Appealed (26 page)

She laughs.

And that's when I know for sure that she's going to be okay.

•  •  •

A little while later, after a nurse checks in with pain meds and Kennedy's sucking down some apple juice, I ask about the bastards who went after her.

“The agents shot them. They're dead.”

“Good.” There's a dark undercurrent to my voice.

I take the empty juice box from her and put it on the table. She lies back on the pillow, looking sleepy—the medication's doing its job. She touches her discolored cheek. “You can start calling me Bruiser now—there's a nickname for you.”

“Bruiser's a name for someone who
gives
bruises, not
gets
them.”

She traces the frown lines on my forehead, smoothing my scowl. “Too soon to joke about it, huh?”

“A millennium isn't enough time to make this jokeable.”

Before she can reply, a sharp female voice cuts through the closed door.

“Do you think I'm concerned about hospital policy? I don't care if she already has a visitor, I will see my daughter
no
w
!”

Kennedy's good eye slides closed. “Oh no.”

“Remove yourself from my path or there will be consequences, young man!”

“Oh
no
.”

Mitzy Randolph steps into the room, looking unusually haggard in an untucked dark blue blouse, black slacks, her pearls askew, her hair falling out of its bun. I've never seen Mitzy's hair not flawlessly styled; I always figured the strands were too terrified to move.

Like a bodyguard, I stand but don't move an inch from Kennedy's bedside. Because, mother or no mother, if I hear one backhanded insult, I will lose my shit.

“Hello, Mother,” Kennedy says quietly.

Mitzy's breathing is shallow as her eyes roam Kennedy's battered features. She moves forward slowly, as if she's in a trance. “Oh, Kennedy, your lovely face.”

“It's all right.” She tries for a stoic grin. “They're just bruises. Nothing permanent, no scars.”

Her mother's lip trembles and her eyes fill, then brim over. I've never seen Mitzy cry—and from the look on her face, neither has Kennedy.

“My dear, precious girl . . .” Her voice cracks. “. . . what have they done to you?”

Kennedy's expression goes soft and she looks almost apologetic and at the same time, grateful that her mother actually cares enough to be bothered.

“Don't cry. I'm okay, really.”

But her mother just shakes her head, weeping quietly.

I gesture to the door. “I'm gonna step outside a minute.”

Kennedy's eyes flick quickly to me and she nods a silent thank-you.

Before I walk out, I glance back at them. For some people, this is how it works. You have to get smacked right in the face with the possibility of losing something before you wake up and realize how much it means to you.

Mitzy whispers softly and gazes down at her daughter like she's finally seeing
her
, not just all the things she wants her to be.

About fucking time.

•  •  •

Out in the hall, I spot the marshal who escorted me to Kennedy's room and motion him over. “You think they'll try again?”

His eyes narrow. “As long as there's money being offered, they might.”

I nod, grab a pen from the nurse's station, and take a business card out of my pocket. I scribble on the back and hand it to him. “Any security arrangements that need to be made should be made at that address. When she comes home, she's coming home with me. And I'm keeping her there.”

I
keep Kennedy in bed for the next three days.

Unfortunately, it's not as hot as it sounds, because she's bruised and sore and her pain pills knock her out cold. But I take care of her—I fluff her pillows, cook her food. Okay, Harrison does the actual cooking, but I
bring
her the food.

I also help her bathe—and that's a fresh kind of hell.

Because with two cracked ribs, sex is off the table. I can't even eat her out, because I know making her come will give her just as much pain as pleasure. She tells me it'll be worth it, but I stick to my guns.

Until day five, when the sexy vixen takes matters into her own hands. Literally.

We were in bed, in the still darkness of night, and Kennedy proceeded to describe, in full, filthy detail, all the things she wanted me to do to her. Things she couldn't wait to do to me. Then she begged me to show her—to take my cock in hand and make myself come.

On her.

And I folded like a pornographic deck of cards.

