Chapter Seventeen #2
“Of course, sir.” The waiter disappears, and I collapse into Flynn’s chest. His arms encircle me, and he rubs my back gently.
“I think I might go to the bathroom before we go. Then, we can go home, and I’ll get my car to head over there.” I sigh, pulling away from his chest and wrapping my arms around my stomach. I feel sick.
“Like hell,” Flynn grumbles, stepping into my space again. “There is no way I’m letting you go to the bar alone, knowing that douchebag is there waiting, drunk and probably aggressive.”
“But—”
“No, Katie. We either both go, or you come home with me and call the police.” He steps into my space again, gently kissing me on the lips. “Go to the bathroom. I will meet you at the front.”
I watch him take his jacket from the back of the booth and head for the front of the restaurant, where he meets the waiter, waiting with our dessert, now in a bag, and the bill.
I turn the other way, taking a right down one of the corridors off the kitchen, and head for the bathroom.
Flynn was right—they are fancy. As I wash up, I look at myself in the mirror.
You can’t see the bruise anymore. Months have passed since it finally cleared up, and I was able to stop piling on concealer just to get through the day.
I still see it, though. The yellow and purple bruising he left the last time I saw him.
The split lip, the blood trickling down my chin.
I didn’t even cry when he did it. I was just in shock. I remember the way it felt so distinctly that when I reach up to brush the space just below my left eye, I flinch as if expecting it to still hurt like it did the days directly afterward.
I take a deep breath, holding it in while I count for seven seconds before releasing it. Tears sting the back of my eyes, but I refuse to cry. Grant lost the right to my tears the day I walked away from him for the last time, the day he decided slapping me across the face was a good idea.
***
Flynn pulls into the parking lot of the bar twenty minutes after we leave the restaurant.
His hand rested on my knee the entire time, and as I wait for him to come around the truck and open my door, a shiver rushes through me.
I started working at this bar when I was eighteen.
I looked forward to earning my own money, even if it was my parents paying my wages, and I couldn’t wait to finally give the ideas I’d gotten from years of watching them run the place a go.
Not once in the last eight years since starting here as an employee have I ever wanted to run the opposite way.
Not once have I been scared of the daily challenges that await me inside those doors, not once have I ever been nervous to stand toe to toe with a drunk man and tell him he has to leave. Usually, I enjoy it.
But almost a year ago, I walked away from the man waiting inside and vowed that I would never speak to—let alone see—him ever again.
After we broke up, I saw a counselor for a few weeks.
I never admitted it to anyone, but I knew it was probably for the best. I didn’t go into the details of my relationship, nor did I tell her about the slap, but we just talked, and she gave me some breathing techniques to help with the anxiety that came along with the change.
Then, I went to Italy.
After Italy, everything seemed to go back to normal.
I felt better, stronger. I just wanted to move on and get back to my life.
Of course, the whole falling into bed with Flynn, then hearing how much of a playboy he was, put a little damper on the trip, but if I’m truly honest with myself, the months of playful banter, the little love-hate friendship we formed, healed me a little.
I’ve felt like the girl I was in college, before Grant. Headstrong, opinionated, free.
The car door opens, and Flynn holds out a hand to me. I take it and step out of the truck. He doesn’t let go of me as we make our way to the front door. Again, he steps in front, leading us both inside.
The place is almost empty. The kitchen staff are standing in front of the bar, Justin and Maria behind it.
Doug and a few other locals stand off the side, speaking quietly amongst themselves.
There’s glass all over the floor and a cracked plate, the food that was obviously on it when it dropped, lying nearby.
Jesus Christ.
I look around, spotting a man sitting in a booth across from the bar. He stares at me, his eyes glazed over, and he sways even though sitting down. His tie is half undone, his hair is a mess, and his shirt, from what I can see, is covered in beer.
Grant.
Fuck, he looks awful.
Flynn squeezes my hand, letting me go as he moves to stand behind me, his chest against my back and his hand on my hip. He’s letting me handle it, but not alone.
“Everyone okay?” I call out, and my staff all look up, relieved.
A few of the chefs nod. Doug and his friends hold their pints up, still half full of beer, in greeting.
Why he’s still here, I have no idea. Well, I do.
The man’s the biggest gossip I know. Justin races around the bar and comes over, stepping carefully over the glass.
“Sorry about the mess, Katie. I tried to clean it, but every time we got close, he started up again. Thought it best to just leave it until you got here.”
“That’s okay.” I glance at Justin. His face is as white as a ghost. “Roscoe?” I call out to my head chef. “Will you take Justin for some food out back? And a drink, yeah?”
“Sure, boss.” Roscoe, my tattooed, six-foot, forty-year-old chef, nods and motions for Justin to follow him. The rest of the kitchen staff turn and face Maria, who’s been a bartender here for years.
“Grant?” I ask, taking a small step toward the booth he’s sitting in. “What are you doing here?”
“You won’t answer any of my calls. Had to come. Had to see you.”
“It’s been months, Grant. We’re over.”
