Chapter 17
J eff lands a counter jab, this time on the side of my temple, snapping my head to the side. Pain lances through my skull, and I grunt, blinking away the white splotches dancing on the edges of my vision.
My arms fall for a split second before I raise them again, nodding at him to keep going. My breaths coming out ragged now and drowning out the upbeat rhythm of the radio Jeff always keeps running in the background. Somewhere in the corner of the gym, a couple of people are sparring on their own, while others alternate between weights in their circuits.
“For fuck’s sake,” Jeff growls, pausing mid-stride. He lets his punch mitts drop to his sides, disappointment radiating from him. Not a single drop of sweat glistens on his inked skin, and the lack of exertion on his part feels like salt in my wounds. “That was an easy block. Where the hell is your head?”
Natalie and Silas’s faces surface in the corners of my thoughts. They always do. They’ve seeped into the fabric of my mind, woven into the very threads of my existence. No matter how hard I try, I can’t stop seeing their faces, my betrayals, the collision course of all of it. It plays on repeat in my head, an unrelenting loop.
I shake my head violently, as if the motion alone could dislodge them. “At the other end of your mitts, apparently,” I snap, trying to mask my turmoil with sarcasm.
Jeff’s scowl deepens. He strips off his mitts with practiced ease before spitting the guard out of his mouth and letting it drop into his palm.
“Sit,” he orders.
“Come on, J. I’ll do better.” The bravado in my voice falters, the exhaustion bleeding through. My guard stays up anyway, a futile attempt to convince him—and maybe myself—that I’m still in this.
Jeff rolls his eyes, the muscles in his tattooed neck straining as he points firmly to the mat. “You aren’t focused, and I’m not about to haul your ass to the hospital. You can take a breather, or we’re done for the day. Your choice.”
Normally, I’d argue and push until he gave in. But today? Today, I drop to the mat without a word, lying flat on my back with my knees bent. As the adrenaline fades, the ache of Jeff’s earlier hits settles in—a pulsing heat in my sides, temple, left cheek, and thigh.
A water bottle appears in my peripheral vision, Jeff holding it out without a word. I grab it and set it beside me, the cool plastic pressing into my palm. He mutters something about hydrating, but I don’t respond. Instead, I stare up at the industrial ceiling, its black paint stark against the fluorescent lights humming overhead. The brightness stings my already watering eyes, but I can’t bring myself to look away.
Jeff drops himself onto the mat with a thud near my feet. The force jolts my soles off the floor, but he says nothing. After a few moments, he shifts, stretching out parallel to me, his tattooed arms folding behind his head.
“The hell is going on with you?” he finally asks, his tone a mix of exasperation and concern.
“Nothing,” I reply curtly, pulling my mouth guard out and wiping my lips with the back of my glove.
“Nothing, my ass.” He grunts, sliding closer until his head is turned toward me. His gaze burns into the side of my face, but I refuse to meet it. I keep my eyes locked on the ceiling, counting the fluorescent lights in an attempt to focus on anything else. “Come on, kid,” he mutters, softer this time.
The concern in his voice weighs on me more than I want to admit. What can I even say? Jeff has a knack for pushing my buttons—sometimes to the brink of madness—but I care about him. He’s become this weird, tattooed uncle-figure in my life, and the thought of him getting caught in the crosshairs of my mess is unbearable.
But I’m exhausted. Of keeping everything bottled up. Of pretending I have control. Of carrying this weight alone. It’s selfish and reckless, But right now, I just need someone who isn’t tangled in this chaos. He doesn’t need the full truth—just enough to remind me there’s someone who still cares.
“I can’t tell you,” I admit in a whisper. “I can’t tell anyone.”
