Brawler (12 page)

“I’m not going anywhere with you and I don’t know what you want from me, but you are not going to get it.”

“Yes I am,” he laughs. “Where’s the safe you keep your samples in, baby?”

“I don’t have a —”

The pain that engulfs the back of my head and neck is so extreme, I fall to my hands and knees and attempt to curl up so I can cradle my head. He won’t let me suffer in peace, though; instead he drags me up by the hair, then kisses me. I try to fight back, but he brings the knife back into play by running it between my breasts. Between the pain, frustration, and waiting for a cut that never comes, I whimper.

“Stay silent like a good bitch and listen. Christ, you got an answer for everything,” he says, spitting in my face. “You think a guy like me would ever want anything to do with someone like you long term? Not fucking likely. I mean, you’re hot, but you think you’re better than me, and if I wasn’t getting paid a fuckload of money for what’s in that brain of yours, I would have bounced a long fucking time ago.”

Running his hand through the blood dripping from my shoulder blades he’s too stoned to stop fucking talking, which works for me, I need to come up with a plan anyway.

“You think I’m stupid, but I’m not stupid. I paid attention and by doing that I’m getting compensated, so even after the bullshit you pulled having that bitch turn me in, I’ll still sit large. So one last time, where’s your safe?”

“I don’t have a safe, Briggs.” I start “You know —”

He punches me square in the chest, causing me to lose my breath. Just as I start to go down, he lifts me back up.

“You keep your shit in a safe, Macy, I know you fucking do,” he says. Then you can see the wheels turning. “Fuck it, you’re coming with me, then.”

Grabbing me by my hair he attempts to drag me upstairs to where he thinks my safe is, only it isn’t. Anything to do with my research is stored in the one place no one can take it; inside my head.

Looking over at Venessa I see she’s still out, so having no other choice, I allow him to take me upstairs.

Back to my room,
my room
that he recently destroyed and when he couldn’t find what he was looking for, he jacked off on my 400 thread count sheets, which alone is punishable by death. I don’t have to dig deep to find the hate I feel for him. It’s right there, just below the surface. I’m so sick of being stepped on. I want the chance to be happy, I want Venessa and Rogan to be happy, and I want Jonas in my life, period. That’s all I want, all I need.

Entering the room he throws me ahead of him, and as I get my balance he’s behind me, grinding. That’s so fucking sick that I had to ask myself what I ever saw in him, then I remind myself he didn’t start out this way. Memory lane is a moot point; he isn’t getting anything tonight, which includes the two things on the menu: my data and my body.

What he is going to get is a reality check, the second I have an opening.

“Get on your knees, slut,” he whispers, licking my ear. “You know, for old times’ sake.”

“Fuck you, Briggs.” I spit at him, a direct challenge

“You call me Jacob! Jacob! Not Briggs! Jacob!” he yells, tackling me.

We collide so hard we fall off of the bed with my body landing on his, causing him to lose air, and lucky for me the knife. Before he can recover I scramble, picking it up at the same time he gains his footing.

Now, we’re both standing, but what do you know? He isn’t charging me.  Maybe it’s the blade resting in the palm of my hand now?

“Put the knife down,” he says gently. “Give me what I came for and I’ll leave, Macy. I’ll leave and you never have to see me again.”

“Sure,” I offer. “I’ll put the knife down, but first why don’t you get on
your
knees so I can utilize my new position, followed by my lower center of gravity when I stab you in the heart. Because Briggs, that’s where this knife is going.”

“Put the fucking knife down,” he growls. “Open the goddamn safe, bitch. I don’t have time for this.”

“I didn’t have time to bleed on your behalf either, Briggs,” I spit. “But you know, sometimes you just have to make time. Get on your fucking knees, now!”

He must have noted the seriousness of my tone because he goes to his knees. Then I instruct him lay down and to put his hands behind his head, he does. Approaching him slowly in case he plans to make a move, I use the time to plan mine. He isn’t going to stay there long, and I know the first chance he has, this tussle is going to turn into a fight to the death, and if I have my way, it will be his. Being stabbed to death is not how I intend to go out.

