Fearless For Love (Lovelly #3) (13 page)

SEEING HARRINGTON AT the club was harder than I thought. But only because I still can’t erase the image of him, blood smeared over his face and hands, from my mind.

I have no right to feel betrayed; I barely know him. And besides, it’s his life. If he wants to use his fists to make a living, then he should.

Somehow though, that thought just doesn’t sit well with me.

Emotions are a fickle thing, and even though I want to stay far away from him, the thought of doing so makes me crave him all the more. Kind of like when you constantly keep thinking about chocolate and how you shouldn’t eat it, and all you want to do instead is take that bite, even if it kills you.

“Are you expecting someone?” Cat asks, peeking around the doorframe to my bathroom, clearly having just come from the shower herself.

“No,” I respond around the brush in my mouth. I lean forward and spit into the sink. “Why?”

“Because there’s someone at the door, and it sounds like they’re ready to break it down.”

“What?” I quickly sip some water and swish it around in my mouth, before spitting that out to. “What do you mean there’s someone at the door?”

“Darlin’, you’re either deaf or so lost in your thoughts that you ought to be.” She points in the general direction of our front door. “You hear that?”

I shut off the water and stretch out my hearing. Sure enough, there’s a loud banging noise at the front door. I wipe my mouth with a hand towel and shuffle my way toward it, shouldering the towel.

Boom
.
Boom
.
Boom
.

The sound is loud and anxious. How the hell did I not hear it before? I pull the door open and blink. There in front of me is Fisher, grinning.

“I really don’t think she wants to see you, Fisher.”

“I know.” His grin spreads wider.

I shake my head, trying not to smile. “You have a death wish, you know that?”

“What can I say? I like my girls feisty.” He pauses. When I don’t say anything, he asks, “So, can I come in?”

“Nope.”

His mouth parts a little, confused shock on his face.

“Sorry, Fisher. You seem like a nice enough guy, when you’re not being a dick to my friend. But I can’t let you in. I hope you understand . . . women before dumbasses and all, you know?”

“Yaw-ouch.” He rubs his chest like I just stabbed him in the heart. “I can see why Harrington can’t stop talking about you.”

That catches me off guard.

His teeth are on full display as he grins a mega-watt smile. It almost makes me think that maybe that statement wasn’t as innocent as it seems.

“Who are you talking to, Jessica?” Cat calls from behind me.

I turn around, startled. Before I can stop him, Fisher steps inside and walks right past me, heading toward her. Cat, who’s wrapped in nothing but a towel, stares wide-eyed. There’s a sort of surprise and something that isn’t exactly anger in the way she watches him walk toward her.

“What the hell—”

Before she gives him a piece of her mind, he’s engulfed her in his arms and is kissing her passionately. She beats at his chest for all of two seconds before she wraps first her arms, then her legs around him. A second later, he disappears down the hall with her, carrying her toward her room.

I shake my head at how ridiculous they are. Over the past few months, Cat has hooked up with plenty of guys, but not a single one ever made it through our door. So, even though she pretends she doesn’t like him, I know there’s something else brewing inside that head of hers. But until I know what that is, she comes first.

A hand lands on my shoulder and I shriek and spin around. “God damn it, Harrington. You scared the shit out of me.”

He smiles, but it’s hesitant, not quite reaching his eyes. It’s obvious he’s still trying to understand what the hell happened at the bar earlier, but instead of asking those questions, he says, “You really shouldn’t leave your door unlocked. Let alone wide open.”

“I didn’t. I was just about to close it . . .” I look around him to see that the door is not only closed, it’s been locked and chained. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

His eyes search the room, looking for someone.

“Fisher.” I make it a statement.

He nods.

I sigh, turning around. “It’s going to be a while. He’s . . . preoccupied at the moment.”

“I can wait,” he responds.

I close my eyes tight and tilt my head back. “That’s not a good idea.”

I’m walking away, heading into the kitchen to get some dishes cleaned before the night ends. I wasn’t planning on doing them tonight, but with Harrington here, I need something for my hands to do. I turn on the faucet and pick up a plate, rinsing it under the water.

“Jess . . .” His voice is so close to me that I can feel it vibrate against my skin. I try to ignore it. God do I try, but when he uses that low, deep tone, it does something to my stomach. It’s all I can do not to stop cleaning the dishes.

“Talk to me, sweetheart.”

Here’s my chance. He’s practically giving me the opening on a silver platter. But I don’t. Because I can still see the image of him coated with blood, his fists ramming into that other guy’s face. I don’t want to care about him.

But I do.

“Stop.” He places his hand over mine, the one holding a wine glass, and I stiffen. The whole front of him is pressing into my back, and he feels so warm against my raging cold skin. I’m holding the glass so tight in my grip that it breaks in my hand. A sharp pain stings in the center of my palm. The white soap suds start to turn pink, coated with a layer of red.

