Survivor (First to Fight #2)(35)

A picture.

I flip it over, nearly dropping it to the muddy ground in my haste. As it comes into focus, I hear soft, plaintive whimpers, like an injured animal. It takes me a few seconds to realize the mournful sound is coming from me, reverberating through my empty-feeling chest.

I recognize Jack’s body first—I’d recognize it anywhere. He’s naked from the waist up, a sheen of sweat coating his muscular chest and another of dust coating his jeans. He’s leaning against the rails with two-by-fours at his feet and tools scattered on the ground. The picture must have been taken yesterday.

It takes a few stunned minutes for my brain to wrap around the meaning of the picture.

Jack’s face has been circled, angrily, sloppily, by thick pungent permanent marker and then scratched out like one would scratch off a lottery ticket.

My stomach plummets and I dive into my car without thinking. My tires squeal and gravel crunches, spinning out, bulleting the tin building behind me until they gain traction and I swerve onto the deserted street.

I barely remember making it to the gym. Leaving the park, the drive over, and finding a parking spot is all a blur. The walk up to the door is arduous, my legs nearly unmoving. The chills return with full force and by the time I get to the front door, I’m coated in a cold sweat. I swipe furiously at my forehead with shaking fingers and it takes two tries before I can grab hold of the doorknob to yank it open.

Oh God.

I nearly lose the two cups of coffee on the lobby floor the second I step through the doors. The smell. God. It smells just like my nightmares.

I breathe deeply through my mouth, but it barely helps. My fingers clench around the picture I still hold in my hands, the sides cutting into the flesh of my palm. I focus on the sharp bite of pain and it centers me, brings me from the edge of panic.

Knees still watery, I walk to the double doors and see through the picture windows to the guys practicing on the other side. I almost expect to see Damian in the ring or leaning against the wall on the far side. I can almost feel him behind me waiting to pounce. A furtive glance over my shoulder shows only the empty lobby.

With my free hand, I grab the handle and pull it open, the grunts of a punch hitting home and the squeak of sneakers against the mat wash over me. White settles over my vision and I press my back against the door to keep myself upright.

When the ringing in my ears subsides, and the white spots recede, Jack’s face swims into view. At first, I think I’m seeing things, recalling memories of the times we spent here. I reach out to touch him and my hand jerks back when it meets the warm skin of his cheek.

Hands on my shoulders shake me gently. “Sofie,” he says. Then again, firmly. “Sofie.”

“Jack,” I whisper as the visions of past and present collide.

“The boys. Tell me now. Are the boys okay?” He looks over my shoulder for them, then back in my eyes. His hold on my shoulders grows vise-like and he pulls me closer. “Goddammit, Sofie. Are they okay?”

I shake my head, my frantic thoughts rattling around. “They’re fine, I’m sorry, they’re fine.”

He lets out a breath. “You look like you’re about to pass out. What the hell is going on?”

I remember the photo, Damian’s threats. My eyes bulge and my hands grip his wrists, then map his face, his shoulders. They travel down his chest to grip the T-shirt hanging around his waist. Safe. He’s safe. I bow my head, resting it on his shoulder.

He’s safe.

My feet are moving. I hear voices, then a door opening and closing. Beneath my arms, Jack’s muscles bunch and release. He tries to move away, but I cling to the material of his shirt and he murmurs. I don’t quite make out the words, but they’re comforting enough for me to release my grip. He moves away, and I hear sounds, then footsteps as he returns.

“Here,” he says. “Drink this.” He pushes one of those cone-shaped cups from the water dispenser into my hands and brings it to my lips. I swallow obediently, my vision focusing and my mind clearing thanks to the cool, crisp water and his direct observation.

As I come back to myself, my cheeks flush and I look down at my feet under his stare. Oh God. What do I do now? How do I explain this?

I glance at the door, but Jack gets to his knees in front of me, bracketing my legs and hips with his arms and hands, wedging his chest between my legs and bringing us face to face while invading my space and making sure I won’t be going anywhere.

“You’re gonna tell me what the hell is going on,” he demands.





Present



MY HEART THUNDERS in my chest and my ears and neck are hot. She glances at the door again, and I snap, “Look at me,” and her wide eyes lock with mine. “I’m done playing these games. Done with your excuses. Tell me why you ran in here looking like someone died. You said the boys are okay. What the f*ck is going on?”

Her shoulders shudder with a broken inhale as her gaze falls. It’s a f*cking wonder, but I watch her shore up her walls. She straightens her spine, squares her shoulders. If I could see her face, I imagine she’d wipe it clean of expression, maybe twist on a scowl or a glare. Her eyes would be blank, nearly dead of emotion.

But recognizing it for what it is, I bring one hand to her jaw before she’s finished the routine and catch her panicked expression. I’ve seen enough men cornered to recognize the desperation I see in her eyes. What would make her so afraid? My first instinct is to protect her, even after the betrayal and abandonment, and I curse her and myself for it. I lock my arms beside her thighs to keep from cradling her into my lap.