On my knees, hovering over her, I panted and groaned, imagining that it was her hand stroking me hard. But her hand was busy between her own legs, rubbing her clit, driving her glistening fingers in and out, in time with my own fist. I painted her tits that night, and she impressively demonstrated that she was healed enough to handle an orgasm.

So of course I spend the better part of day six with my mouth attached to her pretty cunt—to make up for lost time.

But by day seven, she's antsy. Sick of television and too wired to work. I call the troops to my place for dinner. Harrison watches the McQuaid Monsters over at Jake and Chelsea's so they can come. Stanton arrives with Sofia, and the baby bump that could apply for its own zip code now. Brian and Vicki show up too. I introduce them to the rest of the squad, and we all eat pizza at the dining room table.

After dinner, we hang out in the living room—the guys watch the game while the girls talk baby announcements and bridal showers.

“It's going to be a brunch,” Sofia tells Kennedy, about the bridal shower she's throwing for Chelsea. “Not too big, because Jake and Chelsea are antisocial.”

“Ha!” Chelsea grins. “Let's see how social you and Stanton are after this little delight is born. Then multiply that by six.”

“You really should come,” Sofia tells Kennedy and Vicki. “It's going to be fun— mimosas and naughty bingo. Since they already have all their household stuff, everyone's bringing lingerie for the wishing well.”

Jake's eyes light up. “Yes, you two should definitely come. The more the merrier—for me.”

“When is it?” Kennedy asks Sofia, pulling up her calendar on her phone.

“The twenty-third.”

Kennedy clicks her tongue. “I won't be able to make it—I'll be in Vegas on the twenty-third.”

Spiders of unease scurry up my arms and across my back.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

Kennedy meets my eyes across the room, and as casually as if she's giving the weather forecast, she says, “The trial starts in two weeks. They're handling the pretrial motions without me, but I'll have to fly out in a few days.”

I put my beer on the coffee table and give her my undivided attention. “But . . . you're not trying the case anymore.”

She frowns. “Of course I am. Why wouldn't I?”

I gesture to her arm, her swollen eye. “You're hurt.”

“No, I'm healing. By the time the trial starts I'll be back to normal, except for the cast.”

My heart beats against my chest—wanting to bust out and shake her.

I get to my feet. Because I argue better on my feet, and I have a feeling this is about to spiral into one hell of an argument. “Kennedy . . . that's . . . fucking crazy. Did the concussion knock you stupid?”

“Excuse me?”

“He tried to
kill
you.”

She stands up slowly, her spine rigid and shoulders back. “But he didn't. And it's my case.”

“They'll assign another prosecutor.”

“No—they won't. Because I won't let them. Moriotti is trying to scare me away, and I'm not going to let him. He doesn't get to take this from me.”

My fingers press against my temples, and my voice rises. “Holy shit, Kennedy—he's not a schoolyard bully—he's a goddamn psychopath, with the means and motive to put a bullet in you. And you're going to walk into his territory to give him the opportunity? Why don't you just draw a bull's-eye on your forehead!”

I must sound as panicked as I feel, because her posture softens. Her voice fills with calming sympathy. “It'll be okay.”

She reaches out to stroke my forehead, but I jerk it away.

“You don't
know
that! Fucked-up things happen all the time!” I point to Sofia. “She was in a plane crash, did you know that? With her whole family—and it was just dumb luck that they didn't die.” I gesture to Chelsea. “And Chelsea's brother, he and his wife were just driving home and they were killed, Kennedy. They had six kids who needed them, and they
died
.”

I rub the back of my neck, scrub my hand over my face, trying not to totally lose it. “And I was just a kid; a dumb kid who got his leg ripped off for no reason at all. Bad things happen even when you're careful—even when you don't deserve them.”

“This is my job, Brent.”

“It's a job you don't need! You have more money in your trust fund right now than you'll ever make as a prosecutor.”