“Shit, Jess. What the hell?” He takes my hand in his and turns me around, examining it. “Shit. Shit. Shit. What were you thinking?” He rinses my hand under the water and then brings it closer to his face. His words fade, and I don’t understand what he’s asking me.

I blink, looking up, and notice his usually calm hazel eyes have turned a stormy blue. I notice his lips moving, but his words are nothing but empty air.

The sharp sting has transformed into a throbbing pain in middle of my palm. Harrington wraps a cold cloth around my hand. And all the while, I can’t stop studying him. Is this the same man I met at the river? Or is he the man that used his fists to pummel his opponent into unconsciousness?

He lets go of my hand and disappears from the kitchen. Images of his blood-soaked knuckles and face dig into my eyes. When I squeeze them shut to stop the assault, the image of his careless smile and the way he looks at me from afar take center stage.

My eyes sting, and I feel the tears pooling at the brims, but I shove them back in.

Don
’
t waste tears
,
Jess
.
Crying is for the weak
.

Hot hands are back on mine and my eyes fly open. There in front of me is Harrington. But which one is he? Who am I dealing with? My head hurts from all these questions.

“No.” I hate the way my voice quivers. “No!” I yell louder when he doesn’t stop trying to reopen the wet towel.

“It’ll just take a minute. I know it hurts, but if we don’t take care of it, it’ll get infected.”

“I don’t care.” I jerk my hand free from his grip.

“What?” He hisses like a confused cat.

“You need to leave, Har—” I bite my tongue to keep from saying his name. Is it Harry or
Killshot
? I walk past him, trying to distance myself. Physically. Mentally. “Just go.”

I don’t know what he’s thinking, or even doing, because my back’s to him. But no matter how curious I am, I’m not going to look. I can’t . . . not at this moment, not now.

I can’t look at him with all these thoughts battling inside my head.

His body heat presses into my back, and his hand is heavy over my shoulder, squeezing gently, and with such reassurance that I nearly break down right then and there. “I wish I could tell you everything,” he says softly. “But I can’t.”

“Harry—”

He turns me around so that I’m facing him. I still don’t look at him, and he lets that be. “It’s better if you don’t know, Jess. It’s better this way.”

I slowly look up through my lashes, my breath catching in my throat in a huge lump. The way he’s looking at me . . . it’s not the man from the fight . . . it’s the guy I’m falling hard for. There’s concern in his eyes, and I know that look.

I back away, even as something inside me thrills at the thought of giving in.

He steps toward me, easily erasing the distance I just put between us. It’s kind of laughable that it takes him half as many steps as it did me. He’s so close now. His hand comes up to shove a strand of hair behind my ear, but stubborn as it is, it falls right back in place.

Good job
,
hair
.
At least you have more willpower than I do
.

He licks his lips and cups my face. His eyes study mine, trying to figure out exactly what happened between our butterfly kiss and today.

He leans forward.

My heart beats faster, and I can’t think with all the blood rushing into my ears. I need distance from him, a space where he’s not touching me.

“Tell me.”

“Why do you care?” I throw it at him like a steel-tipped arrow, cold, indifferent, angry.

He lets go of my face and takes a step back, just as I’d hoped. But it’s not as glorious as I thought it’d be. My skin protests the lack of his warmth.
Traitor
.

“Please, Jess. I’m just trying to understand why you’re pushing me away.”

I pinch my forehead, feeling my head start to throb. “Because I’m trying to figure out if Harrington and Killshot are one and the same, or two different people. Because I can’t be friends with the person I saw in that cage the other night.” I take a deep breath and admit what I hadn’t truly even admitted to myself, “Because
Killshot
scares me.”

He doesn’t say another word. He just stares at me intently, like he’s contemplating what to say or do next. And I lift my chin and stare right back, daring him to respond, to convince me that he’s not the person I fear he is, to prove to me that Killshot isn’t his true self.

I don’t know how much time has passed when Fisher comes into the kitchen. But I finally tear my gaze away from Harrington and turn to face him, cradling my towel-wrapped hand against my torso.

“Ready to go, bro?” he asks, the huge grin on his face fading away as he catches a glimpse of us. “Har—”

I look back at Harrington, who still seems lost. “You should go.”

He stands for a few seconds more, unmoving, as emotions battle across his face—hurt, sadness, and a touch of anger. It feels like hours.

“Harr—” Fisher’s voice reminds me that we aren’t alone in this moment.

“Yeah. Let’s go,” Harrington finally says and turns away, heading toward the door.

The sound of his footsteps weighs heavily on me, and I find myself feeling more alone than I have in a long time.

