Fool Me Once (New England Bay Sharks #2)

Chapter 8

R insing out my coffee cup, I take a piece of bacon and toss it to Storm, who leaps into the air to catch it before swallowing it nearly whole.

“Ever heard of chewing, bud?” I shake my head. “You’re lucky I gave you that after you traded me in and treated me like chopped liver.”

Last night, I ordered everything I knew Gemma used to like, and then I just hoped and prayed that she still liked the same shit. Her appetite seems smaller than it was when she was a teenager, but she picked away at all the different food options I’d laid out. And then, after we ate in practical silence, she said she was going to go to sleep. And when she did, my fucking dog followed her to her bedroom and didn’t come out until she opened her door about ten minutes ago.

Traitor.

Spending time with her like I did last night makes me wonder if she’ll ever get back to her true self. The one that is strong, fierce, funny, and sweet. Right now, she’s just an empty shell of the girl she was before, but I know the real Gemma is somewhere in there.

He couldn’t have taken all of her away, could he?

Just thinking that makes me sick to my stomach.

When I hear movement coming from the hallway, Storm’s tail begins to wag, and soon, Gemma walks into the kitchen in plaid pajama pants and a fitted black top that makes my cock stir in my sweatpants because, fuck me, she’s gorgeous. She doesn’t have an ounce of makeup on, and her hair is piled on top of her head with a bunch of random pieces falling out. Yet she looks like an angel.

“Good morning,” I say, leaning against the counter. “How did you sleep? Hopefully well, considering you stole my bed buddy.”

I wish you’d be my bed buddy instead of my dog’s , I’d like to say, but I can’t.

“I can’t help it that he likes me more,” she tosses back playfully.

Like a fucking pussy, my heart melts when I hear her joke around a bit.

“I slept pretty good.” She smiles softly. “The fan helped. It also helped to drown out Storm’s snoring.”

I bob my head up and down slowly. “Yep, I forgot to mention that, didn’t I? Dude snores like an eighty-year-old grandpa.”

“So, if you think about it, you should be thanking me for taking him off your hands.” She shrugs. “I mean, you had peace and quiet, and I had … that guy.” She waves toward Storm, and his ears perk up.

“Yeah, I suppose you have a point,” I agree with her. “I brewed coffee, and there’s sugar cookie creamer in the refrigerator.” I pause, grimacing. “I figured I’d try it out, and I had to toss my first cup this morning. That shit is disgusting.”

“How did you know I like that kind?” She looks at me, confused, then rolls her eyes and lets a slow grin pull at her lips. “Saylor. Who am I kidding? I should have known the answer already.”

I hold up my phone. “Yep. She gave me a whole list of things to get the day before you moved in. I’ll tell you, I’m pretty sure her list would be a lot longer since she’s a diva and all.”

She giggles before an expression that is every bit as happy as it is sad covers her face, and she swallows. “She’s a good one, that girl. I hope she loves South Carolina.”

“I hope South Carolina is ready for her,” I utter, widening my eyes. “Hurricane Saylor is about to stir some shit up.”

“She’s going to do great,” she says easily. “I know it.”

Turning away from her, I reach up in the cupboard and grab a cup before walking over to the corner and filling it with coffee. It’s obvious she isn’t comfortable here yet, and I can’t really blame her for that. Between all she’s endured and us spending so much time apart, I’m practically a stranger to her now.

I set it down on the countertop, next to where she stands, before opening the refrigerator, getting out the world’s most disgusting creamer, and putting it beside the cup .

Her cheeks turn red, and she looks down. “Th-thank you,” she utters nervously, and I fucking hate the nervousness in her tone simply from a cup of coffee.

She’s a shell of who she was before, and I can’t stand it.

All I want to do is comfort her, and it’s taking every bit of willpower in my being not to walk up to her, grip her cheek, and kiss her lips. I’ve missed everything about her since the last night we spent together, but I can’t do any of that shit. Not after everything she’s been through.

