Bottles & Blades (Eagles Hockey: Oak Ridge Vineyards #1)

Chapter 22

Twenty-Two

Jean-Michel

Rage boils under my skin as I round the hood of my car and move toward where Angela’s standing.

In Chrissy’s driveway.

What right—what fucking right does she have to be here?

I know I’m not hiding my fury as I close in on her. I see it in the triumphant expression on her face, in the smile that starts to spread out along her mouth, in the glee in her eyes.

She’s still beautiful, which is a fact I fucking hate.

Blond hair, gorgeous body that she dresses well.

It’s too bad that whatever rot she had in her when we got married has spread, grown through each and every bit of her insides.

I can sense it in the air around her, and it fucking stinks.

“You’re leaving,” I say before she can release any of that rot inside of her out into the fresh spring air. “And if you don’t,” I growl out over the protest that’s already forming on her lips, “I’m calling the police and having you arrested for trespassing.”

She laughs. “You know this would all be so much easier if you just give me what I want.”

“You mean,” I grit out. “Give you half of everything I’ve built while you’ve spent your life snorting blow, drinking your liver into a pickled state, and fucking everything with a dick all while pretending to be dead?”

There’s the slightest bit of surprise in her eyes.

“Yeah, Angela,” I say, my tone ice, “you may have surprised the shit out of me by reappearing from the other side, but I know you’re here now.” I step closer, lower my voice. “I know you’re back. I know you’re trying to fuck up my life and my businesses. I know you want to get close to my daughter?—”

“Our daughter.”

“No,” I say. “You lost the privilege of calling her that long ago.”

She sways like I’ve smacked her.

Good. Maybe she’ll finally get that no one wants her here and crawl back into whatever hole she emerged from.

“And I don’t care how hard I have to fight and how much I spend doing it, but I will not let your filth touch Chrissy.” Not her life. Not her inheritance. “I will sell every share, every piece of property, every fucking car if I have to, but you will not win this, Angela. I fucking swear it.”

There’s a long blip of quiet.

Then the rot strikes again.

“Gosh,” she drawls, inspecting her nails, my threats apparently not meaning one fucking thing, “you never used to have so much anger, darling.”

“Right,” I mutter, yanking my phone out of my pocket. “You’ve never made anything easy for me a day in our lives. Why would you start now?”

I jab at the screen, calling Pascal.

“Angela is at Chrissy’s house?—”

“Chrissy, what a ridiculous name for a grown woman.” Angela sniffs.

“Are you a bully all the time? Or just when it comes to Jean-Michel?”

I freeze, frustration and fear twisting through my insides. “Your next call is the police,” I growl to Pascal, hanging up and turning to Tiff. “I thought I told you to wait in the car,” I grind out.

“You did,” she says softly, and there are threads of both steel and hesitation in her voice. I like the first, but wish the second had won out, and when she speaks, I decide that I have some love and hate with her fucking words too. “I just didn’t listen,” she continues quietly, lacing her fingers with mine, then turning her gaze toward Angela. “I believe you’ve been asked to leave.”

Angela’s beady, snake-like eyes narrow. “Who are you?”

“None of your business,” I snap.

A slow, venomous smile spreads over my ex’s face, and I tug at Tiff’s hand, trying to tuck her behind me, to get her away from Angela and all of the awfulness that she represents.

“Isn’t she a little young for you?” Angela drawls.

Tiff stiffens, but she doesn’t move from my side.

And I don’t have the heart to tell her to go again.

Besides, I have bigger problems.

“Now,” she says calmly, “You’ve been asked to leave. I suggest that you do just that.”

“Neither of you are the homeowners.” Angela shrugs delicately. “You don’t have the authority to tell me anything?—”

“But I do.”

My shoulders tense.

Christ, here come those bigger problems .

“Chrissy, honey,” I begin quietly as she comes to a halt beside me, Rory beside her.

But my daughter isn’t done. “I’ve already called the police,” she announces and there’s not a single bit of vulnerability in her statement. She’s steady, icy cold.

I hate that for her, hate that her relationship with her mother is… this.

But I’m also so fucking proud of her strength—she’s been to hell and back and is the stronger for it.

“Are you asking me to leave?” Angela says.

Tiff’s hand flexes in mine and I brace, waiting for Rory to mouth off. She’s protective of me, but she’s even more protective of Chrissy.