Cat appears next to me as the door closes behind them, her hair a wild mess, holding out a glass of scotch as an offering.

I look at her and she urges for me to take the drink. “To boys that make you weak in the knees and stab you in the heart.”

I give her a half smile and take a sip.

“HELLO?” I ANSWER, groggy, taking the phone from its charger.

“Harrington?” The voice on the other side is breathless.

My mind is instantly alert, recognizing the voice. “Hey, Anna.”

She laughs, like she’s relieved. “I started to worry when I didn’t hear back. Is everything okay? Are you okay? How’s Fisher? When is he coming home? Can he—”

“Slow down, Anna,” I say, rubbing my eyes. I put on my glasses and look up at the clock on my wall. 11:38 a.m. “Fisher is fine, and I’m working on it. But it’s going to take time, kid. You need to be patient.”

“I have been patient, Harrington.” She chokes on a sob. “I’ve been waiting forever for my brother to come home.”

I press my lips together.

“I want to see him.”

“No,” I blurt.

The only thing I hear in response is her breathing. Hard. Then, finally, she says, “I don’t want to celebrate my birthday alone.”

Oh, fuck. How did I forget that her birthday was coming up? “Anna, I know you want to see him, but it’s really not a good idea.”

She makes a noise.

“Anna, please don’t cry.” I’m so glad that I don’t have sisters.

“Fisher has always been with me for all my birthdays, even when we were in foster care. I never ever felt alone, not on my birthday anyway . . .  and . . . please, Harrington. I know you can make it happen. Please.”

Everything in me wants to tell her yes. But with all that’s going on, I don’t know if it’s a good idea. “Anna . . .” I draw out her name.

“Pleeeeease.” She draws out her word even further.

I run my hand down my face. “Fine. Let me see what I can do.”

“When? Will you tell me soon?”

I groan. “Let me talk to him first, and we’ll figure something out, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay,” she replies. “Thank you.”

I nod. “Sure thing, kid. I’ll talk to you soon.”

I can’t sleep after that. So I roll out of bed and walk into the kitchen, dragging my feet, feeling a bit hungover from last night’s late-night drinking at Blue Tango. I’ve gone there repeatedly since the confrontation at Jess’s apartment, but she’s still refusing to talk to me. It’s been a little over three weeks since my first fight. And since then, I’ve been in one more. She doesn’t know about that one, though. At least, I don’t think she does. And really, why should it matter to me what she thinks? It’s my life, and for once, I’m doing something that could make a difference. Every fight I’m in brings me one step closer to taking down Stamos.

But her words still bring a bad taste to my mouth. “
Killshot scares me
.”
She’d asked me if Harrington and Killshot were one and the same, and honestly, I don’t know. What if Killshot is the real me? I can’t deny that I feel alive in that ring in a way I don’t anywhere else. What does that make me? I need to find out soon, before I go insane.

I grab a bottle of beer from the fridge and walk back to the living room, settling down on the couch.

I pull my phone from the pocket of my sweats and flip it over in my hand, realizing that I haven’t checked my messages in a few days. I’ve never been a big user of cell phones. I check-in with Blake—whom I’ve secretly appointed as the official and only point of contact for my family—once every few weeks, through a small text or a quick voicemail. Fisher and I see each other so often I think he’s even starting to smell like me. Neil only calls me at our appointed check-ins, and Wilson, well, he doesn’t call; I do the dialing in that relationship. And yet I still managed to somehow collect seven new voicemails.

Taking a sip of blissfully cold beer, I select the first message and hit play.

Hudson:
Hey
,
little bro
.
We miss you
.
Hope wants to say hi!
He laughs, and then there’s a cooing noise as Hope takes over.
Did you hear that? She says she misses her Unky Harry
.
Love you
,
man
.
You know I
’
m always here for you
,
right? No matter what
.
Talk soon
.

My fingers itch to call him. Not talking to him has been hard. My brothers and I have always been close. They’re my backbone. They keep me in check and have my back when I need it. And I know they’re worried. I would be too. Hell, I’d be the kind to go bust their balls if they did what I have. Disappearing with some half-baked lie about dropping out of Harvard.

No explanations.

Without a word.

But I need to do what I must to keep them safe. Or maybe that’s just another web of lies I’m weaving for myself.

I sigh and listen to the next message.

Dad:
Harrington
.
Call me as soon as you get this
.
I hear some sort of hum in the background as he pauses.
We need to talk
.
Call me back
,
son
.

That call is dated two weeks ago. I don’t know what to make of it. My father never calls me. Whenever he’s needed to get in touch, he’s always just told Hudson to pass me a message. So I’m a bit baffled by what could have prompted him to call me now. My finger hovers over the call button. Should I? I shake my head. He’s probably just trying to get me back so he can save his sorry-ass reputation. I click the red delete button.