She’s skittish, so I’ve tried to balance that with giving her plenty of space and not being overbearing. And she’s angry with me for the past, so I haven’t pushed talking too much because I know I blew my chance at asking her anything about her life. But now that my sister is in a different state, I hope Gemma will lean on me to be her person.

I fucking want to be her person again so badly.

“Well, I have to head to the arena,” I say, tucking my phone into my pocket. “The code to the gate and the keys to the white truck in the garage are in that spinny thing on the table. If you need to go anywhere, it’s all yours.”

She’s mid-pour of the creamer, which appears to be half the damn bottle, when she snorts. “I’m not driving your truck, Smith.”

“Why not?” I shrug. “If you don’t like that one, you can have the black one instead.”

Her eyes narrow when she sets the creamer down and gazes at me. “I’m not driving any of your vehicles, Smith. They are too nice, and I just … I don’t want to.”

“What if you need to go somewhere?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “What if you run out of your shitty coffee creamer?”

Raising her cup, she holds it out before bringing it to her lips. “Then, I’ll order some more to be delivered to the house because, nowadays, we can do shit like that.”

I’m frustrated with her right now because I hate the thought of her feeling stuck here in this house. I don’t know what her man put her through before she came to Maine, but if she ever felt trapped, that’s the last thing I’d want her to feel like with me. But she just moved in yesterday. Rome wasn’t built in a day, just like it’ll take a helluva lot more than one day to take down her walls .

“All right,” I say, letting it go. “But if you change your mind, the keys are in the black one.” I jerk my chin toward Storm. “He loves rides, by the way.”

Even though I have a tracker on both of my trucks—which I put in them last night in case she went anywhere because I don’t have a fucking clue what her ex might do—I’d like her to have extra protection by taking Storm with her. I have no doubt that if someone attacked her, he wouldn’t let it slide.

“Noted,” she utters, taking another sip of her coffee. “Have a good day.”

Reluctantly, I drag my feet to the door. “You too,” I call out. “See you this afternoon. My number is written on a sticky note on the counter. Let me know if you need anything or want me to pick anything up on the way home.”

“Will do.”

As I pull the door open and head to my truck, my stomach feels sick. Because I’m supposed to keep her safe, and I don’t know how to do that when I’m expected to play hockey every day of my life.

One thing is for sure though: if it comes down to choosing between Gemma or hockey … I’ll choose her.

I won’t make the same mistake twice.

After researching a few nearby colleges to possibly apply to so I can finish my degree, washing the very few articles of clothing I had, and walking Storm up and down the driveway a bunch of times, I decided that all that was left to do was to contact my parents and tell them it was time to call the wedding off. At this point, I would think that Richie and his parents already had, but do psychopaths ever do what you expect them to? Probably not. I want my friends and family to have the chance to get their money back, if still possible .

At first, I try to sit cross-legged on my bed as I dial my mom’s number. But as soon as it starts ringing, I scurry off the bed and begin to pace the room. Two rings later, she answers.

“Gemma, I really hope you won’t hang up on me today,” she says as a plea, and my heart breaks a little for being so selfish lately. “Your father and I have been worried sick.” She sniffles. “I can’t sleep.”

I inhale deeply, gathering every bit of determination inside me to get this off my chest and set my people-pleasing self free.

“The wedding is off,” rushes from my mouth in a brisk squeak. “I … I’m sorry, Mom, for telling you so last minute. But I can’t marry him.” My voice breaks, and my throat burns, as if I swallowed a bunch of tacks. “I just can’t.”

“His mother called last night and said it was canceled because you had run off, but I need to know, why can’t you marry him, baby?” She speaks evenly. “I just want to make sure you are really, really sure about this. Because once you call this wedding off, that’s it, sweetie. You won’t get another chance.”

Tears well in my eyes, but while my eyes are sad, the rest of my body doesn’t seem to get the memo. I begin to shake, filled with red-hot anger.

“Mom, Richie is a piece of shit!” I growl through gritted teeth. “His parents are pieces of shit! They are all pieces of fucking shit!”

