Chapter 9: Stand and Defend: Chapter 9

I don’t know what the fuck went down this afternoon with Jordan and Bryan, but I swear to Christ if he laid a finger on her . . . And how am I the first person she called? It confirms my suspicions he’s been isolating her. It’s probably been going on for a while. Veronica is probably the only woman in her life she had. Then he went and fucked her. I’m praying this is only a bad breakup and she’s been kicked out and not something more nefarious.

On the way home, I make a couple of stops. First the grocery store to get ingredients for macaroni and cheese, a toothbrush—just in case—a few pints of ice cream, and a six-pack of those hard seltzers women like. After that, I swing by the coffee shop and pick up a half-dozen apple scones and a few pumpkin muffins.

When I turn onto my street, I see her car in my driveway and take a relieved breath. I type my code in the keypad, and the gate slides open. Instead of parking in the center of the garage like usual, I park on the far-left side.

I grab my groceries and enter through the mud room.

“Jordan?” I call out.

“Kitchen.” Her voice is more collected than before, but it’s hoarse.

When I find her, she’s sitting on a barstool by the kitchen island. I set down the groceries on the counter. Her eyes are puffy and red. She looks utterly defeated.

“Hi.”

She’s clutching a small duffel bag.

“Hey. I’m glad you got in okay. Where’re your keys? I’m gonna pull your car in.”

She slides them across the island toward me, I grab them, and jog back outside to move her car. I’ve got a spare door opener around here somewhere I can give her. Meanwhile, I don’t want Bryan to know she’s here. I will be gone for a couple days while we play in New Jersey—plus the other away games—and I don’t want to be worrying about her while I’m traveling.

When I get back in, I unload the reusable grocery bag.

I nod to her duffel. “Were you able to pack some things?”

“No, this’s my gym bag. It was left in my car from before.”

“I picked up some essentials.”

I untie the string around the bakery box and slide it in front of her, and she peeks under the lid. “You got me scones?”

“It wasn’t selfless. I was already stopping to get myself a half-dozen muffins.” Yeah. That’s it.

“I’m not hungry.” Her shoulders slump. “But thank you for the gesture.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Um . . .” She peers at the ceiling, and her eyes dart around as if she’s mathematically calculating the answer in her head.

“You need to eat something. You barely ate anything at the fundraiser last night.” She pushed food around with her fork but never brought it to her mouth. “Food first, talk after.”

I open the lid in front of her, and she hesitates but eventually plucks a scone out of the white box and takes a bite, releasing a big exhale through her nose while she chews.

“I told him I was leaving yesterday. We got into a fight.” Her lower lip quivers. “He put my ring back on.” I steel my expression. Inside, I’m seething. I take the string from the bakery box and turn around to open my junk drawer, pulling out a paper clip. I thread the string through it and push it under the ring.

“I left work early today, so I could go home and pack some things.”

I shake my head. “Start with last night.” I wrap the string around her finger, like I did at the café, while she gives me a play-by-play.

“Yesterday, I was waiting for him when he got home. He walked through the door and says he’s sorry for what happened. I told him we had an appointment to split finances, and I tried to give him back his ring.”

I want this ring off her. Now.

“Then what?” Her hand trembles. Fuck. “Jordan, what happened last night?”

She looks like she’s on the verge of a breakdown. “He yelled at me and told me I needed to go to the fundraiser.”

She’s not telling me the truth, but I’m not about to force information out of her. We’ll sort it out later. I hold her hand over the counter and grab the bottle of olive oil, letting a couple drops fall on the ring. I rub it around her finger and unwind the string from the opposite side. Thank God it budges.

“I didn’t argue. But last night I walked around the fundraiser telling myself I’d leave work early today and get my things and go to a hotel or realtor office. Somewhere away from him. He came home right after I got to the condo.”