Blake:
Your brother says he can
’
t get in touch with you and that he
’
s left a dozen messages
.
I
’
m
this
close to hurting you
,
Harrington Brad Lovelly
,
if you don
’
t pick up the damn phone and give him a call
.
She pauses.
He
’
s worried about you
.
And it
’
s not the same as you talking to me
.
There’s even a longer pause.
Hope misses her Unky Harry
.

I sigh. I can’t call him. Not yet. I move on to the next message, drowning my guilt with another long swig of beer.

Dad:
Harrington
.
Call me
.

That one’s dated three days after the first. Interesting. Next.

Dad:
We need to talk
,
Harrington
.
Please
. . .
 call me back
.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

Five messages later, I listen to one more. This one is far more desperate than the previous ones. The time stamp says 12:03 a.m. . . . he just left this last night.

Dad:
Harrington
.
I know we
’
ve never been on the best of terms
.
But I need you
,
son
.
He pauses. I can picture him running a hand down his tired face.
I can
’
t talk to Hudson or Heath about this
.
Please call me back
.
It
’
s urgent
.

My finger hovers over the delete button, but I hesitate, thinking. I click next instead of delete.

Fisher:
Hey
,
dude
.
His voice is a little more unsteady than usual, slurred.
I
’
m shit-faced
,
so typing is out of the question
.
But I got what you need
.
Hold on a sec
. The shuffling of either paper or fabric crinkles through the line.
Write this down
.
I fumble around for something to write on, but there’s nothing nearby. So instead, I just memorize the random string of numbers he rattles off before hanging up. Nine numbers. A telephone number. Jess’s number? It has to be. I stare at the phone in my hand, hesitating.

Maybe, if I just talked to her and found out . . . I don’t even know what—if there’s a chance for us? Maybe then I could let go of this obsession with her.

What the hell is wrong with the male DNA? A girl plays hard to get, and we know she is, and we salivate and pine after her like a zombie out for brains.

This is not me
.

I’m fucking Harrington Brad Lovelly.

I don’t think about girls, and I most certainly don’t force my best friend to play house just to get a phone number. Well,
force
might be the wrong word, since he’s all too eager to seduce Cat whenever
she
lets him. But still. I’m not this guy.

I growl in frustration, leaning my head back against the couch cushion and close my eyes.

“Why do you look like a lost puppy?”

I turn my head to the side and blink.

Jess.

She’s here, standing in my apartment. All of her five foot five inches hovering just a few feet away, her thick black hair sparkling with streaks and streaks of bright color.  

I smile and get to my feet, walking toward her. “What are you doing here?”

“You asked me to come pick you up last night, asshole,” she says, in that soothing, almost sultry tone I can’t get enough of. It makes me wonder how she sounds when she first wakes up in the morning. If that hint of gravel lurking around the edges is more pronounced.

I look at the phone in my hand, then back at Jess, confused. Did I call her? I don’t remember. Wait, no, I didn’t have her number last night . . .

“I swear to Satan, man.” Her voice drops and octave and she face contorts into a sneer. She crosses her arms over her chest and widens her stance. “If you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’m going to punch you in the throat.” With each word, her voice gets deeper, more like a male voice.

That’s so weird. It’s almost like she’s . . . oh, for the love of god! I jump back from the door I don’t remember opening and look down at the phone in my hand before I toss it onto the couch like it’s a burning iron.

I shove my glasses out of the way and rub the heels of my palms into my eyes. Hard.

Fisher’s laughter fills the air.

Without looking, I turn and head toward my bathroom. “Fuck off, ass-wipe.”

The high-pitched sound of his amusement follows me. “Man, I thought you were going to fuck me ten ways to Thursday for a second there.”

I flip him the bird before I shove the bathroom door closed in his face. His laughter still rings through to my ears. I shake my head and look in the mirror. I don’t fully recognize the guy staring back at me. He’s changing.

I’m no knight in shining armor. I’m a man who plots and gets what he wants. A man who lies for a living. A man who enjoys punching people in the face, who loves the feel of adrenaline pumping through his veins at the thought of putting a bullet through Stamos’s head. I’m not the love sick puppy staring at in the mirror. I’m not.

I slap cold water over my face and quickly brush my teeth before I head back out to the living room.

“Did you get my message?” Fisher asks, flipping through TV channels without looking at me.

“Yeah,” I respond, pulling a shirt over my head.

“Are you going to call her?”

“Maybe,” I say dryly. “But guess who else called me this morning?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Who’s more important than the girl you’re obsessed about?”

I crinkle my nose. “I’m not obsessed.”

“Dude, I’ve known you for what, five, six years?”

“Give or take.”

“And I’ve never seen you go after a girl . . . a girl who clearly hates your guts right now.”