Goal Line (The Dartmouth Cobras Book 7) (10 page)

Jaw clenched, she met Laura’s steady gaze. The woman was probably used to victims being unable to follow through. And seeing the terrible consequences. Sahara wouldn’t be yet another one of them.

“I’m doing this. I won’t lie, I’m scared to death. But I refuse to give him that kind of power again. This is my home and I’m not running or hiding. I’m ready to do whatever I have to.” Sahara’s heart raced, almost as though saying the words out loud meant she was ready to climb into the pit and face whatever came at her. And she wasn’t ready.

But there was no going back now.

Laura’s smile was brilliant as she pushed away from the car. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear that. Come on, sweetie. I’ll take you to the victims’ advocate. He’s a great guy.”

Great or not, by the time Sahara was done filling out the report, answering all the questions, and having pictures taken of the bruises on her face, she wasn’t sure she could keep from bursting into tears any longer. To file a restraining order, she had to bring up parts of the past she’d tried to bury deep. Reliving it all had her feeling like she’d gotten another beating. Like every officer in the station could see each and every bruise Grant had ever left on her body.

But when she came out of the back office, she spotted Pischlar, who was getting suspicious looks from the cops around him even though his black jean jacket covered most of his tattoos. He did look a bit like he could have been brought in wearing cuffs with his semi-mohawk and plug earrings, but all she saw was the understanding in his green eyes. He strode right up to her and took her in his arms, making it easy to toss aside her shield and take the strength he offered. His solid chest, the steel of the muscles in the arms he wrapped around her, the fact that he hadn’t said a single word, but somehow knew exactly what she needed, all made him exactly
who
she needed at that moment.

Her nose and her eyes were leaking though, and she was suddenly worried about getting his shirt wet. She sniffed and peered up at him. “Get me out of here, Pisch?”

“Not a problem, pretty girl.” He put his arm around her shoulders, nodded to Laura, and then guided Sahara out to the street. After opening the passenger’s side door of her car, he waited for her to get settled, then crouched down and rubbed her thigh. “Where to? Do you want to go home?”

“No!” She covered her mouth with her hand, trying to gulp back the panic that had burst out with her reply. The very idea of going home made her skin crawl. Grant would come back. He wouldn’t care about the restraining order. “Bring me to a hotel or…or something. I don’t want to wake up Jami or Akira.” Her throat tightened. “I did it again. She was right. Cort was right too, but I was horrible to him and—”

“Enough of that now,
Liebling
. They’ll both understand.” His lips pursed slightly and his brow creased in thought. “I don’t like the idea of bringing you to a hotel. Are you comfortable coming back to my place? If not, I’ll see if Chicklet—”

“I’m fine with you. I love Chicklet, but she’s just as likely to hunt down Grant as Cort is.”

“But you don’t think I am?”

“Are you?”

The edges of his lips quirked and he shook his head. “No. I’m seeing to you. Higgins will get what’s coming to him.” Pisch reached up and gently touched her chin, running his fingers along her jaw. “This his handiwork?”

“It’s nothing.” She brushed his hand away gently. She hadn’t seen the marks, but after the looks she’d gotten, it was probably ugly. A constant reminder of yet another mistake. One she didn’t need. “Can we go somewhere? I don’t care where at this point. I just don’t want to be here anymore.”

He nodded quickly and stood. “Consider us gone. And I won’t mention what happened again, but I’m here if you need to talk.”

“I appreciate this so much, Pisch.” She hugged herself as he shot her a small smile before closing the door and moving around the car.

True to his word, Pischlar didn’t bring up anything during the drive. He turned the radio on, cranking the volume when he noticed her singing under her breath. When they got to his apartment, he led the way, opening the door and letting her in without comment.

His apartment was cleaner than that of any guy she’d ever known, but not so polished that she was afraid to touch anything. Pulling off the disposable blue booties she’d gotten at the police station to cover her bare feet, she ducked into the bathroom to toss them in the trash, then went to the living room.

While she perched on the sofa, Pischlar disappeared into the kitchen. She heard the sound of running water.

“Feel like a tea? I have soda too. Or beer?” His tone was relaxed, like she was just here to hang out.

Which made him even more awesome. She smiled and stood, walking over to the doorway of the kitchen. “A tea would be nice.”

“Regular or herbal?”

“Do you have chamomile? I need to get my sleep for the show tomorrow.” Her smile faded as she realized, unless some kind of miracle happened, she’d be at the Forum while Grant was there. And he would find her.

Pischlar put down the kettle and closed the distance between them, cupping her cheeks in his hands. “Listen to me. Even
if,
by some fuckup in the legal system, Grant is at the game, you have nothing to worry about. He’s not getting anywhere near you. I’m not big on violence, but I’ll make an exception if I need to. And you know very well that goes for the rest of the team.”

“People are going to find out, aren’t they?” She didn’t want anyone to know. She was ashamed, and she knew she had no reason to be. Well, except for the fact that she’d kept it a secret and given Grant the chance to come at her again. Or worse, victimize someone else.

Since they’d broken up, Grant had only been seen with high-profile models, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t hurt any of them. She could hope he hadn’t. He was charming at first. The perfect gentleman.

If he’d gotten violent with one of them, word would have spread, right? They wouldn’t put up with him treating them badly.

You did.

Yes, but she wasn’t anyone special.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

Okay, she knew she wasn’t making any sense. She was tired of being in her own head. Maybe she’d feel better in the morning. Maybe things would be clear.

“Sahara, look at me.” Pischlar smoothed her hair away from her face. “You’re not alone anymore. You’ve done nothing wrong. Actually, I’m damn proud of you for taking the steps you needed to, but I get why you didn’t before. You are a strong, beautiful person. You’ve been through hell. And I can’t promise it’s over, but you are going to let us help now. You’re never going to have to face him again without either one of the guys or a fucking cop by your side. Think about that, rather than whatever else is going on in that pretty little head.”