Yup, he was definitely tracking her phone. “He made me so mad, he said some things, and I yelled back. I don’t even remember everything that was said, but it escalated fast. He came at me, so I slammed the door in his face, and I think I crushed his hand. I don’t know. I didn’t see. I was scared and ran.” Her free hand tucks some loose hair behind her ear, and she stares at the countertop as she recalls the harrowing events of today. “I got to the door, and he threw an iron at me⁠—”

“Wait, he threw something at you?”

“I don’t know. He was probably trying to scare me into staying. I can’t be sure he was actually aiming for me.”

What’s the difference?

She stares into space, like she’s replaying it in her head. “I grabbed my purse and ran. I took the stairwell, and he followed me.” Her glazed eyes widen. “No, not follow. He chased me.”

I blow out a breath. The massive donation he made to Safehouse last night flashes in my mind. Motherfucker. Her eyes are wild like a frightened rabbit. I get the ring over her knuckle, and it slips off. I hold her hand out, the purple fades from her finger, save for a blotchy area around the knuckle where she’s bruised. She yanks it back and rubs the spot. Did it happen when he shoved the ring on her finger? That couldn’t have gone on smoothly.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever been so scared before, but I knew at that moment there was no coming back from it. I couldn’t go back.”

That’s how it was for my mom. That’s when she knew it was time to leave too.

“Then he stopped. My feet kept moving, I couldn’t get down the stairs fast enough, but he must have left the stairwell and taken the elevator the rest of the way down.”

“So, what happened?”

Her hands are trembling as she speaks, and I have to keep my cool. The last thing she needs is to have me scare her with my temper. I would never direct my anger at her, but she might not see that.

“It was like we were putting on this little skit for the security staff. Bryan tried to play it off like everything was fine, called me honey, told me to come upstairs with him. I should have told them he tried to attack me! Why didn’t I tell them to call the cops?”

“You were trying to deescalate the situation and get out of there.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know what made the guard do it, but he escorted me to my car and sent Bryan upstairs, and I left.”

“That was when you called me?”

She nods.

“You should be proud of yourself. You did great today.”

“My parents are going to say I made a mistake, a poor financial decision.”

Taking her face in my hands, I peer down at her wide brown eyes. They’re so full of uncertainty. I can’t imagine what she must be feeling.

“You are not making a mistake. You can do this.”

She nods, her lip trembling. I stare at it for what feels like minutes, then drop my hands. “I’ll help however I can. Staying here is the safest place for you. It’s gated and secure. There’s an apartment above the garage, private entrance and everything. It’s not massive, but you’ll have your own space.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It is, Jordan. At least for now. Leaving is when you’re most vulnerable. I don’t care that you’re here, really. Stay a few days, at least until you figure out what you want to do.”

How could I have not seen what was happening? It makes me sick I was almost the best man at this woman’s funeral. I know this shit up, down, backward, and forward. The signs were there, but I ignored them.

“I’ll pay rent.”

“All I ask is you don’t go back to him. He’s going to tell you everything you want to hear to make you come back. Don’t.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Do women go back to their abusers because they still love them?”

“Sometimes, yeah. Or because they’ve been made totally dependent on them without realizing it. They’ve been manipulated financially. Sometimes kids are involved. There’re a million different reasons.”

She looks down at her scone and picks off a piece. When she glances back up and meets my gaze, her expression tells me love won’t be an issue for her.

Was their entire relationship staged? Jordan explained their arrangement was somewhat transactional, but I didn’t realize he took it so literally. She was another thing for him to own. Before this mess, I thought he loved her.

“Come on, I’ll give you a tour and show you the apartment.”

I start with the kitchen since that’s where she’s sitting. Opening the cabinets and drawers, I show her where all the pots, pans, tools, and other cooking shit are. The apartment space has a kitchenette, but it’s bare bones. In the butler pantry, I tell her if there’s anything she needs, to add it to the grocery list. I demo by using the smart home assistant to add apple scones to the grocery list.

“I don’t keep a ton of food in the house since I travel a lot, but Raquel, the house manager, usually restocks on Thursdays. She’s here a couple times a week, don’t freak out if you see her around.”