“I never wanted that.” He shakes his head, still swaying in his seat. “I never wanted to be over. You walked out without giving me a chance.”
“I gave you four years,” I say carefully.
“What do you want? Do you want a ring? You want to get married like your friend? I’ll get you a ring,” Grant slurs.
“You know that isn’t what I meant.”
“I didn’t do anything to deserve you leaving me.”
I take a deep breath. Suddenly, I wish I’d asked everyone to leave, not just Justin and Roscoe. “You cheated on me. Multiple times. I’m not sure what else you expected me to do.”
“You forgave me.”
“I was wrong to do that.” I feel Flynn’s hand tighten on my hip. “I should have walked away the first time I found out.”
Grant gets to his feet, shuffling uneasily our way. He points his finger at me. “You told me you loved me.”
“I did.” It was true. I did love him. Just not in the right way, and not anymore.
“I miss you,” he slurs. “Please give me another chance.” He takes another few uneasy steps and gets too close for Flynn’s liking.
“That’s close enough,” he growls, tugging me back. He takes a step back but stays behind me. As if he only just notices I’m not alone, Grant’s eyes flash, anger firing up in them as he stares at Flynn.
“Stay out of this.”
“Then stay back. You can have a conversation without getting in her face.”
Grant’s gaze lands back on me, his lip snarling. “How long did it take you to replace me? Or were you fucking him before we broke up? Is he the reason you walked out on me? Slut.”
I flinch at the word but don’t react. He’s called me this before. He’s called me every name in the book before, whenever he drank too much and then picked a fight.
“That’s enough,” Flynn growls. This time, he does move in front of me.
His hand on my hip tugs me backward, and he steps around me in one motion, placing himself between Grant and me.
“We came here to have you removed. You wanted to see her, you’ve said your piece, and nothing’s changed. Time to go.”
“Fuck you.” Grant spits on the ground at Flynn’s feet, and I cringe. Ew.
“Back off.”
“Katie,” Grants says, his voice now pleading.
“Come on. You know I am the only man who knows how to take care of you. Come home. Please?” There’s a beat, and I rest my head on Flynn’s back, sighing as I don’t respond.
His next words, though, make me want to laugh.
“I’ll even get you those good bagels you like, and the flowers you always begged me to get whenever we went past the stall. Come on, babe.”
I laugh out loud. It’s hollow and full of disappointment. “I’m not begging for the bare minimum anymore, Grant. Go home.”
“Katie—”
“You heard her. Time to go.” Flynn takes a step forward. It’s the wrong move.
In one go, Grant curses at him and then rushes him, aiming a sloppy punch at his jaw. Flynn reacts on instinct, blocking Grant’s sloppy attempt and hitting him back. Square in the jaw.
The crunch echoes through the bar. No one dares to take a breath. Grant hits the floor, knocked out.
“Oh, shit,” Maria curses.
“Atta, boy!” Doug cheers, holding his pint up as his friends all clap.
I just stare at Grant, groaning and moaning on the floor as he comes round. His eyes roll back, and he coughs, moving onto his side as he tries to get up. A finger gently drags my gaze away from my ex-boyfriend on the floor. Flynn studies my face.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.” I nod. “Are you?” I look down at his hand, hanging by his side. It’s already red, likely going to bruise all over his knuckles. “Oh my god, Flynn. Your hand.”
He shakes it out, flexing his fingers as I stare at it. “It’ll be fine.”
Behind us, Maria calls the police and asks for the ambulance as well. Grant will likely spend the night in a police cell or a hospital bed. As long as it’s not at my bar, I don’t care.
They take less than five minutes to arrive.
I watch from the front door as the medics bend over Grant, asking him questions and checking his jaw. Not broken, thank god.
The police talk to Justin and Maria, getting their story of what happened when he first showed up.
Doug and his friends are told to go home, and the chefs help clean up the remaining glass and broken plates on the floor.
Flynn stands behind me as I watch them roll Grant out on an ambulance stretcher. Flynn broke his nose.
Good.
As they pass us, Grant’s eyes open, tears filling them.
“Katie. I’m sorry. I am. For everything.
For cheating—” I don’t say anything, but I also don’t look away.
God, what a sad excuse for a man. To think, I used to believe I would be happy with this guy.
“For never treating you right. And … I’m sorry for the last time we saw each other.
I shouldn’t have done it.” I close my eyes and plead silently with Grant.
Please, please don’t say it. Please don’t say it.
“I never meant to hit you. I’m sorry.”
I feel Flynn’s arm around my waist tighten, and his chest freeze. I let out the breath I’d been holding since I walked into the bar tonight to deal with Grant and the mess he made. Goddammit. He fucking said it.
“He what?” Flynn says in my ear. I can only shake my head, keeping my eyes closed and hoping that maybe Flynn will just leave it alone.
Of course, he won’t. He’s not the kind of guy to leave it alone.
He never was, and he never will be. Flynn spins me around to face him, taking my face in his hands. “He hit you?”