Coming up behind him, I feel fairly confident I have the upper hand, at least for now. And it’s going really well, too, until the cavalry comes.

N
eeding to kick that fucking door in was riding me hard, but it was my partner who even with his woman in that house, condition unknown, reminded me what partners were for. The fucking second she spoke, I knew. The second she called me Rafe, I fucking knew he was in there with her. So dialing it down a notch and sticking with our training we split up, each taking a side of the house, agreeing to meet in the back. He goes right, I go left, checking the windows for movement. Looking into the dining room window what I see is Briggs’ beating
my
woman. No, that’s not right; he’s rubbing his hands all over her bloody body while he beats her. Jesus fucking Christ, she’s dripping with blood, her own blood.

A calmness comes over me. Which is fucked up considering what’s going down right now, but there it is. The problem I face is twofold; I’m out here and she’s in there. There are two of us and one of him, and in her condition, I don’t see her lasting long, add to that we haven’t seen Venessa. So we play this shit right.

Meeting at the back door, we both get in position. While he works the lock, I have his back. Looking over him into the back door window I see Venessa on the floor, unconscious. Fuck! She’s still fucking healing, and if he hit her, there is no playing by the rules; Rogan will fucking kill him before I can. No sooner do I start my debate on how to tell him, he opens the door; we both rush in and he sees her on the floor, unmoving.

“Angel,” he whispers to himself. “No.”

Silently running, he gently looks over while I cover his back. He continues to whisper, asking her to come back, because fuck, it’s all he knows, and the only one she ever listens to is him anyway. Slowly moving away, I scan the kitchen and hall seeing neither of them. Looking back at my partner, he nods, telling me he’s got this. Just as I prepare to leave the room I hear Venessa whisper my name. Spinning around she’s sitting up leaning on his chest with him touching her to make sure she’s alive again.

“He tried to rape her, Rafe,” she tries, but her voice gives “He was cutting her up again, hitting her, and I couldn’t help her. She fought back.”

“It’s okay Angel,” says Rogan. “Rafe’s gonna get her back.”

“I could see and hear but I couldn’t move, but she fought back,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”

At that, I decide to let him handle it. Moving to the wall to take it slow and silent, I hear her yell, “Get on your fucking knees, now!” Then I say, “Fuck this,” and two-time it up the steps. In my quest to rescue the princess, my entrance of kicking the door open does two things: first, it alerts Briggs to my presence, and second, it gives him time to grab my woman.

I kick the door in fully. Macy looks up briefly; Brigg’s looks over. Macy advances, ignoring my presence, and Briggs grabs her, pulling her down and attempting to steal the knife she’s white-knuckling. No words are spoken; seconds matter. She knows this because when she works her way into a semi-seated position across his stomach and chest, she wastes no time. She takes that knife meant for her and buries it in his chest, straight to the hilt. Instinct has him reaching for it, but instead she forces his hands away, pulls the knife back out (which sounds as disgusting as it looks), and proceeds to stab him again, and again.

My body chooses that moment to unfreeze itself, and I approach her, needing her to stop. He’s dead; the bloodbath is over, only it isn’t. It’s just getting started. Every plunge she yells, every plunge she gets closer to closure. The fact that she keeps going tells me he wasn’t just rough with her; he seriously fucked her up.

“Hate you.” “Trusted you.” “Hurt me.” “Lied to me.” “Forced me.”

Toward the end, she’s barely using force but merely going through the stabbing motions, her voice getting quieter as she goes. Just as I’m about to call her name, making this stop, she whispers it.

The words that changed
everything
.

“Ruined me.”

Calling her name, she drops the knife, turning to look at me. It’s then that I get that me and her are more alike than I ever thought possible. Jesus, we’re both a fucking mess.

“Princess,” I say, kneeling down next to her. “Look at me.” When she does, I check her eyes first. They are dilated, yet she isn’t shaking or showing any signs of shock.