“Oh, Pisch.” She gave him a playful shove and laughed. “You were doing so good until you pulled the ‘pretty little head’ thing.”

He put his hands up in surrender. “My bad. I blame the language barrier. It’s a compliment in German.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Bullshit.”

“True.” He winked and headed back to the kettle. “But you smiled and laughed, so my job here is done. I take blow jobs as tips.”

Her eyes went wide as she stared at his back. “You did
not
just say that.”

“Okay.”

The man was impossible. But he was right. She was smiling and the stress had been shelved for the moment. She also knew he was joking. If Pischlar wanted a blow job during a scene, he’d never been shy about putting her on her knees.

Her cheeks heated as she considered the times he’d done just that. They’d only scened a handful of times, but often enough to move past the “getting to know you” stage. She’d kissed him. Had her hands and her mouth on his dick. Had his fingers inside her and his lips and his tongue…

Not the time to be thinking about that, girl. He’s a friend.

A very hot friend.

Stop it!

Pischlar patted her arm. “Here’s your tea. And get that look off your face or I’m gonna put this on the counter and get you up on that table.”

She ducked her head and pulled out a seat. He chuckled and set the mug down in front of her.

The front door swung open and slammed into the wall, shattering the lighthearted, flirty mood.

“Damn it, White! I have neighbors!” Pischlar rolled his eyes and patted her shoulder before heading into the hall. “Are you drunk?”

“I took a cab. Don’t nag, man.” White stumbled into the living room and collapsed on the sofa, his white shirt and tie both undone and wrinkled, but of a quality that told her he’d probably started the night dressed nicely. He raked his overgrown brown hair away from his face and dropped his head back on a cushion. “Can I ask you something?”

Coming up behind Pischlar, Sahara sipped her tea, feeling horrible for being yet another who’d apparently decided Pischlar needed to take care of them tonight.

At least she was sober.

Pischlar crossed the room and took something out of White’s hand. A flask. Lovely.

He glanced back at her and mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

“Hi, Sahara!” White sprawled back on the sofa. “Maybe I should ask you too. I want to ask Tim. But Tim’s gone. Fuck, I miss him.”

Oh boy.
Sahara inhaled slowly. The mention of Tim brought a stab of pain to her chest. Apparently, White was a sad drunk. And he hadn’t dealt with Tim’s death very well, so every time he drank, he probably relived all the emotions he hadn’t faced.

She wasn’t much better though, so she wouldn’t judge. There was a reason she rarely picked up so much as a beer anymore.

“What happened, White?” The stance and tone was very different than the open sympathy Pischlar had shown her. Almost defensive, like he knew whatever White would say would hurt. “You asked me to help you dress appropriately for your first date with the new girl. Unless you acted like a caveman, she should have been—”

“Do I look gay?” White sat up and looked down at the creases in his dark gray dress pants. “I brought her somewhere nice. I was on my best behavior. I remembered the fork and everything.”

“Yep, that definitely makes you gay.” Pischlar sighed. “Don’t keep me guessing. Other than letting another man suck your dick, nothing you’ve ever done makes you gay. Unless you opened the conversation with how bad Richards is at giving blow jobs.”

Sahara bit the inside of her cheek to keep her jaw from hitting the floor.
White and Richards?

White scowled at Pischlar. “Why the hell would I do that? That would be stupid.”

“So what
did
you do?”

“Nothing! Well, okay, this guy was hitting on me. And I was trying to be nice, but then he slipped his number under my glass and the chick saw him. She acted all weird after, so I had to show her I wasn’t into him, but…” White frowned. “Well, maybe I didn’t have to. She was kinda stuck-up. But when he grabbed my ass, I was pissed. So I slew-footed him. He went down. People freaked. And she took off and told me not to call her. She said she
knew
I was one of
those
.”

“That’s it?” Pischlar shrugged. “Caveman then. I warned you about that. Not many chicks get off on the guy they’re with throwing his weight around.”

“Uh-huh. But she’d asked me about
you
. And when I said you were cool and we were friends…well, she asked how
good
of friends. Like, huh? Not sure what she meant. She asked for details. I told her we watched
Avengers
last week. She looked bored.” White rubbed his temples. “The first time the guy came on to me, she looked all happy. Then she was all mad when I tripped him and said I don’t like dudes touching me.”

“Ah. Okay, I get it.” Pischlar shook his head and turned back to the kitchen. “You need water. And better taste in women. I’m happy you took a cab. When did you start drinking?”

“After she left. People were staring at me and I hate that shit. You know how much I hate it.” White accepted the bottle Pischlar brought him, tipping it to his lips to drain half. “I left and found a bar. Another guy came on to me and I almost punched him. But it was Ford’s bar, so he stopped me. And he didn’t charge me for anything. I talked to him. He’s awesome. I love Ford.”

“I bet. Did he hit on you too?” Pischlar had White’s flask in his hand. He glared at it, then set it aside. “I’m sure he gets where you’re coming from.”

“He does. But then Cort came in and he got all weird. They talked. No touching, but I kinda wondered…maybe they want to be gay? Can someone want that? Like…why would you? I’m confused.” White groaned and plunked down on the sofa. “I bought a bottle. And drank most of it. Cort told me I needed to go home. But I wanted to come here.” His brow furrowed. “You mad at me?”

“Why would I be?” Pischlar grabbed a blanket off the back of the sofa and laid it over Sahara’s knees as she settled into the armchair a few feet away. “I’m an awesome friend. Feel free to tell me all about your fucked-up night. I clearly have nothing else going on.”

White cocked his head and glanced over at Sahara. “But she’s here.”