“That doesn't matter—”

My voice drops lower. “I get that—I do. You took this job because you needed a purpose. A reason to get out of bed every day.” I grip her shoulders, bend my knees and look into her eyes. “But you have me now. We can be each other's reasons.”

She gazes at me like I'm breaking her heart. No—like her heart is breaking for me.

There's a difference.

“You
are
my reason. And all I want in the whole world is to be yours.” Kennedy puts her hand right on top of my heart. “But I have to see this through.”

Goddamn it!

Something in me fucking snaps, because she's not
listening
. She's too damn stubborn. Too fucking fearless. And if I can't change her mind—it could get her killed.

“If you go, we're done,” I say coldly.

“Brent—” Jake warns, but I throw up my hand.

Kennedy flinches. Then she searches my face, hunting for a sign that I'm bluffing. “You don't mean that.”

“Yes, I fucking do. I'm not going to sit here and drive myself crazy worrying about you. I'm not going to spend the rest of my life mourning you after you get yourself killed. You do this, we're fucking done.”

A small faraway voice that sounds suspiciously like Waldo whispers that this is wrong. Manipulative. But I tell him to go screw himself, 'cause I'm doing this to keep her safe.

“I've made promises to people, Brent.”

Her expression is weighted with hurt. Maybe even a little fear. Like I haven't just dented her armor, but wedged a crowbar in there and cracked it wide open, exposing all her most vulnerable parts.

But I'm not going to feel bad about that.

“Then break them. Promises are broken every damn day—it's the way of the world.”

“There are witnesses who have risked their lives to testify against Moriotti. Who've gone into Witness Protection and given up everything, because I held their hand and told them it was the right thing to do. Because I swore I would put him away. And now . . . you just want me to turn my back because things are getting a little uncomfortable?”

My face feels hard, frozen—an ice sculpture image of myself. “Yes. I want you to turn your back and run the other way.”

She shakes her head softly. “I can't . . . I can't believe you're making me choose.”

“Well, I am. And if that makes me an asshole, I don't give a shit.” My fingers squeeze her upper arms. “I'm asking you to choose, and I am begging you . . . to pick me.”

The entire room goes quiet. I don't think anyone even fucking breathes.

Then Kennedy cups my jaw in both her hands. And her voice is hushed—the way you'd talk at a funeral. “I love you, Brent. I
really
love you, and I know you love me. But I won't be the woman you love anymore if I don't do this. And if we can just—”

I don't hear another word after that. Because I'm already walking out the door, slamming it behind me, leaving the frame splintered.

I wander the city for an hour—or three—because I'm afraid of what I'll say to her if I go back too soon. But when I finally do make it back, I don't have to worry about that.

The house is dark. Empty.

She's gone.

“H
ow fucked up is
tha
t
?”

Early the next morning, Waldo's eyes follow me like a spectator at Wimbledon as I pace back and forth in front of his couch, recounting my argument with Kennedy word for word. I barely slept last night—I was too busy replaying it in my head. And waiting for her to call. To tell me that she's come over to my side of sanity and she's dropping the case.

But my phone stayed mute.

Waldo clears his throat. “Throughout your impressive rant, you didn't utter a single word about Kennedy's perspective. Have you given any thought at all about what she may be feeling right now?”

Petulantly, I snort. “No.”

I've been too busy being pissed off to analyze how she might feel about me being pissed off.

He nods. “Let's examine that. Kennedy is the one who was attacked and injured. She's the one who opened herself up to you when you fought so hard to regain her trust. The one who believed you when you professed your love. The one who watched you walk away when faced with your first challenge as a couple. How do you think she feels about all that, Brent?” His fingers thrum against the arm of the chair. “Afraid? Hurt? Devastated?”

Guilt trips from a seasoned therapist are a hard thing to resist, but I manage.

“She wouldn't feel
any
of that if she'd just do what I fucking tell her.”