“Wouldn’t call him Jacob,” she whispers. “Wouldn’t give him what’s in here.” She taps her head to show me. “Couldn’t let him hurt me anymore. Couldn’t let him hurt you.”

“Princess,” I start, “I need to get you to a hospital.”

“Venessa,” she says with conviction. “Save Venessa.”

“Rogan’s with her, all right? It’s time to take care of you now.”

“No!” she says, standing up and pushing past me. “Have to get to Venessa.”

She’s riding the adrenaline right now, so I follow her instead of yelling at her to stop. Staying close in case she falls, we enter the kitchen together to see Venessa standing there with Rogan holding her up.

Venessa walks over to her slowly, careful of Macy’s wounds, and still hurting from her own. Macy looks her over and I see her distress level rising. Venessa must sense Macy is about to go atomic, so she does what she can to calm her.

“I’m okay, Macy,” Venessa says. “Briggs?”

“Dead,” she says, flat staring at her friend.

“How’d he go out?”

“He fell on his knife,” she says. “Several times.”

“Yeah?” she laughs. “Hate when that happens.”

“He should really watch where he’s —”

When Macy starts to go down, I’m there to catch her. Lifting her in my arms, I rush her out to my truck, strap her in, and haul ass to the nearest emergency room, which oddly enough is where she also works.

Rogan sends me a text letting me know as soon as Venessa is cleaned, checked out, and caffeinated, they’ll be there. Years of police work come in handy when you have someplace to be; in this case it takes me under three minutes to get to the ER. I flash my badge and toss valet my keys then walk over, open the door, and bring her back to my arms where she belongs.

As the doors part for our entrance my anxiety spikes; I fucking loathe hospitals. No doubt because I was in and out of them a lot as a kid. My dad was not only abusive, he was a cop, too, so whatever landed me in the hospital was a vacation compared to what was waiting for me upon release if the staff didn’t buy my story. So my Mom being the June Cleaver she was made it a point to rotate hospitals, you know, so no one got suspicious. What a gem.

Walking through the lobby to reception with an unconscious woman probably doesn’t happen all too often, so the initial looks of
did this douche bag beat her
are quickly put to an end when I give them her name. Shock gave way to concern and she is taken to a private room immediately.

Following the nurse, I sit in the vacant chair closest to her bed. The nurse carefully undresses her, cleans and wraps the wounds, and runs an IV into her right arm. As soon as Macy is bundled like a baby the nurse shoots a look at me and lets me know the doctor is on his way. It pisses me off that this woman assumes I did this but, she also knows I’m a cop, so she keeps her mouth shut. This is the problem with the world, if someone would have defended me just once, my life could have turned out differently. Someone just needed to put their fear aside and say it.

After she checks her vitals and starts to leave, I start with “Excuse me,” and when she turns to me, I plead my case.

“Ma’am,” I begin, “I know what you’re thinking, but you need to know I ain’t responsible for this.”

“I never said you were,” she snaps.

“The looks I’m getting say otherwise,” I snap back. “Look, I’m a cop, and I know you think that if I did this, the odds for getting punished for this act of violence is slim because of who I am. But I did not do this to her, and the man that did
was
punished. That woman is my heart; I’d cut mine out to keep hers beating. You get me?”

“You’re Jonas I take it?”

“She’s mentioned me?” I whisper. “Holy shit.”

“She has.” She smiles “He was punished, you said?”

I nod then look over at Macy sleeping when I hear the nurse say, “Good, I hope he suffered.” Then she leaves us.

Pulling the chair next to her bed, I need to touch her so I sneak her hand from under the blanket and put it in mine. Looking at the IV, the bloody clothes tossed in a bag, and the massive lump on her right temple has me fighting for air. This is my fault. I may not have put my hands on her but it was my actions that caused her to run; she ran from me and ended up here. She ran from me because of my anger, my issues, so yeah, I’m responsible for this. So on top of my guilt trip, I start thinking of how to handle the crime scene, but no sooner does that thought enter my brain I get a text from the Cap letting me know it’s being handled. Thank fuck for that.