Thorne sat yoga-style, palms up, feet tucked in the crook of his thighs. He was naked except for a snow-white mawashi around his groin. He wouldn't be sumo wrestling today, but street fighting. No holds barred.
He'd chosen to fight instead of his other option: to let Quentin and Dalton receive punishment. To him, that was unacceptable. He'd ordered the assignment; he'd suffer the consequences.
At Thorne's decision, Quentin and Dalton had risen from their seats in anger, trying to talk him out of it. Thorne had refused to budge.
"Someday," Quentin bit out, his eyes brown eyes squinted with ire, "you'll let us repay what we owe."
Thorne had clapped him on the back, sending the shorter man a few feet forward. "Today is not that day. Besides, I want to fight." To prove his point, Thorne had flexed his biceps as his two subordinates glared back at him.
"Listen to him, Thorne," Dalton broke in, "it's our turn to take the blame."
Anger coursed through him. Thorne didn't need or want aggravation. He had to prepare.
"Go," he said pointing to the door, "I need to get my mind straight, not listen to you two nagging like old women."
Dalton went quietly, but Quentin turned at the last moment to give him a piece of unwanted advice. "You give good bravado, dude," Quentin said snarling, "I hope it protects you in the cage."
What did Quentin know? Thorne was looking forward to the fight.
Angry for weeks, Thorne wanted to smash skulls and break bones. Anything to take his mind off Jeannie Jones.
His smugness at being assigned to watch Jeannie Jones had come back to haunt him. How had he ever thought this job would be a piece of cake?
His dealings with Jeannie had left him confused and extremely frustrated. This "punishment" was just what he needed to relieve the stress he was feeling.
Quentin and Dalton didn't need to worry. Thorne was in the best condition of his life. Those weekends away from Jeannie, he'd been training in many fighting disciplinesâfor hours on end. He was rippedânot an ounce of fat rested on him. Also, he was much quicker on his feet, able to defeat one opponent after the other in the training room.
Thorne's muscles trembled with the beginnings of adrenaline. He fought against it, willing his body to relax and let his inner warrior, the Beast, come forth. He allowed the Beast to bellow out a cry...a vow to reign triumphant.
The steel box, similar to an MMA fighting cage with the sides enclosed, shut with a clang. Thorne sauntered to the middle and sat, waiting for the match to begin. Smoke-colored two-way mirrors allowed spectators to view the mayhem without getting blood on themselves.
A thump on the glass caused him to look in that direction.
That's probably Quentin, Thorne thought.
He was sure the stocky man wanted him to know that despite their disagreement, both he and Dalton supported him. Thorne gave them the thumbs up, smiling.
"Are you ready 59638?" H778 said with a slight tremor in her voice. Thorne snapped his head to the speaker in the corner. Her less than monotone voice had unnerved him. He shook it off, springing up to his feet as if he were jumping rope. He let the adrenaline he'd held off, course through him.
Thorne rolled his neck, laced his fingers and pushed them out. His arms were as steady as iron rods.
"Let's do this."
Dawn rolled in, and the sky held brilliant colors of blue intersected by clouds of pink. Jeannie, up for a few hours already, tried in vain to work on her project. Books and papers seeking her attention lay scattered across her dining table. She paid them no mind. Worry, deep and instinctive, had burrowed itself into her heart. No matter what she tried to do, the feeling of doom wouldn't go away.
Something was making her heart race with every bird's tweet.
The low hum of a car motor like the sound of approaching death, made her tremble. She made her way to the living room and peeked out the window. Quentin had parked his Shelby in front of the complex. Dalton and Quentin, still like statues, waited by the passenger door.
A hand, bloodied and bruised, gripped the tinted window. When Thorne hoisted himself up, Jeannie bit back a scream.
His right eye was a patchwork of black and purple. His usual shiny blond hair was dull and lifeless, matted and snarled with dried blood. Thorne's sculpted lips were swollen and discolored and a long scratch marred the side of a cheek.