She follows me. “Mud room.” The spacious laundry room houses two sets of washers and dryers lined on one wall with a deep utility sink and countertops. Two walls are mostly cabinets and storage. A large square island countertop sits in the center of the room. I show her that the second door on the adjacent wall opens a powder room.

“Laundry is on Mondays and Thursdays. Want me to have your clothes added to the schedule?”

“No”—she shakes her head—“I can handle my own laundry. I won’t be here too long. I only need to crash until I get an apartment lined up.”

I nod, not liking that answer. In the living room, I show her the touchscreen remotes. She has the same ones, so there’s no demo needed. “The home theater on the lower level is better for movies. Same A/V system. There’s also a bar, pool table, et cetera. Feel free to hangout down there if you’re bored.” I point to a secluded cased opening off the main living space. “My bedroom is through there.”

After showing her the other main level bathrooms, I steer us up the curved staircase.

“Spare bedrooms on this side, and over here . . .” We cross the catwalk to the other side, and I guide her to the short hallway leading to the L-shaped bonus apartment over the garage.

She’s hardly said a word the whole tour. I might as well be talking to myself.

“Here’s where you’ll stay,” I say, opening the door. Late-day sun floods the interior through the eight angled skylights running the length of the vaulted room. We walk past the sofa, television, and bookcases in the main space until we reach the corner of the L, which makes up the kitchen. Opening the fridge, there’s a few drinks and a bottle of hot sauce. Thankfully, the freezer is stocked with meal kits. That’ll get her started.

“Bedroom and attached bathroom are there,” I say, pointing to the other end. The bedroom comprises a big bed engulfed in a downy white duvet with matching fluffy pillowcases. Everything is generic enough to give the appearance of a trendy hotel suite. I used to rent it out to guests but stopped after I had some of my gear go missing. I motion toward the metal door on the right. “That’s the private entrance you can reach from the garage stairs, so you can come and go as you please.”

I double-check she’s stocked up on linens, toiletries, and towels. From inside the bathroom, I call back to her. “It’s not massive, but you’ll have a private kitchenette, bathroom, living area, and bedroom. No laundry, you’ll have to do that on the main level.” I walk back out, and her hands are clasped as she goes up on her tiptoes, surveying the space. “I’m pretty low maintenance. I promise I’m not as prissy as I look. This is more than enough. It’s only temporary.”

She looks every bit the privileged princess Bryan made her out to be, but her actions are contradictory.

I nod. “If it’s not, that’s okay too. Help yourself to whatever you want. If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

We stare at each other for a moment. Her blonde hair is down, not up like usual, and I like it. Her makeup streaked from tears has some of her freckles peeking through. I wish I could see them all. Even exhausted and puffy, she’s beautiful. My fingers itch to haul her into my arms for a hug. I ignore the urge, but it’s hard to look away. When the silence grows more awkward, I clap my hands together. “Okay. So, um, yeah. Make yourself comfortable, I’m going to cook some food. I’ll be back to check in on you. Take a few minutes to breathe. Or watch TV. Or whatever. Is there anything I can get you?” Pull it together, man.

“The towels are in the bathroom?”

“Cabinet on the right.”

“I’m going to wash the day off.” She sighs. “Might crash after.”

I nod and exit the space, closing the door behind me. I haven’t had a roommate in a long time. Why am I suddenly so flustered? I don’t mind hanging out with her, but we’ll barely see each other—and that’s fine by me, better we don’t. Keep things less complicated.

While she’s in the shower, I rack my brain with how to handle her ex. If I had it my way, I know exactly how I’d handle him. Bryan fucked up with this one. I plan on dealing with him . . . I just don’t know when. If I go after him now, it’ll be a dead giveaway to where she’s staying. I travel too often, so it would compromise her safety. I can’t have him showing up or discovering her location while I’m away. Which reminds me, I should have Raquel get the house codes reset. I don’t remember if I ever gave them to him, but I’d prefer to not take any chances.

