He hits her.
The son of a bitch hits her.
It only takes thirty minutes in Cindy’s company for me to reach that conclusion. To pick up on the signs. I see it in the way she flinches whenever he touches her. Just slightly, and probably unnoticeable to anyone else, but it’s the same way my mother would respond each time he came near her. It was almost like she was anticipating the next strike of his fist, or his palm, or his fucking foot.
But that’s not the only warning sign Cindy is broadcasting. The long-sleeved lacy thing over her red dress is a dead giveaway—I’ve fucked enough sorority girls to know that you don’t match white heels with a black jacket. And then there’s the spark of fear that flicks through her eyes whenever my father so much as twitches in his chair. The sad droop of her shoulders when he tells her that the gravy is too watery. The slew of compliments she gives him because she’s obviously trying to keep him happy. No, to keep him calm.
We’re halfway through dinner, my tie is choking the life out of me, and I’m not certain I can control my rage anymore. I don’t think I can make it to dessert without attacking the old man and demanding to know how he can possibly do this to another woman.
Cindy and Hannah are chatting about something. I have no clue what it is. My fingers grip my fork so tight I’m surprised it doesn’t snap in half.
He tried to talk to me about hockey earlier when Hannah and Cindy were in the kitchen. I tried talking back. I’m sure I even managed to form proper sentences, with subjects and predicates and all that shit. But from the second Hannah and I walked into this godforsaken house, my mind has been somewhere else. Every room holds a memory that brings bile to my throat.
The kitchen is where he broke my nose for the first time.
Upstairs is where I got the brunt of it, usually in my bedroom, where I don’t dare venture tonight because I’m scared the walls might close in on me.
The living room is where he slammed me against the wall after my eighth-grade league didn’t make it to the playoffs. I noticed he hung a painting over the hole in the drywall, though.
“So yeah,” Hannah is saying. “Now I’m singing a solo, which is what I should’ve done in the first place.”
Cindy makes a sympathetic noise with her tongue. “This boy sounds like a selfish ass.”
“Cynthia,” my father says sharply. “Language.”
There it is again—that flinch. The weak “I’m sorry” should come next, but to my surprise, she doesn’t apologize.
“You don’t agree, Phil? Imagine you were still playing for the Rangers and your goalie left you in the lurch right before the first game in the Stanley Cup series.”
My father’s jaw stiffens. “The two situations aren’t comparable.”
She quickly backpedals. “No, I guess they’re not.”
I shovel a forkful of mashed potatoes and stuffing into my mouth.
My father’s cool gaze travels to Hannah. “How long have you been seeing my son?”
From the corner of my eye, I see her shift in discomfort. “A month.”
He nods, almost like he’s pleased to hear it. When he speaks again, I realize precisely what he’s pleased about. “It’s not serious, then.”
Hannah frowns.
I do, too, because I know what he’s thinking. No, what he’s hoping. That this thing with Hannah is just a fling. That it’ll fizzle out sooner rather than later and then I can go back to focusing exclusively on hockey.
But he’s wrong. Hell, I was wrong, too. I thought having a girlfriend would distract me from my goals and split my focus, but it hasn’t. I love being with Hannah, but I haven’t lost sight of hockey either. I’m still bringing it in practice, still smoking my opponents on the ice. This last month has shown me that I can have Hannah and hockey in my life, and give both of them the attention they deserve.
“Did Garrett tell you he’s planning on going pro after graduation?” my father asks.
Hannah nods in response.
“Once he signs with a team, his schedule will become even more hectic. I imagine yours will, too.” My father purses his lips. “Where do you see yourself after graduation? Broadway? Recording an album?”
“I haven’t decided yet,” she replies, reaching for her water glass.
I notice that her plate is empty. She’s finished all her food, but hasn’t asked for seconds. Neither have I, though I can’t deny that Cindy’s cooking is fucking fantastic. I haven’t eaten a turkey that juicy in years.
