Chapter Thirty-Six
Jett
Goddamn it.
Now I’m sitting here picturing her thighs. The way they locked around me. The way she looked at me like I was the whole world right before she burned it down.
“If that were true, he’d know it. And so would Benji,” I say. My jaw ticks. The whole room turns toward me.
Her, Randy, Dickblock. I don’t flinch. I never do.
And she just keeps going, like she’s not bleeding me out in real time. “Love is complicated. Sometimes it looks like court orders. Or motorcycle fucking. Or…”
“It always looks like ain’t gonna share,” I say, flat. Cold. But my voice doesn’t sound like me. It sounds like something breaking.
Benji would share though, wouldn’t he? Smiling, gentle beast of a man. Letting her go off to someone else like she’s not a fucking fire you’d kill to keep. What the hell is wrong with him?
“No, Jett,” she says, too soft. “It doesn’t always look like that. Sometimes…”
“It doesn’t share,” I snap. “Not for normal people.”
“Normal?” she laughs. Actually laughs. That wild little sound that drives me insane.
I want to shut her up with my mouth. Pin her to the goddamn wall and suck the breath out of her. Rip the laugh right off her tongue. Make her feel how far from normal this is.
“You can’t go in there,” Hartwell’s voice snaps from the hallway.
A deeper voice answers. “Warrant. Darling.”
Fuck.
Chad.
Every muscle in my body goes tight. This is because of me.
The door slams open.
Four uniforms sweep in, guns holstered but hands twitchy. One of them scans the room, eyes locking on her like he already knows she’s going to be a problem. Because of course she is.
Dr. Hartwell’s right behind them, face pale but spine locked straight.
“Delilah P. Darling?” the lead one asks, already reaching for his cuffs.
No. No.
She stands before I can even blink. Chin up, tits out, fire in her throat. “Who the fuck is asking?”
Christ.
Randy chuckles like he’s watching pay-per-view. Some prick across the room lets out a whistle. I mentally tag him for later.
“If this is about Chip the sweaty gym troll, he started it,” she says. “Got in my face, got in my space, got smacked for his troubles.”
My hands curl into fists.
She’s a goddamn menace, but she’s mine.
I get to my feet. “I was a witness. Mr. Petergrind was aggressive. She’s five feet of fury in yoga pants. He cornered her.”
“Bullshit,” she snaps, stalking past me, wild and radiant and so stupidly brave I could scream. “He called me a tramp, disrupted my session, then followed me to the lot. So yeah, I smacked him. I stand by it.”
Dr. Hartwell tries to wedge between her and the officers. “She’s under therapeutic care, and you’re interrupting a confidential session. If there’s a warrant, we need to review it first.”
“We’ve got it here,” one says, flashing a crumpled sheet like that makes it sacred.
“And the charges?” I growl, stepping in front of her as the first one moves in.
“Assault. Vandalism,” the officer rattles off.
She opens her mouth.
I spin, palm to her face, covering it before she can say something profoundly incriminating. “She has the right to an attorney,” I say, dead calm even though my heart’s trying to climb up my throat.
“Got one with your name on it too, Mr. Ryker,” says a voice from the back.
My blood ices. I know that face.
Fuck.
“I was at work,” I snap, but it’s already too late.
Delilah barrels past me like I’m a traffic cone, not a wall of muscle.
“I’ll go,” she says, as if it’s noble instead of batshit. “Leave Jett out of it. I hit Clint. I left the note. Jett was just doing his job.”
God. Fucking. Dammit.
She sticks out her wrists like it’s a magic trick. Like if she gives them what they want, they’ll go away clean.
Rhys steps between her and the badge parade. “This is wildly inappropriate,” he says, voice sharp but calm. “She’s not a threat. Dragging her out in cuffs mid-session is not only excessive, it’s traumatizing.”
Delilah rolls her eyes and physically yeets him out of her way with one arm. “Rhys, please. I’ve been cuffed before. It’s honestly nostalgic at this point.”
She pivots to the lead officer. “Go on, Officer Rude Ass. Wanna be the guy who sides with gym bros and calls it justice? Fuckin’ go for it.”
One of them hesitates, but the other grabs her outstretched hand and slaps a cuff on her wrist. Cold steel and no hesitation. Then he spins her, grabs both arms, and yanks them behind her back.
She locks eyes with me and blows me a kiss like she’s not in the process of being arrested in a public goddamn therapy room.
“Sorry,” she mouths.
Then the second cuff clicks home like a gunshot, and I see her wince. She’s trying not to make a sound but it’s there, tight around her mouth, in her eyes.
That son of a bitch hurt her.
Something inside me snaps. I lunge.
Rhys is suddenly in front of me, hands up. “Jett, breathe.”
The only thing I’m breathing is blood and fury and the sound of that fucking cuff clicking onto her wrist.
I shove him. Hard.
“You wanna lay hands on someone, lay ‘em gently on her!” I shout and swing. Not thinking. Not aiming.
Rhys tries to block but I catch him in the jaw. He goes down, crumpling along with my last ounce of impulse control.
The nearest officer grabs my shoulder and slams me into the wall. His voice is a hot breath. “You wanna add assaulting an officer to the charges, tough guy?”
Rhys groans from the floor, fingers to his face. “I’ll call your lawyer,” he says, spitting blood.
“Tell him to bail her out first,” I grit, shoulders burning under the pressure.
Rhys drags himself upright, still professional even when bleeding. “I got it. Just, both of you, don’t say another word.”
Delilah, halfway out the door, looks over her shoulder and winks.
I want to scream.
They drag her out first. Kicking, obviously. I catch a glimpse of her wrists in cuffs and one shoe half-on. Of course she’s still trying to charm the fucking cops on her way out. I hear her voice bouncing down the hall.
“Hey, tell Walter Chad came to the gym and got in my face,” I grunt at Rhys. “He baited me. Baited her. That has to matter.”
Rhys nods once, distracted. His eyes keep flicking between me and the front doors like he doesn’t know which one of us is the bigger emergency. He stays. Guilt or instinct, I don’t know. But he stays.
The receptionist scrunches her nose as we pass like I’m something she stepped in. I stare her down until she looks away. Fuck you too, sweetheart.
Out front, the cruiser’s already rolling away with Delilah in the backseat. I catch the blur of pink from her hair and something sharp in my chest twists.
Benji’s by the front door, phone still pressed to his ear. His jaw’s set like concrete.
“Need time off,” he says. “Family emergency.” He tucks the phone in his pocket and looks at me.
Not at my busted lip. Not the cuffs. Just me.
“I’ll be there in an hour,” he says.
That’s it? No lecture? No threats? No bleeding-heart golden boy posturing?
“I.” What the fuck do I even say to that?
He turns to go.
“I have a lawyer,” I call after him. “Get her out first.”
He pauses long enough to nod, once. No words. No bullshit.
Just gone.