Back in the kitchen, I get to work on dinner, and my mind drifts to her. I don’t need to know Jordan well to know she has a good heart. She’s silly, playful, driven . . . gorgeous—not that it matters, but when I think of the words to describe her, it’s hard not to place her beauty toward the top. I’m no stranger to pretty girls, but Jordan has me in a trance. She proves my point when she walks into the kitchen after her shower.

When I glance up from the stove, I do a double-take. My whore brain is confused. She looks nothing like the women I go for. She’s not wearing a trace of makeup, her clothes aren’t skimpy, and yet . . . she’s still a showstopper. I’m not a jealous man by any means, but Bryan’s had a chance with a woman I can’t have . . . and it pisses me off.

There’s nothing revealing about what she’s wearing, but somehow, it’s doing it for me. She’s in a matching sports jacket and yoga pants that hug her curves, and those brown eyes, pink cheeks, and freckles? Come on.

I can’t look away. She opens the fridge and pulls out one of the seltzers, cracks the top, and takes two big gulps, her throat bobbing. Jesus fuck. She plops down on her seat at the counter.

Shaking my head, I turn to the pot of homemade macaroni and cheese in front of me. I stir the contents and resist laughing. It sounds like sex. What the fuck is wrong with me? It’s like I’m fourteen again.

I clear my throat. “Feel better?”

When she doesn’t answer, I look back and she’s dragging another gulp from the can, wincing. She nods as she swallows. “Yup.”

“Did I get the wrong flavor?”

“No, I always think these are going to taste better than they do.” She looks down at the can, turning it in her hand as she studies it. She takes another sip and smacks her lips together. “It’s like drinking knives. If those knives cut a lime once—four years ago.”

Amen. I have never liked carbonated water, but people lose their fucking minds over it. Makes no sense.

“Fuck, thank you! I think it tastes like your tongue fell asleep.”

“Yes!” She giggles, and it makes me smile.

I dish out the corkscrew cavatappi pasta coated with delicious melted cheese into two bowls. When you eat as much pasta as hockey players do, you learn to perfect certain dishes. I make a mean mac and cheese, and tonight calls for comfort food. The trick is starting with a roux, adding cheddar, Monterey Jack, Gouda, and gruyère . . . and folding in Velveeta when no one’s looking.

“Okay, enough of this shit.” I peel the can from her fingers and set it aside. “How about some wine instead?”

“Wine and cheese, always a classic combo.” I may have been a little heavy-handed on the Velveeta. Which pairs better with rubber cheese-a-like?

I land on a bottle of chardonnay from under the kitchen island and uncork it, then pour each of us a half glass.

“Cheers,” I say, handing her one.

I sidle up next to her at the kitchen island and hold out a fork and spoon. “Choose your weapon.”

“Fork,” she says, plucking it from my hand. Another thing we agree on. She dives it into the noodles and brings it to her mouth. I have to look away.

Don’t look. Don’t even fucking look. The more I try to avoid it, the weaker my resistance becomes. In my peripheral, she drags the fork out between her thick full lips, then I glance over, and she’s licking them clean. Goddamn it.

“This might be the best mac n’ cheese I’ve ever had. Congratulations.”

“It better be,” I answer, looking back down at my bowl. No more watching her. I spear a cheesy corkscrew onto my fork and pop it in my mouth. While chewing, I contemplate how to ask my next question. “Don’t take this the wrong way, because I’m happy to have you stay here, but how come you don’t have anyone else?”

She swallows. “I don’t have a ton of friends. I mean, I do, but none are close. And you seem to know what you’re doing when it comes to my . . . situation.” She uses her fork to roll pasta around in her bowl, then sets the bowl down. “When you grow up with a lot of money, it’s hard to find true friends. I thought Veronica was mine, but obviously that’s no longer the case. It’s weird, I almost called her the other day because I needed to talk to someone. It hit me that I lost the only confidant I had.”

That fucking sucks.

“Are you going to talk to her again?”

“No.”

That surprises me. “No? Not even to yell at her?”