“Well, the music industry is a tough one to break into. Requires a lot of hard work and perseverance.” My father pauses. “And an incredible amount of focus.”
“I’m well aware of that.” Hannah’s lips form a tight line, as if she has a million more things to say but is forcing herself not to.
“Professional sports is the same way,” my dad says pointedly. “Requires that same level of focus. Distractions can be costly.” His head tips toward me. “Isn’t that right, son?”
I reach for Hannah’s hand and cover her knuckles with my palm. “Some distractions are worth it.”
His nostrils flare.
“Looks like everyone has finished eating,” Cindy blurts out. “How about some dessert?”
My stomach churns at the thought of spending even another second in this house. “Actually, Hannah and I have to go,” I say roughly. “The weather forecast called for snow tonight so we want to head back before the roads get bad.”
Cindy’s head swivels to the floor-to-ceiling window on the other side of the dining room. Beyond the glass, there isn’t a speck of white in the air or on the ground.
But God bless her, she doesn’t comment on the snow-free state of the street. If anything, she looks almost relieved that this uncomfortable evening is about to come to an end.
“I’ll clear the table,” Hannah offers.
Cindy nods. “Thanks, Hannah. I appreciate it.”
“Garrett.” My father scrapes his chair back. “A word.”
Then he walks out.
Fuck him and his fucking words. The bastard didn’t even thank his girlfriend for the lovely meal she prepared. I’m so goddamn sick of this man, but I swallow my anger and follow him out of the dining room.
“What do you want?” I demand once we enter his study. “And don’t bother ordering me to stay for dessert. I came home for Thanksgiving, we ate some turkey, and now I’m leaving.”
“I don’t give a shit about dessert. We need to talk about that girl.”
“That girl?” I laugh harshly. “You mean Hannah? Because she’s not just some girl. She’s my girlfriend.”
“She’s a liability,” he snaps.
I roll my eyes. “How do you figure?”
“You lost two of your last three games!” he roars.
“And that’s her fault?”
“Damn right it is! She’s making you lose sight of the game.”
“I’m not the only player on the team,” I say flatly. “And I’m not the only one who made mistakes during those games.”
“You took a costly penalty in the last one,” he spits out.
“Yeah, I did. Big fucking deal. We’re still number one in our conference. Still number two overall.”
“Number two?” He’s shouting now, his hands forming tight fists as he takes a step toward me. “And you’re happy with being number two? I raised you to be number one, you little shit!”
Once upon a time, those blazing eyes and red cheeks would have made me flinch, too. But not anymore. Once I turned sixteen and gained two inches and forty pounds on my father, I realized I no longer had to be afraid of him.
I’ll never forget the look in his eyes the first time I fought back. His fist had been coming toward my face, and in a moment of clarity, I realized I could block it. I didn’t have to stand there and take the abuse anymore. I could dish it right back at him.
And I did. I still remember the satisfying crunch of my knuckles when they connected with his jaw. Even as he’d growled in fury, there’d been genuine shock—and fear—in his eyes as he’d stumbled backward from the force of the impact.
That was the last time he ever raised a hand to me.
“What are you going to do?” I taunt, nodding at his fists. “Hit me? What, you’re tired of taking it out on that nice woman out there?”
His entire body goes stiffer than granite.
“You think I don’t know you’re using her as your punching bag?” I hiss out.
“Watch your fucking mouth, boy.”
The fury in my gut boils over. “Fuck you,” I hurl out. My breathing goes shallow as I stare into his enraged eyes. “How could you lay a hand on her? How could you lay a hand on anyone? What the fuck is the matter with you?”
He stalks toward me, stopping when we’re a mere foot apart. For a second I think he might actually strike me. I almost want him to. That way I can strike back. I can smash my fists into his pathetic face and show him what it’s like to get beat on by someone who’s supposed to love you.