Jeannie threw on a robe and rushed from her apartment. She came to a halt just as Quentin and Dalton, with Thorne supported between them, entered through the front door.
"Bring him in here." Jeannie waved, hovering in the doorway. "Quickly!" she said when they hesitated.
The guys debated for just a second before taking a barely conscious Thorne through Jeannie's door, laying him gently on her bed.
"What happened?" Jeannie asked, lifting Thorne's eyelid. She shined a light into each eye, testing his pupil response.
Dalton, ignoring her question, gave her Thorne's prognosis instead. "The doctor has seen him already. He'll be fine. He has a concussion and some bruising that's all." Jeannie's fear gave way to anger at Dalton's tone. He'd recited Thorne's injuries as if he were reading from a grocery list.
"After a few days' rest, he will be as right as ..." Dalton trailed off, faltering under Jeannie's indignant stare.
"What kind of doctor would let him leave the hospital?" Jeannie shouted, appalled at the care Thorne had received.
Quentin and Dalton exchanged nervous glances.
"Well?" Jeannie persisted, her expression darkening at their refusal to answer.
The two men shifted from foot to foot, perplexed as to what to say. Jeannie eyed them balefully for a few moments before throwing up her hands in disgust.
"If you won't tell me, then make yourselves useful by bringing me water, towels, a bag of peas from the freezer and my first aid kit in the hutch cupboardâthe one closest to the window."
The guys, moving too slow for Jeannie, made her last bit of patience dissipate into the air.
"Move!" she yelled, balling her hands into fists. Quentin and Dalton ran over each other in the doorway, trying to be the first to do her bidding.
She turned back to the battered man on her bed. "What happened to you, Hawthorne?"
She took her medical scissors and cut away his bloodstained t-shirt and sweatpants. After a quick, unprofessional look at his groin area, she turned a trained eye to his injuries.
What she saw made her gasp in horror.
Bruises coated the inside of his thighs and circled his neck. A myriad of bite marksâsome tearing the skinâdotted the landscape of his torso. Someone had at least taped his ribs, but the scratches on his shoulders, chest, and arms remained untreated.
That was bad enough, but it was Thorne's face which made her heart clench with apprehension. His features would take a good three weeks to heal.
Jeannie held back her tears as she began her treatments.
Thorne's eyes fluttered open.
I'm dreaming, he thought as she was there.
"Jeannie?" his voice came out a croak. He'd nearly been choked out twice by two of the four guys he'd fought yet he was the one that ended up victorious.
"Yes, Hawthorne. I'm here," his neighbor said, grabbing his hand and patting it. The gesture soothed him more than the medicine the doctor at The Source had given him.
Thorne tried to smile to show his gratitude, but it hurt too much.
"Don't, Hawthorne."
Jeannie smoothed his hair that lay on his forehead. He winced when a few strands pulled at his wounds.
A solitary tear rolled down her cheek at the state of him. Jeannie wiped it away with the back of her hand and let out a tear-filled laugh.
"What kind of doctor would I make, crying in front of a patient?" Jeannie asked, patting his hand again.
Thorne fought to keep his eyes open, wanting to watch her every move, but this was one fight he couldn't win. When he closed his eyes, the darkness overtook him.
Thorne rested peacefully in her bed while Quentin, Dalton, and Jeannie dined on a meal of Cordon bleu, russet potatoesâwith chives and butterâstring beans, and Jeannie's applesauce cake for dessert.
Jeannie had to wake Thorne at the crucial six-hour mark to make sure Thorne was all right. A concussed patient usually pulled through with no complications after that time. Dalton had insisted Thorne had received a CT scan, but Jeannie wasn't taking any chances. No doctor in their right mind would release someone with the extent of Thorne's injuries after a few hours of observation. Each medical snippet Jeannie had wrung from the pair; she had taken with a grain of salt.
"So, are you going to tell me what happened or do I have to call the police and let them know someone assaulted Hawthorne?" Jeannie said, hoping they wouldn't call her bluff. She surmised Thorne had something to hide, and she would give away her baking skills before she turned him in.
She wasn't anyone's snitch.