Tough Enough (Tall, Dark, and Dangerous, #2)(80)

There’s a long pause before she responds. “Actually, that’s what I was calling about. I need to talk to you. It’s about what the Senator is trying to do. To you.”

“Stay there. I’m on my way.”

I hang up before she can argue and I look up to two pairs of eyes watching me with varying degrees of fury. After a few seconds, Jasper merely steps out of my way and nods toward the door.

“Let’s go. We’ve got work to do,” he says.

I nod and lead the way. I’ve never looked forward to hurting someone more than I do right now. Not even my shitty father.





FORTY-ONE


Katie

As I leave the studio, I realize that as anxious as I am to get away from work, I’m not very enthusiastic about going home. Work used to be just a job, neither good nor bad. Now it’s the place where I spent the happiest days of my life with Rogan and the most humiliating days of my life after him. And home . . . home used to be my sanctuary. Now it’s just pure hell. The memories of Rogan . . . they chase me. Haunt me. Refuse to give me a moment’s peace. Even to sleep.

Nights are the worst. They’re nearly unbearable. I toss and turn rather than sleep, and everywhere I look, I see and feel Rogan. With perfect clarity, I can picture him asleep on the pillow next to me. With excruciating precision, I can feel his hands on me, his mouth, his body. Oh God! What I wouldn’t give to forget, to just have my memory wiped clean of all traces of Rogan. But there’s no such mercy for a girl like me. He will live on in my head and in my heart until I reach the only escape I’ll ever have from him—death. When blood stops pumping through my veins, maybe then I’ll finally be over him.

And now I’m going to see him again. I know it will set me back. Maybe even right back to square one. But I have to do this. I have to talk to him and tell him what’s going on.

I unlock my front door, pausing to look for Dozer like I do every day. When I see that he isn’t in front of the door, I push it open to step inside. It’s as I’m closing it that I feel the niggle of someone’s presence behind me. But not soon enough.

I’m turning to face him, door still ajar, when Calvin grabs my upper arms and backs me into the living room, slamming the door shut behind us.

I struggle to free myself from his grip, but his fingers are like iron shackles. A bolt of fear flashes through me. Among the memories of his punches and kicks and slaps, I’d forgotten how easily he could overpower me. But it’s all coming back to me now. Too fresh, too clear.

I reach for bravery. I reach for boldness. I reach for tough. I don’t want him to see that he can still rattle me. Even though he can.

“What are you doing here? Get the hell out of my house!”

On his face is a sneer. “What? Change your mind so soon?”

“Change my mind? About what?”

“About seeing me again.”

Sweet God! I’d told the Senator I’d do it, but I didn’t say when. No arrangements were made. And certainly none for this soon. It has only been a day, for God’s sake!

“What’s the matter? Kat got your tongue?” he asks, using my old name.

“No, I . . . I, uh, just wasn’t expecting you this soon. And certainly not here.”

“What’s the matter, Kat? Afraid to have me so close to your bed?”

His leer coupled with the smell of alcohol on his breath gives me a surge of adrenaline. My heart thunders and every subtle nuance of this moment is carving itself indelibly into my brain.

“Hardly. You disgust me!” I hiss in a burst of bold and brave honesty.

His expression turns furious and he grabs me by my upper arms. “So he’s so much better than me, is that it? That piece-of-shit fighter. Where is he now? If he’s so much better than me, where is he? Why am I here with you when he’s not?” A dart of fear pierces me. He was always much worse, much more forceful and unpredictable when he was drinking.

I keep my calm, at least outwardly. “You’re drunk, Calvin. You need to leave.”

“So anxious to get me out of here. Why? Is he coming? Will he be warming up that * tonight?”

His temper flares and his fingers bite into my arms, making painful indentations.

“Let me go, Calvin. I’m not kidding.” Part of me wants to cower in the face of his anger, the memories flooding me like salt water flooding a hole in the sand. But another part of me, a tough and slightly reckless part, wants to face him, wants to stand up in his face and scream that I’m not afraid of him anymore.

He stares down into my face and I see the battle waging. Stay or go. Lash out or calm down. Stay and fight or walk away. I see his pupils swell and I know which way the tide is turning.

The muscles along his jawline flex as he grits his teeth. He jerks me up close to his face so that I can feel the heat of his temper. And I do. I feel it. And I know what’s coming.

“I tried to forget you after the fire. I thought it would burn you out of my blood. And for a while it did. But when I saw you again . . . with him . . . Damn you for making me feel this way again! Damn. You.”

Before I can respond, Calvin straightens his arms and sends me flying across the entryway, a tangle of flailing limbs.

I look up to see him pushing the unbuttoned sleeves of his dress shirt up his forearms, like he’s preparing to get messy. I know that gesture. I remember it like I remember the bone-jarring ache of being punched in the ribs. Or kicked in the back of the head.