But my feet stay rooted in place, my hands pressed tightly against my sides. Because no matter how badly I want to do it, I will never lower myself to his level. I will never lose control of my temper and be like him.
“You need help,” I choke out. “Seriously, old man. You need some fucking help, and I really hope you get it before you hurt that woman any more than you already have.”
I stagger out of his study. My legs wobble so hard it’s a miracle they manage to carry me all the way to the kitchen, where I find Hannah rinsing plates at the sink. Cindy is loading the dishwasher. Both women glance over at my entrance, and both their faces go pale.
“Cindy.” I clear my throat, but the massive lump remains. “I’m sorry to steal Hannah away, but we have to go now.”
After a long beat, the blonde’s head jerks in a quick nod. “That’s fine. I can do the rest.”
Hannah shuts off the faucet and approaches me slowly. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. “Can you go wait in the car? I need to talk to Cindy for a moment.”
Rather than leave the kitchen, Hannah walks back to Cindy, hesitates, then gives the woman a warm hug. “Thank you so much for dinner. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Cindy murmurs with a strained smile.
I reach into the inner pocket of my jacket and extract my keys. “Here. Get it started for us,” I tell Hannah.
She exits the room without another word.
Taking a breath, I cross the tiled floor and stand directly in front of Cindy. To my horror, she reacts with that tiny, fearful flinch I’ve been witnessing all night. As if this is a like father, like son situation. As if I’m going to…
“I’m not going to hurt you.” My voice cracks like a fucking egg. I feel sick that I even have to assure her of that.
Panic floods her eyes. “What? Oh, honey, no. I didn’t think…”
“Yes, you did,” I say quietly. “It’s okay. I’m not taking it personally. I know what it’s like to…” I swallow. “Look, I don’t have a lot of time here, because I need to get the hell out of this house before I do something I might regret, but I just need you to know something.”
She uneasily lets go of the dishwasher door. “What is it?”
“I…” Another deep gulp and then I get right to the point, because really, neither one of us wants to be having this conversation. “He did it to me and my mom, too, okay? He abused us, physically and verbally, for years.”
Her lips part, but she doesn’t say a word.
My heart squeezes as I force myself to keep going. “He’s not a good man. He’s dangerous, and violent, and…sick. He’s sick. You don’t have to tell me what he’s doing to you. Or hell, maybe I’m wrong and he’s not doing anything—but I think he is, because I see it in the way you act around him. I acted that way too. Every move I made, every word I said…everything I did was rooted in fear, because I was desperate for him not to beat the shit out of me again.”
Her stricken look is all the confirmation I need.
“Anyway.” I inhale deeply. “I’m not going to drag you out of here over my shoulder, or call the cops and tell them there’s domestic abuse going on in this house. It’s not my place, and I won’t interfere. But I need you to know a couple things. One—it’s not your fault. Don’t you ever blame yourself, because it’s all on him. You did nothing to invite his criticism and his verbal attacks, and you didn’t fail to meet his expectations because his expectations are fucking impossible to meet.” My chest seizes so hard my ribs ache. “And two, if you ever need anything, anything at all, I want you to call me, okay? If you need to talk, or if you want to leave him and need someone to help you pack or move or whatever, call me. Or if he…does something and you need help, for fuck’s sake, call me. Can you promise to do that?”
Cindy looks stunned. Completely and utterly stunned. Her blue eyes are glassy, and she starts blinking fast, as if she’s trying to ward off tears.
The kitchen becomes as silent as a funeral home. She just stares at me, blinking wildly, the fingers of one hand toying with her sleeve.
After what feels like an eternity, she gives a shaky nod and whispers, “Thank you.”
Heat blasts from the air vents when I slide into the driver’s seat. Hannah has started the engine and she’s already buckled up, as if she’s as desperate to get away from here as I am.
I put the car in drive and speed away from the curb, needing to put distance between me and that brownstone. If I’m lucky enough to play for Boston one day, I plan on living as far away from Beacon Hill as possible.