“She fucked my fiancé. I don’t owe her anything. Our friendship is over, why should I give her my time too? To make her feel better? Fuck that. She wants him, she can have him. That’s punishment enough . . . I don’t even want to waste time talking about her now, let’s change the subject.”

With wide eyes, I wrench my gaze back to my pasta. This is the second time she’s shut down a conversation when it got heavy. “Listen, if you ever want to talk about it . . . I may be a dick, but I’m a surprisingly good listener.” She’s got this weird way of making me feel like we’re old friends.

She peers up at me with a lopsided grin. “I’ll keep it in mind.” Her brows furrow. “Why are you a dick, by the way? In public, I mean. Because you certainly have that persona, but you’re not really a jerk, are you?”

I chuckle. “I’m not a fan of most people, and I can get a little protective of the boys on the ice, so there’s that.”

“I think it’s because you don’t like yourself.”

I scoff and take a bite. “I love me.”

She shakes her head and studies me, tapping the back of her fork on her lips as she formulates her thoughts. “I believe you when you say you don’t like people. But you’re almost never alone, you’re constantly immersed with parties and women. So either you enjoy being surrounded by new people—and what you said was a lie—or you hate being alone with yourself . . . Or you’re running away from something.”

“Okay, Freud.” I roll my eyes. “If I don’t like myself, how come I’m so confident?”

“You’re not confident, you’re confrontational. You live your life on the offensive, that’s why you’re a dick.”

“Not always. I’m not a dick to my teammates. I’m not a dick to you.”

“Because you trust the boys, they prove to you every day they have your back,” she explains with a shrug. I cock my head and stare at her, and she spins away from me. “I think you trust me because I have the same issues you do. Trusting people doesn’t come easy for me either. It’s easier to keep others at a distance than to have to wonder if they’re only trying to fuck you over.”

How does she do that? I’ve never been able to put that feeling into words, and she did it in about ten seconds. It’s like she looked inside my brain, took all my thoughts, and organized them into one simple explanation. It’s unsettling.

“Hm.” I scoot a little farther away. “Something like that.” Exactly that.

“I thought you were simply another womanizing douchebag at first⁠—”

“Oh, I am.”

“Well, you better start working at it”—she scrunches up her nose—“because your nice-guy is showing.”

I blow out a breath. “Can’t have that, I have a reputation to uphold.”

“Don’t worry, you can get it back. Just make a few tweaks.”

“Such as?”

A smile grows on her face. “For one, you need to talk more shit. You want that come-at-me–bro energy. Be obnoxious but get creative with it.”

I laugh and she keeps going.

“Ooh! How do you feel about bumper stickers?”

Shaking my head, I smile. “Nothing says tough guy like stickers.”

“Maybe an energy drink logo? Something like ‘DOES NOT PLAY WELL WITH OTHERS.’ One of those Pissing Calvins . . . You get the idea. Really lean into the douchebaggery.”

“I could bring an acoustic guitar to a house party?”

“Can you perform a shitty rendition of ‘Wonderwall’?”

“No need, I’ll figure it out on the spot.”

“Alright, alright.” She nods along, smirking. “Wanna roll with the big dogs?”

“Obviously,” I answer.

“Can you start a fight at the party?”

“Baby, I’ll make the cops show up.”

Her grin widens, crinkling the corners of her eyes, and she claps me on the back, and her touch makes me sit up straighter. “You’re gonna be okay, kid.”

We return to our bowls, eating silently shoulder to shoulder.

Who is this girl? How did we get here? After the night I heard him berate her, I formed a soft spot for Jordan, like I do with every victim I meet at Safehouse. If it weren’t for that, I would have assumed she was another rich housewife-in-training. But she has this way of understanding me—and doesn’t judge me for it. She’s not one of those women who thinks they can be the one to change me.

She nudges me with her shoulder. “You’re a lot different than I thought you’d be.”

I glance down at her focused on her meal.

“You are too,” I mutter.

It’s a good thing I’ll be gone for a couple days.