Chapter 12
ACE
The pain isn’t working like it usually does.
Most of the time, a punishing workout is enough to slow my brain down.
The pain screaming through my muscles is enough to flip the switch on the thoughts careening through my head.
When the anxiety and guilt become too much to take, a couple hours in the gym are usually enough to grant me a brief reprieve.
But I’ve been in the gym for over an hour, pushing myself far beyond what I normally do, and it still hasn’t silenced the voices that haven’t shut up since I found Yara tied up and bleeding in her basement.
Voices that keep asking things like, Why didn’t you get there sooner and What kind of man can’t even protect his own girlfriend?
It’s not just the voices, though. It’s the images I can’t stop seeing—of Yara bound and bleeding, her poor broken fingers all crooked and swollen, and Kellogg’s blade poking into her chest, staining her torn sweater a dark crimson.
And the look in her eyes. Ah, fuck, how she looked at me. With so much relief, like I was the hero of her story, there to save her.
But I didn’t arrive soon enough to keep Kellogg from cutting her soft skin and hitting her all over.
Not soon enough to prevent the painful bruises littering her body.
Not soon enough to stop him from breaking three of her fingers—fuck, I could kill him for that—and plunging her right back into the trauma from her first captivity.
Shit, I wish I had killed him.
I thought about it in the moment before I pulled the trigger. But something stopped me—logic, telling me it would only make things more complicated, or fear that blowing his head off would traumatize Yara even more—and now I’m left with another regret.
Three days ago, I didn’t think about how bad Yara’s nightmares would be.
I didn’t think about how much it would hurt to watch her cry.
And shit, I didn’t know how terrible it would be to see her in pain.
She tries to hide it, but the longer I spend with her, the easier it is to tell when she’s hurting.
And the worse it feels, not being able to fix it.
I can’t even give her answers about Malik.
Tyler’s been searching, but he hasn’t found anything to even hint that her old teammate might still be alive.
My chest tightens at the memory of hearing Yara crying in the bathroom last night. I moved her to my place after that first day, when I fucked up royally by putting her in the client apartment. Upsetting her on top of everything else, making her feel like I didn’t want her around, making her cry…
Shit.
The familiar anxiety creeps in, choking my lungs and making my heart race.
And with it, the judging voices chime in.
You’re not good enough for her.
Not before, and definitely not now.
Hoping to silence them, I punch the control pad for the treadmill, increasing its speed and raising the elevation. I push myself faster. Harder. My legs burn from the effort. A fresh coating of sweat slicks my body.
As my feet pound against the treadmill, the sound echoes in the otherwise empty gym.
I intentionally came down later than usual, hoping to avoid my teammates.
It’s not that I’m upset with any of them; I just wanted some time to myself—time to hopefully get my head on straight before going back to Yara again.
When I left her, she was sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee and a granola bar, which I don’t think is enough for breakfast, but she insisted was plenty. “I don’t eat much first thing in the morning,” she assured me. “I’ll have something more substantial for lunch. Don’t worry.”
But I am worried.
I’ve been worried.
Is a granola bar really enough when her body needs the energy to heal? Should I have stayed home and made a full breakfast instead?
Was it selfish of me to leave her so I could come to the gym, especially after I promised her she wouldn’t be alone unless she wants to be?
Shit.
I promised her she wouldn’t be alone. And here I am, leaving her.
Guilt settles on my chest, heavy and suffocating.
What was I thinking, leaving Yara like that? Anything could happen to her while I’m gone. She could be triggered into a panic attack. She could have a flashback and take off running. She could hurt her hand without me there to help her.
Worries crowd in; cramming their way into my head until it’s buzzing with them.
Instinctively, my legs move faster.
My breath saws in and out.
My fists clench.
What-ifs spin crazily.
What if she’s not okay, like she’d promised she’d be? What if she’s hurting? What if she’s crying? What if—
“Hey, Ace.”
I stumble at the unexpected sound of Webb’s voice before quickly finding my balance.
Then I adjust the speed, slowing it to a more reasonable level, before glancing in his direction.
He’s standing just inside the doorway, holding his gun case in one hand and a travel mug in the other. “Hey,” I reply. “What’s up?”
He eyeballs me for a few seconds before responding. With a jerk of his chin at the gun case, he says, “Just going to do a few rounds. You want to join me?”
“Nah.” Lifting my shirt, I use the fabric to wipe the sweat from my face. “I’m just finishing up, and then I’m going to head back upstairs. Another time, though.”