“So…that was kind of brutal,” Hannah remarks.
I can’t stop the laugh that shudders out. “Kind of?”
She sighs. “I was trying to be diplomatic.”
“Don’t bother. That was a nightmare from start to finish.” My fingers curl around the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. “He hits her.”
There’s a beat of silence, but when Hannah answers, it’s with regret and not surprise. “I thought that might be the case. Her sleeves rode up in the kitchen and I thought I saw some bruises on her wrists.”
The revelation sends a fresh bolt of anger whipping through me. Damn it. A part of me was still hoping I might be wrong about Cindy.
Silence settles between us as I head for the highway ramp. My hand rests on the gearshift, and Hannah covers it with hers. She strokes my knuckles, her gentle touch easing some of the pressure in my chest.
“She was scared of me,” I mumble.
This time, Hannah does sound surprised. “What are you talking about?”
“When I was alone in the kitchen with Cindy, I took a step closer and she flinched. She flinched, like she was scared I might hurt her.” My throat clogs up. “I mean, I get it. My mom was jumpy, too. So was I. But…fuck. I can’t believe she thought I was capable of hurting her.”
Sadness softens Hannah’s voice. “It’s probably not just you. If he’s abusing her, then she’s probably scared of anyone who comes near her. I was the same way for a while after the rape. Jumpy, nervous, suspicious of everyone. It was a long time before I was finally able to relax around strangers, and even now, there’s still things I won’t do. Like drink in public. Well, unless you’re there to play bodyguard.”
I know that last line is an attempt to make me smile, but it doesn’t. I’m still preoccupied by Cindy’s reaction.
In fact, I don’t feel like talking anymore. I just…can’t. Fortunately, Hannah doesn’t push me. I love that about her, how she never tries to fill silences with forced conversation.
She asks if I’m okay with music, and when I nod, she plugs in her phone and loads up a playlist that does make me smile. It’s the classic rock set I emailed her when we first met, though I notice she doesn’t start it from the first song. Because the first song happens to be my mother’s favorite, and I’m pretty sure that if I hear it right now, I’ll burst into tears.
Which just goes to show that Hannah Wells is…amazing. She’s so fucking attuned to me, my moods, my pain. I’ve never been with anyone who can read me so well.
An hour goes by. I know it’s an hour because that’s how long the playlist lasts, and when it ends, Hannah puts on a different mix, which makes me smile too because it consists of a whole lot of Rat Pack, Motown, and Bruno Mars.
I’m calm now. Well, calmer. Every time I feel like I’m relaxing, I remember Cindy’s fear-ridden eyes and the pressure squeezes my chest again. As uncertainties eddy in my gut, I force myself not to dwell on the one question that keeps pricking at my brain, but as I speed off the exit ramp and drive toward the two-lane road that will take us to Hastings, the question pops up again and this time I can’t bat it away.
“What if I’m capable of it?”
Hannah turns down the volume. “What?”
“What if I’m capable of hurting someone?” I ask hoarsely. “What if I’m just like him?”
She answers with absolute conviction. “You’re not.”
Misery crawls up my spine. “I have his temper, I know I do. I wanted to strangle him tonight.” I press my lips together. “It took all my willpower not to throw him into a wall and beat him to death. But it wasn’t fucking worth it. He’s not worth it.”
She reaches for my hand and laces her fingers through mine. “And that’s why you’re not like him. You have that willpower, and that means you don’t have his temper. Because he can’t control his. He lets the anger fuel him, drive him to hurt the people around him, people who are weaker than him.” Her grip on my hand tightens. “What would you do if I pissed you off right now?”
I blink. “What do you mean?”
“Let’s pretend we’re not in the car right now. We’re in my room, or your house, and I…I don’t know, tell you that I slept with someone else. No, I tell you that I’ve been sleeping with the entire hockey team since the second we met.”
The thought makes my insides clench.
“What would you do?” she prompts.