Adding Tiff to the mix?

Well, I can feel that she’s primed and loaded, ready to snap with the slightest provocation.

Thankfully, she seems content to allow Chrissy to run the show—though I don’t miss that she’s surreptitiously pointing her phone in Angela’s direction.

Recording her, I realize.

Fuck, she’s smart.

They all are.

Including Angela.

“I’m not asking,” Chrissy says, drawing my focus, ratcheting up my pride. “I’m telling you to remove yourself and your vehicle from my property immediately, and if you don’t, I’ll have the police do it for me.”

Angela in handcuffs—yeah, I’d love to see that.

Of course, I don’t get that because she releases the most put-upon sigh that I’ve ever heard and huffs out, “Well, I know when I’m not welcome.”

“Do you really?” Rory asks, giving us a glimpse of her trademark snark.

I almost— almost —laugh at the outraged expression that crawls over Angela’s face.

Because this shit is almost funny.

Except, it’s not.

“Go,” I growl.

She does…albeit with all the speed of a sloth.

And she’s just backing out as the first squad car pulls up.

They block her from driving off, and she jumps out of her car full of piss and vinegar.

Of course she is.

Which means the next hour is filled with the police taking statements from all of us, Pascal showing up and working his magic, and finally—fucking finally —Angela leaving.

Unfortunately, it’s not in handcuffs.

She does it getting back into her car and driving away.

Tiff and I walk Chrissy and Rory inside then wait while Pascal does a check of the interior and exterior.

He tilts his head to the front door and I follow him out onto the porch. “Taps on five of the external cameras,” he mutters, jerking his chin toward the pile of dismantled electronics.

“ Angela was putting them on?” I ask aghast.

That’s not something I would expect to be in my ex’s skill set.

“Apparently,” he says. “We don’t do live monitoring any longer at Chrissy’s request, but it looks like there was an interruption in the feed a couple of hours ago. Technicians flagged it to come over and check it out in the morning. Still, it’s a good thing you showed up when you did so they didn’t get anything useful.”

I scrub a hand over my face.

If I hadn’t gone to dinner with the girls…

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.

Pascal claps a hand on my shoulder. “The team and I will be out first thing to do a full work up. We’ll make sure she’s good, yeah?”

I nod. “The interior’s clear?” I ask. “And the panic buttons are functional?”

“Yes,” he says. “All the feeds are secure and I tested the panic buttons. But just in case, I’ll have men stay over—one inside and another monitoring the exterior.”

Relief flows through me. Still, “Chrissy’s not going to like that.”

Pascal grins. “Luckily, Chrissy likes me.”

This is not a lie.

I exhale, shove down the worry for my daughter. Precautions are in place, and I’ll just be a phone call away. “Then I’ll let you break the news.”

A ghost of a smile. “I’ll charge it to your account.”

“Totally worth every penny.”

He grins, tilts his head toward the door, and I follow him back inside.

Tiff’s eyes immediately come to mine.

I’m gratified she found the courage to stand by me, to ignore the venom Angela was spitting and stay there. But I know the gleam in Angela’s eyes before she climbed into her car the second time means that Tiff has put herself firmly into the center of her crosshairs.

So, I’m also pissed.

Not at her. At myself—because I didn’t protect her.

She comes over and takes my hand, the rage swirling through my insides quieting at the contact. “You okay?” she whispers.

“Fine, buttercup,” I say even though I feel anything but.

“You’re not.”

I inhale. Exhale. “You’re right. I’m not.”

“Do you need to stay awhile?” she asks. “Make sure they’re okay?”

Christ, she’s sweet.

I draw her close, settle my forehead on hers for a moment then exhale again. “I’m fine.”

“Jean-Mi?—”

“After all of that?—”

I lift my head, watch Rory as she skips over to Chrissy, lacing her arm through my daughter’s and all but dragging her toward the kitchen.

“—it’s time to open a bottle of wine!”

Chrissy glances over her shoulder at me as she’s hauled along, her eyes concerned.

Because she knows I’m worried.

And, fuck, I can’t have that.

Can’t have my regrets and mistakes clouding her present.

“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing the throb in my forehead. “I need to get out of here.”

“Right.”

Tiff’s soft hand squeezes mine, and I glance down as she asks,

“Your place or mine?”