“Gemma Marie!” she half screams, half hisses directly into the phone. “What has gotten into you?”

“Listen to me, Mom!” I feel the anger slowly lifting from my body, leaving behind nothing but pain, to the point of hysterics. “Don’t you think”—I suck in a shaky breath—“if I’m telling you he’s bad, you should just listen to me? And talk to me?”

It feels like, once again, this is going nowhere. But somewhere, out of the blue … it hits me.

This isn’t a conversation I should have over the phone. This is one I need to have in person to make her finally see my pain and hear my cries.

“I’m coming home to see you,” I croak out in my raspy voice. “I’ll be there in a few hours.”

“I think that’d be wise,” she says sharply, making me end the call even faster.

The only trouble is, now, I have to find a ride.

I stand behind the gate, waiting for the Uber to arrive. My heart beats fast inside my chest, and I can’t deny the panic I feel because I’m about to ride with a stranger, potentially putting myself in harm’s way.

Again.

I keep Storm on a leash at my side. After finding a pet-friendly Uber, I decided to leave Smith a note and steal his dog for the remainder of the day. Something about having him with me makes me feel a little safer.

When a small car comes into view, I feel like I might actually puke. And the craziest part is, I just keep thinking about how, if I get kidnapped, what if Storm gets hurt? He’s already been through so much. I should have just left him in the comfort of his home. But, no, I was selfish and brought him along.

When the car pulls into the mouth of the driveway, I type in the code for the gate, and once it opens, I let my feet lead me to the Uber. Nerves grow in my stomach, and I seriously debate on yelling to the driver that his service is no longer needed and then running back up the driveway as fast as my and Storm’s legs will carry us.

My legs feel shaky, but before I have to make the decision on what to do, a black truck pulls into the driveway, right behind the small car.

Smith doesn’t waste time looking at the situation before rushing out of his truck and toward us.

“What the fuck is going on?” he barks out, but more at the driver than to me. “Who the fuck is this person?” He walks up to the window of the car, which is now down. “What the fuck are you doing in my driveway?”

The man, who appears to be in his thirties, instantly looks panicked. “I got a request for a pickup!” He points toward me and Storm.

Smith’s chest heaves, and his wild eyes look from the driver to me before moving back to the car.

“Go,” he roars, and when the car doesn’t instantly speed away, he leans down a little closer. “Get the fuck off my property!” he yells louder.

The driver stomps on the gas so quickly that I’m surprised he doesn’t burn rubber.

Once he’s gone, Smith turns his body toward me. “What the fuck were you thinking, Gemma?”

“I just … I wanted to go to—”

“I told you to take my truck!” he barks, his words dripping with anger.

His body language proves how infuriated he is. Suddenly, invisible walls are closing in on me, and I feel like I’m suffocating. My mind and body have been conditioned to know what comes after a raised voice.

I messed up, and he’s mad.

Smith’s face disappears, replaced with Richie’s.

He’s going to kill me. For running away. For disobeying him.

Spots of white dance in my vision, and my mouth grows dry. “I … I can’t—” Tears fill my eyes, but the spots of white become bigger blobs. “I can’t … please … don’t—”

My words are hardly a cry now, and when he steps toward me … everything else slips away. All I see is white, and my body falls backward.

Fear—it can do some crazy things.

How could I have been that fucking stupid to get that angry in front of her after all she’s been through?

I ask myself that same question over and over again, wanting to punch myself for being so rash when it came to Gemma. I might not know her entire story or every detail of what she’s gone through, but I’ve picked up enough to fucking know that I shouldn’t raise my voice at or around her. Ever.

I was so angry when I saw that car. At first, I was afraid it was her ex, tracking her down. And then I was pissed that she would ride with a stranger instead of just driving my truck. But that’s no excuse for the way I acted. None at all.

Now, she’s shaking in my arms inside my truck .

“I’m so sorry, baby,” I murmur, rubbing my hands up and down her arms, as if that’ll help her stop shivering or some shit.