Webb walks into the gym and sets his case on one of the benches. His expression sobers as he looks at me. “You were pushing pretty hard when I came in.”
“I guess,” I reply vaguely. Even though he’s one of my closest friends, I’m not exactly eager to explain why.
“Looked like you wanted to kill someone,” he remarks. “While you were running, I mean.”
It’s too close to what I was thinking about for comfort. “Not really,” I lie. “Just concentrating on my workout.”
Webb comes closer. “You doing okay?” he asks. “With everything with Yara and Kellogg, I mean.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Even to me, it sounds fake. It sounds like the fine Yara gives me when she’s anything but.
“Fine?” He gives me an appraising look. “You sure about that?”
Giving up on my workout, I shut off the treadmill and step off. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
A few seconds pass before Webb responds, “Because the woman you’re dating was attacked. And you found her.”
My jaw tightens. My teeth grind painfully. “Yes. I remember what happened. It was only three days ago, after all.”
“And you looked like you were about to stroke out on the treadmill,” he adds. “I’m assuming that wasn’t the goal.”
“I wasn’t pushing that hard.” Crossing the gym, I grab a clean towel from my bag and start wiping myself down with it. “Just trying to catch up after a few days off.”
Webb takes a sip from his mug. The scent of freshly-brewed coffee wafts towards me. “I get that. But.” He stops. As he thinks, it looks like he’s choosing his words. “It’s okay if you’re not fine, you know.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat, sounding even more like Yara this time. Testily, I add, “I didn’t realize I needed to run my workouts by you. Is that something new?”
“Of course not.” He takes another sip. “I just thought… Well. I remember how it was when Noelle was hurt. When that piece of shit took her. I remember how I felt. Like I failed her, somehow.”
It’s too fucking close to the truth.
No. Not close. It is.
“Are you saying I failed Yara?” I snap. Not out of anger at him, but myself.
Webb’s features jolt with shock. “What? That’s not what I was saying. I just—”
“What were you saying, then?” I jam the towel back into the bag, then sling the bag over my shoulder. “Because it sure sounded like you said I failed her. That it’s my fault she got hurt. That it’s my fault she’s having fucking nightmares, and she’s crying—”
Shit.
I know damn well that’s not what he was saying.
“Ace. That’s not what I meant.” Contrition laces his voice. “Of course it’s not your fault. I’m just saying that I know what it’s like. Feeling like—well. It doesn’t matter. It’s none of my business, what’s going on with you and Yara.”
Webb picks up his gun case and turns to leave. “Just let me know if you need anything. That’s all. You or Yara.”
The guilt presses down even harder. “Webb.” He stops halfway to the door. “I’m sorry,” I add. “I know you were just concerned.”
He regards me for a moment before nodding. “I know I wasn’t on your team before. But—”
“It’s not that.” We all came from different teams—Rafe and Indy on one GB team, Tyler another, and Webb was a Night Stalker—but in the years we’ve been together on the Shadow Team, I’ve grown to see them not just as teammates, but family. “It’s just… I’m worried about her. That’s all.”
Well, it’s not all. But it’s true.
“I get it,” Webb replies. He closes the distance between us and claps me on the shoulder. “You feel like sparring sometime, let me know. Or we can go for a hike. Sometimes that helps.”
“Thanks.” I lift my chin. “I may take you up on that.”
* * *
By the time I get back to my apartment, I’m feeling more in control again.
Maybe it’s the endorphins, lifting my mood.
Maybe it was the scalding hot shower I took in the gym, loosening my muscles.
Maybe it was the brief talk I had with Webb, reminding me I’m not alone in this.
Or maybe it was the photo Yara sent me just before I hopped in the shower, of her wearing the BattleBots shirt I gave her.
In the picture, the bruises on her face are still evident, now turning a mottled bluish-purple edged with green.
But she was smiling. Her eyes didn’t look haunted.
I might even dare think she looked happy.
I love it, she texted along with it. Now we need to get you one to match.
She added a little winking emoji to let me know she was joking, but I have to admit, I’m thinking about it. Not to wear in public, but I could see wearing matching BattleBots T-shirts while we’re hanging out in the evening.
Could I have ever imagined myself buying the same shirt as my girlfriend? Not just buying it, but wearing it at the same time as her? And not doing it out of obligation, but because I want to?
Nope.
But here I am, thinking about it.