Jeff stays silent beside me, his presence grounding in its simplicity. He’s always been acutely observant, ever since our first session together. I used to make vague requests for specific skills, asking to learn ways to protect myself that wouldn’t make sense for an average thirty-something woman working in tech. No matter how odd my scenarios sounded, he never questioned me. He’d just nod, answer, and show me exactly what I needed to know. It was as if he understood, even without the details, that there were things I couldn’t say. Instead of prying, he poured everything into teaching me, pushing me harder on the mat, preparing me in the only way he could.
I suspect Jeff knows a thing or two about trouble himself—probably got into his fair share. But just as he’s never asked about my past, I’ve given him the same respect in return.
“Are you in danger?” His voice is low, careful. A reminder that the gym isn’t empty; there are still a few others training on the far side of the room.
I consider my answer carefully before matching his tone. “Baseline? Always to some degree. Right now? Absolutely.” I hope the vague honesty makes sense to him.
Jeff’s exhale is a slow, heavy sound, and I see him glance at the ceiling in my peripheral vision. “Shit.”
A strangled laugh escapes me, teetering on the edge of hysteria. My vision blurs. “I know,” I choke out.
“What can I do to help you?”
“You already have,” I reply earnestly, my voice softer now. “Multiple days a week for months.”
A beat of silence passes, heavy and full of unspoken things. Then, without meaning to, the words I’ve been dying to say out loud come tumbling out. “My work is… complicated. I have to do things I don’t agree with and the job I’m on now involves people I like a lot. And when it’s over, what I do might destroy their family.”
Jeff is quiet for a moment, digesting my words. Then, he asks, “Your work makes you, or you choose to?”
Peter’s furious face flashes in my mind, and a shiver runs down my spine.
“Makes me,” I whisper, closing my eyes as a few stray tears slip from the corners, trailing down toward my ears. Jeff hums in understanding, his voice steady and calm.
“Do these people deserve to be destroyed?”
I shrug, half-heartedly, unsure if he’s even looking at me anymore. “I don’t know this time. But I… I think they’re actually good. I don’t want to hurt them.”
“And there’s no option for you to walk away?” The resignation in his voice tells me he already knows the answer.
Another strained laugh bubbles out of me, bitter and hollow. “I won’t be able to say no to this kind of work for a very long time.”
The confession I rarely admit, even to myself, steals the breath from my lungs. My body shakes as I struggle to hold back the sob clawing its way up my throat.
Jeff’s hand grips my forearm firmly, his fingers nearly wrapping all the way around. He holds me there, steadying me. It’s a simple gesture, maybe the closest thing to affection a man like him will ever openly offer someone who isn’t his wife, but I know what it means. He’s here, sitting with me in this unbearable moment, and though it’s all he can give, it’s enough.
“I’m so sorry,” he says gruffly, clearing his throat. His thumb brushes against my skin in a show of comfort. “I don’t think I have the right connections to help you.”
“I don’t think anyone does,” I murmur with a small, sad smile. “They’d find me, anyway.”
Finally, I turn my head toward him, catching his thoughtful expression through the haze of leftover tears. His blue eyes are clouded with concern, his brows pulled together as he thinks.
“If there’s anyone smart enough to figure a way out of this, it’s you,” he says firmly. The sentiment is sweet, but it only makes me deflate further into the mat.
“I wish I had a choice,” I admit softly, chewing on the inside of my lip.
“It might not feel like you do,” he counters, his voice quiet but resolute. “But you can always choose yourself, Scarlett. That’s always an option.” His fingers tighten briefly around my arm, and he gives me a crooked smile that softens the scar on his upper lip. “If you choose yourself, and it’s the end of the line for the rest of it? Come find me. I’ll do whatever I can to keep you safe.”
The conviction in his voice slices through me.
“Thanks, J,” I say finally. There’s no point in arguing with him, no use in trying to convince him otherwise. I’ll let him hold on to the hope that I’ll come to him in my hour of need. But deep down, I know the truth. If it comes down to it, no one else will suffer because of me.
“You got it, kid,” he replies, giving my arm one last squeeze before letting go.