I turn to her with a frown. “I’d end it and walk out the door.”
“That’s it? You wouldn’t be tempted to hit me?”
I recoil in horror. “Of course not. Jesus.”
“Exactly.” Her palm moves gently over my cold knuckles. “Because you’re not like him. No matter how angry someone made you, you wouldn’t hit them.”
“That’s not true. I’ve gotten into a brawl or two on the ice,” I admit. “And one time I punched a guy at Malone’s, but that’s ’cause he said some nasty shit about Logan’s mom and I couldn’t not throw down for my friend.”
She sighs. “I’m not saying you’re incapable of violence. Everyone is capable of it. I’m saying you wouldn’t hurt someone you love. At least not intentionally.”
I pray to God she’s right. But when you inherited your DNA from a man who does hurt the people he loves, who the hell knows.
My hands start to shake, and I know Hannah feels it because she squeezes my right hand to steady it. “Pull over,” she says.
I frown again. We’re driving down a dark stretch of road, and even though there are no other cars in sight, I don’t like the idea of stopping in the middle of nowhere. “Why?”
“Because I want to kiss you, and I can’t do that when your eyes are on the road.”
An unwitting smile springs to my lips. Nobody has ever asked me to pull over before so they can kiss me, and although I’m exhausted and pissed off and sad and who knows what else, the thought of kissing Hannah right now sounds like pure fucking heaven.
Without another word, I pull off onto the shoulder, move the gearshift to park, and flick the emergency blinkers.
She slides closer and grasps my chin. Delicate fingertips stroke my stubble, and then she leans in and kisses me. Just the fleeting touch of her lips, before she pulls back and whispers, “You’re not like him. You will never be like him.” Her lips tickle my nose before kissing the tip of it. “You’re a good person.” She plants a tiny kiss on my cheek. “You’re honest and kind and compassionate.” She lightly bites my bottom lip. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you’re a total dick sometimes, but it’s a tolerable kind of dickishness.”
I can’t stop a grin.
“You’re not like him,” she repeats, firmer this time. “The only thing you two have in common is that you’re both gifted hockey players. That’s it. You are not like him.”
Jesus, I needed to hear that. Her words penetrate that terrified place in my heart, and as the pressure in my chest dissipates, I cup the back of her head and kiss her hard. My tongue slides into her mouth and I groan happily, because she tastes like cranberries and smells like cherries and I fucking love it. I want to kiss her all night, for the rest of my fucking life, but I haven’t forgotten where we are at the moment.
I reluctantly break the kiss—just as her hand sneaks toward my crotch.
“What are you doing?” I croak, then groan again when she rubs my aching cock over my trousers.
“What does it feel like?”
I grab her hand to still its movements. “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but we’re sitting in the car on the side of the road.”
“No, really? I thought we were on an airplane on our way to Palm Springs.”
I choke out a laugh, but it turns into a wheeze when the temptress beside me strokes me again. She squeezes the head of my cock, and my balls tighten, little zings of heat racing through me. Oh hell. This is so not the time, but I have to know if she’s as turned on as I am, and I can’t stop my hand from drifting to her knee. I caress the baby-soft skin of her thigh before slipping my hand under her dress.
I cup her over her panties and moan when I feel the damp material against my palm. She’s wet. Really wet.
Somehow I manage to yank my hand away. “We can’t do this.”
“Why not?” An impish twinkle dances in her eyes, which doesn’t surprise me, because I’m quickly discovering that Hannah is adventurous as hell once she lets down her guard and trusts someone.
And it still floors me that it’s me she trusts.
“Anyone can drive by.” I pause meaningfully. “Including a police patrol.”
“Then we better be fast.”
Before I can blink, she unzips my pants and slides her hand inside my boxers. My eyes promptly roll to the top of my head.
“Get in the backseat,” I burst out.
Her eyes widen, then fill with delight. “Really?”
