Chapter 14
14
Jake
“What are you up to tonight?” Taylor asks, doing that thing where her eyes flick up to mine and down to my mouth. She’s twisted toward me, one finger toying with her lip while the other hand’s running through her hair. If my inner alarm bells hadn’t rung when she breathed right into my ear, they most definitely are now.
“This,” I tell her as I ease back, arms folded, and glance toward the bar.
It’s empty.
“You get off soon? You must, right? Kitchen’s closing.”
“Staying late. Got a project in back.”
Taylor’s eyes look over my shoulder to where the hall disappears at the end of the dining room and looks up at me, voice low. “The back? Need any help with that?”
The guy seated behind me mutters something and shoves up to standing, bumping me with his stool in the process.
“I’m good, thanks.” I tap the bar. “Have a great one, Taylor.”
“Hey,” the guy asks, a little unsteady on his feet. “You know where the barmaid is?”
“Barmaid?” I force my hands to unclench.
“Yeah, you know, the one with the?—”
“What do you need?” I swear, if the fucker mentions Kit’s chest, I’ll lose it.
“Just want to cash out and get out of here.” He casts an angry look around. “Place is dead.”
I nod. “I’ll get her.”
After a quick check of the kitchen, I head to the back. There’s no one in dry storage. The restroom door’s open. Empty. I get to the office, reach for the handle, and hesitate. After a quick inhale, I knock.
“Yeah?”
“You’re needed.”
Silence.
“Kit? You okay?”
“Yeah. Be right there.”
I wait. Nothing happens. I grab the doorknob and pause. This isn’t a woman whose space you encroach on.
Fuck, though, do I want to encroach. After a few seconds, I force myself to turn and head back out. At the bar, I tell the guy she’s coming and give Taylor a curt goodnight, then return to my kitchen.
My kitchen. Right. Best knock that proprietary feeling out of my system right away. I’ve got about as much claim to this line as I’ve got to Kit. Meaning none.
She’s hiring someone to replace me and I’m heading to Norway.
Norway’s easy. Rig life’s straightforward—cold as hell, but that’s not a bad thing. Then brief periods of land life. Sex that’s straightforward, women who want exactly what I’m looking for—physical relief. Huge bonuses. Hell, maybe I’ll stay there past the contract or move on to Aberdeen. There’s good beer in Scotland.
After that, hell, maybe South America.
“What’s the date, Frida?”
“Uh, seventh. No, eighth.
Fuck, I’ve got three weeks left.
“Any sign of a replacement for me?”
Frida shakes her head, scrubbing her station with her usual calm competence.
For the first time in forever—years—I feel unprepared to move on.
It’s the gym. That’s why. Got to sell the damn place.
Fuck. Ricky and I need to talk because his woman’s getting pissed and he’s digging in his feet and it’s time for me to move out of the area. Permanently.
Just standing here, wiping the counter, my gut’s suddenly twisted so hard I’d swear I was sick if my stomach wasn’t solid as a rock.
I reach for a pan, burn myself like it’s my first time in a kitchen, and pull back.
“All right, chef?” Frida glides by with a pile of dirty dishes, which she stacks neatly in the sink beside Toni.
“Yep.”
The look she gives me from behind her steel-framed glasses is quick and assessing. “Seem distracted.”
I shrug. “Nah. I’m good.”
“Course you are.”
Ignoring her, I turn back to the line, make sure everything’s shut off and start breaking it down. It’ll be an hour, at least, before I’m done and even then I won’t leave. Not until Kit takes off.
I’m on my way back from the walk-in fridge when the kitchen door swings open with a bang to show Cora, out of breath. “You gotta come. Hurry.”
I drop my shit and take off. “What happened?”
“Douche canoe at the bar ran without paying. Kitty took off after him.”
“Shit.” I knew that asshole was looking for trouble from the second I laid eyes on him. It’s why I got so close to Taylor. She did that subtle woman thing of letting me know she needed help without actually saying it out loud.
Nothing in this world is worse than a man who thinks he’s owed something. I put on the speed and streak through the dining room, ignoring the shocked faces of the last few customers and a flustered-looking Taylor, out the door. My eyes take in the lot. There. The Audi. Door open.
Fuck. Fuck.
Something switches in my brain when I see that he’s got her shoved up against the side of his car. I’ve lived through this before and the change that comes over me is not the wild, out of control adrenaline rush you’d expect. A soft calm lays itself over my body. I’m wrapped in cotton. Unreachable. My vision’s hyper focused. Those are his hands. On her neck. Her pale throat. One hand grips her arm. She’s fighting him, trying to shove him back, but she’s trapped and her face is all tight and pissed and scared and?—
He’s a dead man.
I know it with a bone deep certainty. I’ll fucking kill him.
He’s touched her and now he’ll pay.
The equation’s simple.
Before he’s even noticed I’m here, I’m on him, ripping her out of his hold and pummeling. My fist connects with his nose and there’s that pop and crunch of cartilage and bone and the warm spray of blood.
I’ve been here. I know this. Before prison. In prison, too, when everything was on the line every second of every day.
Thanks to Ricky, I knew how to fight before doing time, but Frank’s the one who taught me the quick, efficient jab, jab, kick to nose, nuts, knees.