She’s not shivering because she’s cold. It’s fucking fifty degrees out today, the first week of December. She’s shivering because she’s afraid of me.

She’s. Afraid. Of. Me.

“I promise, you’re safe,” I whisper, tears clouding my vision at the sight before me. “You’re okay. It’s okay.”

You dumb fuck. If you hadn’t listened to her dad, you never would have left her, and she would have never gotten with that monster and now have to live her life, fucking scared. You fucking selfish prick. You took off, and you left her vulnerable and brokenhearted. You did that, Smith. You worthless fuck.

The intrusive thoughts don’t stop, and I don’t ask them to either. I deserve every single thing running through my mind. No one knows me better than I know myself. And I fucked up. And everything is my fault.

I run my hand over her hair, pushing it off her forehead. I lean forward to kiss her temple, but I stop myself. I can’t just do shit like that with her. I can’t just expect to pick up where we left off.

I love you. I’m sorry. It’s right there on the tip of my tongue, begging to be blurted out. I wish it could fix everything, but it wouldn’t. She needs so much more than my words, which are too fucking little and too late anyway.

Holding her in my arms, I rock her gently, and once again, her phone buzzes in her pocket. This time, her eyes start to pry open, and she looks up at me, a deep frown on her lips.

“Can you please answer that? I was supposed to be going to my parents’ house.” A tear rolls down her cheek. “But I can’t,” she rasps. “Can you tell my mom that I’m sick and that I’ll come tomorrow instead?”

Nodding, I pull the phone from her pocket and bring it to my ear.

“Hello?” I say, looking down at her to find her big blue eyes on me, watching my every move.

“I must have dialed the wrong number …” There’s a pause before Gemma’s mother speaks again. “No, I didn’t. I checked. So, tell me, who the hell are you, and why do you have my daughter’s phone?”

“Mrs. Jones, it’s Smith Sawyer,” I say, trying to remain as calm as I possibly can. “Gemma was coming to see you, but she’s not feeling very good and asked if I could pass the message along that she’ll come tomorrow instead.”

“Why is she with you?” she hisses, clearly upset .

She’s speaking loud enough, and Gemma is close enough to the phone that I know she can hear her. I widen my eyes slightly, lifting my shoulders in question. She gives me the tiniest nod, telling me it’s okay.

“Tell her,” she whispers, more tears flowing. “Tell her everything you know.”

Though it doesn’t feel like my place, I’d tell her mom to go to hell if her daughter told me to do it. Shit, probably way worse too.

“Because she’s staying with me,” I say sharply. “Because she needed to get away from that abusive prick, Richie. That’s why.”

Now, tears flow down in a river from her eyes, and her face twists into pure sadness. But when I pause, she nods once more. Although she’s never said the words out loud to me, she’s somehow sharing with me in her own way.

“I don’t—” she starts to say, but I cut her off.

“Please, Mrs. Jones, if you care about the well-being of your daughter, which I know you do, you will not tell him where she is.” My voice breaks, and I sound desperate. That’s all right though because I am fucking desperate. “I’ll drive her to you tomorrow, but just promise me you’ll keep her whereabouts between us.”

There’s a pause before I hear a sharp, shaky inhale and some sniffling.

“He was hurting her?” she croaks. “He was hurting my baby, and I didn’t even know it?”

I continue stroking her hair, never breaking my eyes from hers.

“He was,” I rasp. “She’s safe now, and we’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ending the call, I set the phone down. “I’m so sorry, Firefly,” I mutter, swallowing the emotion in my throat. “I will never ever raise my voice at you again. I just got scared. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Her body shakes as she begins to cry harder, sucking in a breath so sharply that her throat squeaks.

“It’s okay,” she barely whispers. “I’m just … I’m …” Her teeth clatter together. “I’m broken.”

“You’re the furthest thing from broken, Gem. You’re a survivor.” I cup her cheek. “You’re a warrior.”

I know she doesn’t believe me, so I say it again. And again. And again. I say it so many times that I’m sure she’s sick of hearing it. But I mean it, and more than anything … I need her to believe it too.