“Hell, if we’re going to do this, we might as well do it right,” I answer with a sigh. “Go big or go home, remember?”
It makes me laugh how quickly she dives into the backseat. Chuckling, I pop the glove box and grab the strip of condoms stashed there, then join her in the back.
When she sees what I’m holding, her jaw drops. “Are those condoms? Okay, I think I might be mad about this, except I probably shouldn’t be because it’s very helpful right now. But…seriously? You keep condoms in your car?”
I shrug. “Of course. What if I’m driving along one day and come across Kate Upton stranded on the side of the road?”
Hannah snorts. “I see. Is that your type then? Busty blondes with curves to spare?”
I cover her body with mine and prop my elbows on either side of her. “Naah, I prefer busty brunettes.” I bury my face in her neck and nuzzle her skin. “One in particular. Who, by the way, also has curves to spare.” My hands slide down to her waist. “And tiny hips.” I glide my palms underneath her and squeeze her round bottom. “And a grabbable ass.” I move one hand between her legs. “And the tightest pussy on the planet.”
She shivers. “You have the dirtiest mouth.”
“Yeah, but you still love me.”
Her breath hitches. “Yeah. I do.” Her green eyes shine up at me. “I love you.”
My heart damn near explodes as those three sweet words hang between us. Other girls have said that to me before, but this time it’s different. Because it’s Hannah saying it, and she’s not just any girl. And because I know that when she says she loves me, she actually means me—Garrett—and not Briar’s hockey star, or Mr. Popularity, or Phil Graham’s son. She loves me.
It’s difficult to speak past the enormous lump in my throat. “I love you, too.” It’s the first time I’ve told a woman I love her, and it feels so damn right.
Hannah smiles. Then she pulls my head down and kisses me, and suddenly we’re not talking anymore. I push her dress up and yank my trousers down. I don’t even take off her panties, I just shove the crotch aside, roll on a condom with one hand, and guide my cock to her opening.
She moans the instant I enter her. And I wasn’t kidding about how tight she is. Her pussy clutches me like a vise and I see stars, so close to losing it I have to will the climax away.
I’ve fucked girls in my car before.
I’ve never made love to one.
“You’re so beautiful,” I mumble, unable to take my eyes off her.
I start to move, dying to go slow and make it last, but I’m painfully aware of our surroundings. A Good Samaritan—or worse, a cop—might spot the Jeep and think we need roadside assistance, and if they decide to approach us, they’ll get an eyeful of my bare ass, see my hips pumping and Hannah’s arms clutching my back.
Besides, in this position, it’s hard to maneuver. All I can manage is fast, shallow strokes, but Hannah doesn’t seem to mind. She makes the sexiest noises as I move inside her, breathy sighs and shaky whimpers, and when I hit this one certain spot inside her, she moans so loudly I have to clench my ass cheeks to stop from coming. I can feel the orgasm hurtling toward me, but I want her to come, too. I want to hear her cry out and milk me dry as her pussy spasms around me.
I reach between us and press my thumb on her clit, rubbing it gently. “Give it to me, baby,” I rasp in her ear. “Come for me. Let me feel you coming around my cock.”
Her eyes squeeze shut, hips rising to meet my hurried thrusts, and then she cries out in pleasure, and I come so hard my vision wavers and my mind fragments into a million pieces.
When the mind-shattering pleasure finally abates, I register what song is playing in the car.
My eyes fly open. “Did you re-download One Direction?”
Her mouth twitches. “No…”
“Uh-huh. So why is ‘Story of my Life’ playing?” I demand.
She pauses, then lets out a big sigh. “Because I like One Direction. There. I said it.”
“You’re lucky I love you,” I warn her. “Because I wouldn’t stand for it otherwise.”
Hannah grins. “You’re lucky I love you. Because you’re a total asshole and there aren’t a lot of girls who’d put up with it.”
She’s probably right about the asshole thing.
She’s definitely right about the lucky part.
