55. TESSA
TESSA
Ryker charged like a freight train, his shoulder connecting with Blake’s stomach with enough force to send them both sprawling into my landlord’s prized hydrangeas. The flowers never stood a chance.
“Ryker!” I yelled.
My brother’s tattooed fist connected with Blake’s jaw, the crack echoing off the brick townhouses. The same fist that used to threaten my high school dates was now trying to rearrange his best friend’s face.
“I told you to never touch my sister.”
“You knew I was protecting her,” Blake snapped.
“Protecting. Not fucking.” Another punch.
“RYKER JAMES KINCAID!” This time, I channeled our mother’s voice, which was about as effective as trying to stop a hurricane with an umbrella.
I lunged forward, wrapping my arms around my brother’s torso, trying to restrain six foot two of pure rage.
But it was like a miniature dachshund attempting to tackle a Great Dane, and as an added bonus, my timing couldn’t have been worse.
As I grabbed him, Ryker was already pulling back for another punch.
His elbow caught my temple, sending me stumbling backward onto the grass.
Blake’s eyes darkened dangerously as he watched me fall.
He shoved my brother with enough force to flip their positions, landing a solid punch that was definitely going to leave Ryker with a black eye that’d be hard to explain to his clients.
You know, criminals who were on trial for violent crimes.
“And here I thought, board meetings were violent.” The dry voice cut through the chaos.
I looked up to see Jace standing at the edge of my lawn, impeccable in a charcoal suit despite the early hour, one eyebrow raised in amusement. He must have been in the car with Ryker?
“Gentlemen,” he said, voice deceptively calm as he strode toward the brawl, “I believe this is what we call a PR disaster.”
With shocking efficiency, he inserted himself between Blake and Ryker, using his considerable height and strength to separate them with one arm each. They continued struggling against his grip like rabid wolves, but Jace held firm, the only sign of exertion a slight tightening around his jaw.
“Lockwood, get the hell out of my way,” Ryker snarled, trying to maneuver around him.
Jace’s grip only tightened. “You two realize there are at least seven people filming this right now?” His voice remained conversational, but something in his tone made both men pause.
“And that at least three of those videos will be on social media within five minutes? Tell me, Ryker, how will your clients feel about their attorney being filmed assaulting a doctor? And, Blake, I’m sure the hospital board will be thrilled to see their chief of emergency medicine applicant participating in a lawn-wrestling match. ”
They stopped struggling, though the murderous glares continued.
“Now,” Jace continued, “as entertaining as this is—and believe me, watching two grown men destroy their careers over testosterone is truly fascinating—perhaps we could continue this discussion inside? Unless you’d prefer to complete your mutual destruction in public.”
My head throbbing, I scrambled to my feet.
“I told you what I’d do if you ever touched my sister!” Ryker growled at Blake, ignoring Jace completely.
“This isn’t some random hookup!” Blake shot back, dodging another attempt by Ryker to get around Jace. “I’m in love with her, you fucking idiot!”
Those words seemed to enrage Ryker even more. A one-off hookup was one thing. A complicated, long-term relationship? That was exactly what Ryker was trying to avoid this whole time between me and Blake, and Blake defied his warnings.
“I’m going to sell your organs on the black market!” Ryker started struggling again.
“Fascinating business model,” Jace remarked dryly, “but I’m afraid medical ethics committees tend to frown on organ harvesting from living donors.”
Blake and Ryker lunged for each other, arms around Jace.
“STOP IT!” I shrieked. “You guys are middle-aged!”
They all froze, like someone had hit pause on a very violent movie. Three heads swiveled toward me in perfect synchronization, wearing matching expressions of horror.
“I’m not middle-aged,” Ryker said, looking genuinely wounded. “I’m thirty-five.”
Blake shoved away from my brother and Jace, brushing grass from his now-ruined dress shirt. “Middle-aged is, like, forty-five.”
“I don’t even have gray hair yet,” Jace added quietly, looking legitimately offended.
