testify that Caleb would have been so gung-ho on protecting me if he knew of Warren’s job title and stature in the community, but I’d like to think it wouldn’t have changed the outcome. His response to the marks on my arm is why I never told my father about the real reason Warren and I broke up.
My father is a gospel-loving family man, but he’d hand Warren the beatdown of a lifetime if he ever discovers my love of wigs is to hide a large scar on the back of my skull. It required glue and stitches, and any girl with springy, thick hair like mine knows they don’t pair well. The hair they chopped off to join my head back together has never grown back, and although I can hide the scar by wearing my hair down, sometimes, a girl needs to mix things up.
A hiss escapes Caleb’s mouth when I cover the swollen knuckles on his right hand with the ice I wrapped in a dish towel. “For someone who doesn’t like to be touched, you certainly have no issues touching people.”
After plonking him into a stainless-steel chair near the large island counter still housing Heidi’s wedding cake, I check his left hand for any signs of damage.
Unlike his tormented eyes, it appears unscathed. He’s still not with me—not entirely, anyway. He’s still in the alleyway, beating Warren, and I’m standing right next to him, praying one of his hits will knock some sense into Warren.
That’s wrong in so many ways.
For one, I can take care of myself.
And two, if that’s changed, and I’ve decided I need help, shouldn’t I be seeking it from people I know and love, not a man I met on a whim?
Needing to say something to excuse my stupidity, I murmur, “Although appreciative of your help, it wasn’t needed. I can handle Warren.”
My confession drags Caleb out of the dark trench his psychosis pushed him into. “He marked your arm.”
“Exactly. He marked my arm. That doesn’t deserve a broken nose and the loss of teeth.” And God knows what else he might have done if the incident hadn’t been recorded.
Caleb’s eyes stray to the alleyway during my final statement. His already ashen face whitens even more when he spots specks of blood on the concrete.
The fact he seems oblivious to the aggression he unleashes when angry should have me wary about our closeness, but for some reason, it doesn’t. He tried to walk away. He only backtracked because he thought I had been hurt.
As far as I’m concerned, that’s admirable.
I’ll never tell Caleb that, though.
He peers up from the dish towel wrapped around ice to me when I ask, “Do you often black out during rage episodes?”
When his brows furrow, an ill-timed smile creeps on my face. Now is not the time for playfulness, but you can’t see what I can. He’s as big and scary as a grizzly bear, but nothing but the eyes of a child being sent to the principal’s office reflects in his eyes.
“Do you realize you’re beating the shit out of someone? Or do you only notice once the beatdown has finished?”
His voice is groggy when he replies, “My therapist calls them intermittent explosive disorders. They are violent outbursts—”
“That are grossly out of proportion to the situation.”
I can’t tell if he looks terrified or interested when he asks, “Therapist?”