Then, it’s liver, hand, and liver again.
All the shit wreaking havoc with my insides boils up and over and this…this… this is what I need. Something solid. Something clear to take it out on. Good versus bad.
“Jake!” That’s Kit’s voice. I hear it, from far off. It’s tinny and weak, not throaty and warm like when we fucked in the hotel. When she laughs at something Cora says behind the bar. When she tried the flounder I fried up for staff meal tonight.
I’ve got him by the clothes, my grip twisting fabric as I drag him away from his car. There’s yelling. I hear it. It just doesn’t sink in. Doesn’t matter.
“The fuck are you doing, man?”
The guy’s scared. Shaking. Bleeding all over his expensive suit.
“You don’t fucking touch her, you get that?”
“Stop it, man!” He whines, arms thrown up to protect his face. “Stop. Please. Please .”
I pause, blinking, staring down at him, still seeing only a man who’d hurt a woman. And not just any woman. Katarina Esteban.
“She’s mine ,” I mutter into his face.
On one plane is his breath—onions and garlic that I cooked—the chilly air, loose gravel beneath my boots. The instant, sharp pain in my knuckles. On another, deeper level is hunger and hate, the need to hurt. To punish. It doesn’t feel separate from me at all. It’s not emotional, it’s essential. Basic and true. A part of my being. Like someone’s cracked my bones and it’s seeping up and out of my marrow like lava that’s laid dormant all these years. Violence, as deeply woven into my being as blue eyes and an affinity for tough, soulful, thick-thighed women.
I’ll fuck him up. Punish him. Teach him.
One fist in his shirt, the other cocked, knowing this kind of man will never stop hurting women. A third punch to that liver and he’s down, in terrible pain, bruised and fucked for days.
A hand clasps my fist, tight. “Jake.”
Her voice, Christ, it’s a key turning. A lock open, tightly woven fibers loosen inside me.
“Jake. Leave it. Stop. Please.”
“I’m calling the fucking cops,” the guy says, only to realize, when I shove him back against the car that maybe talking’s not the best move here.
“It’s not worth it, Jake. Leave him. Let it go. You don’t want to get arrested.” That last sentence sinks in.
Right. Right.
Prison.
I’ve been here before.
I shake the bloodlust from my head, squint down at the guy’s overgrown frat cut, not quite balding at the crown, the sweat mixing with the blood on his upper lip, and his expression…pure fear. Deer in the goddamn headlights, rabbit caught in a trap terror. Because of me.
With a whoosh all the rage floods out.
“Take off,” I say, forcing my limbs to loosen when what they really crave is to give him one final shove. Something that’ll hurt. Something he’ll remember.
Punishment.
Fuck. Fuck, no. That’s not who I am. Some avenger or vigilante justice warrior like Frank.
This guy’s weak. Look at him. Shame swirls sick and heavy inside me, alongside that hefty dose of anger and contempt.
The second I give him space, he scrambles into his car and locks the doors, starts the engine and takes off, spitting gravel.
“Can’t wait to read his yelp review.” Kit slides up beside me, watching the taillights disappear.
“He’d better leave it alone.” Distance hasn’t rid me of the adrenaline yet. Not for a single second. “If he knows what’s good for him.”
From the restaurant, loud voices ring out as the front door opens and a handful of curious customers come out. At least one of them’s got their phone up, filming. They seem worlds away from what just happened out here. From what’s still happening. But shame at the idea that my violent outburst got caught on camera edges in.
“You okay?”
I turn and let myself look at Kit. Her beauty hits me the way it always does, only more. So much fucking more with adrenaline making everything bigger, deeper, brighter. More alive.
There’s a red mark at her throat and, right away, the shame’s replaced with pure hatred. Men who hurt women and children deserve nothing but hell. It’s that simple. The man’s life isn’t worth a thing in my eyes.
Yeah, it’s extreme, I guess, but I’ve got my reasons. People talk of shades of grey, but sometimes, there’s black and there’s white and that’s it.
Kit’s close enough that I could lean down and kiss her right now. Wouldn’t have to take a step. It’d be so fucking easy. She’s watching me, her expression serious, wary. One touch and I could get that look to slide right off her face, replace it with the expression I imagined both times we did it in the dark.
She moves, which I don’t expect. Reaches out and grips my hand. Just that, with a low, quiet, “Thank you.”
And fuck if that doesn’t mess me up more than anything else she could’ve done.
Thank you. Goddamn thank you. Again. Thank you for your service, Jake.
I look down at my knuckles. They’re scraped raw.
With a nod, I gently disentangle my hand from hers and step back. “Any time,” I manage with a cheesy smirk as I set off, ironically saluting our audience at the door. “Better close up.” I head back inside to clean up and finish off my shift.
Thank you, thank you thank you.
It’s a drumbeat in my head.
Good work, Jake.
Work. Work?
Yep. That’s exactly what it is.
Fucking work.
Blood, sweat, tears. Semen.
All just part of the job here at Parlor.
Suddenly, I’m real fucking tired of her contract, her rules.
The woman wants to get knocked up and that’s exactly what I’ll do.
Except starting right now, it’ll have to be on my terms.