I stared at them in disbelief. “Seriously? THAT’S what got you to stop?”
“We’re not middle-aged,” Ryker muttered again, wiping blood from his split lip with the back of his hand.
“For once, I actually agree with your brother,” Jace said, straightening his tie, which had almost remained perfect despite the physical intervention.
I planted myself between Ryker and Blake, arms spread between their chests, just in case they started acting like morons again.
“A) You’re not teenagers anymore, so stop acting like them!
And B) in case either of you needs a reminder, I’m thirty-three years old.
You.” I jabbed a finger at Ryker. “Lost the right to express opinions over my dating choices when I stopped wearing braces, and you”—I turned to Blake—“are not helping your case by rolling around on my lawn like a WWE reject!
“And you.” I turned to Jace, who actually took a step back, hands raised in surrender. “What are you even doing here?”
“Ryker and I had plans. He took a detour, to check on you.” Jace shot an accusing look at Blake. “Seems multiple people have been worried about you lately, Tessa, and that role should come with a warning label.”
Good God, people were still recording us. Probably posting videos online as we spoke. I could imagine the headlines now.
Emergency Room Doctor Practices Bone-Setting Technique on Best Friend’s Face.
High-Profile Criminal Defense Attorney Discovers Assault Charges Are Less Fun from the Other Side of the Courtroom.
“Till Death Do Us Part” Takes on New Meaning at Wedding Planner’s Home.
Billionaire CEO Referees Lawn Brawl. Stock Prices Soar!
“Get in the house,” I hissed, pointing at my front door. “Now. Or I swear to God, I’ll be the one selling all your organs on the black market.”
They maintained their alpha-male staring contest for a few more seconds, muscles tense, like two tomcats deciding if another round was worth it. Finally, they trudged up my sidewalk, leaving a trail of grass clippings and wounded pride in their wake.
I followed behind them, already mentally composing an apology email to my landlord about the decimated flower bed.
“What are you doing here?” I snapped to Ryker once inside.
“You haven’t been returning my phone calls. Decided to pop over and make sure you’re okay.”
“I’ve been busy,” I said apologetically.
“So it would appear.” My brother’s gaze attempted to incinerate Blake.
“Not like that.”
Jace moved to the kitchen, inspecting the five-dollar coffee maker I’d snagged at a garage sale like he wasn’t sure what he was looking at.
His coffee maker was probably a shiny silver thing with three hundred buttons.
Mine had a crack, a chip, and a stained carafe that hadn’t been truly clean since the 1980s.
He poked at it dubiously with one finger. “This is … fascinating. Is this what they used to brew coffee before electricity?”
My brother’s gaze returned to my face, then wandered south, to the little wire attached to the small black box clipped to my waist.
“What the hell is that?” Ryker barked.
The heart monitor felt heavier on my waistband.
“What are you, going undercover? Trying to get somebody to confess to a crime or something?”
Such a typical thought for a lawyer.
“No, it’s …” Crap. I squared my shoulders. “It’s a traveling heart monitor. A cardiologist asked me to wear one for four weeks.”
My brother’s attention snapped to my eyes. Jace went completely still by the coffee maker, his gaze sharpening as he looked between me and Blake.
“A cardiologist,” Ryker repeated, his tone shifting into concern. “Why do you have to have your heart monitored?”
Ladies and gentlemen, it was time to buckle up and return your tray tables to their upright position.
I had thought long and hard about how I would break the news to my older brother that I had been battling a medical mystery, and whenever I thought about it, I imagined a calm conversation organized by me, after I had plenty of answers to reassure him.
But you know what they say about the best-laid plans.
Blake reached into my fridge, rummaged around, and found an ancient beer left by Eli, popping the cap off and handing it to Ryker.
“Here, man.” Blake put the bottle in Ryker’s hand.
“It’s not even noon,” Ryker balked.
“Trust me. You’re going to want a drink for this.”