All my vulnerable woe flits away into panic as I realize what Jake intends to do. Jake boxes and practices martial arts as a fitness regime, and he used to be a scrapper in his teens, always in trouble. I know he's a fighter, but I'm still beyond terrified. Ray and Jake are equally matched in body size, similar in height, and definitely in aggression, so there's no telling what the outcome will be, and I can't bear it.
Jake can run like the wind. I tear after him screaming his name manically. He's much faster than I am, though, and he's already out of the building, tearing off in the direction of a lone figure walking in the distance. They're too far from me to see what's happening, but the figures have collided, a jumble of blurry shapes, a joined mass of movement, arms coming out and throwing back with force. Even kicking my stilettos off and running barefoot, I can't begin to catch up. My body is pumping adrenaline fast, and I get a cramp in my leg so severely I fall-panic sears through me as I try to get up.
Oh, my god. Jake, no!
One figure steps back, holding the other by the throat, and throws a punch with a short swing; the other hits the ground. Then the two are joined, rolling around once more.
I feel sick. I'm trying so hard to get up, dizziness and nausea fighting with my mind to take over, tears pouring down my face, and full-blown hysteria consuming me.
God, please, don't let him hurt my Jake.
The cramp begins to fade, and I haul myself up and stagger toward them, looking for anything to use as a weapon to defend him. My bare feet make running almost impossible.
I get closer and see Jake has Ray by the shoulders as he brings his knee up into the man's abdomen twice, the contact thudding as Ray snorts out with pain at every collision and then falls into a heap. Jake hauls him back up and delivers three precise blows to his face, head, and body before Ray crumbles to the ground again, motionless. In a powerful boxer stance, Jake towers over him, glaring with a fire I've never known from him.
I desperately manage to close the gap and throw myself at Jake, my clothes dirty and ripped, but I don't care. I swing around his neck, enveloping him, grabbing onto him in despair and relief to shield him from harm.
"No more. Please, no more," I beg, feeling his heart pounding through his chest as we press together; his breathing is shallow, and he's sweating. His arms come around my waist, pulling me in hard against his muscular body, and he turns me so I can look down at Ray Vanquis. He's entirely out cold, laid out on the damp, dirty pavement, looking pathetic. This devil of a man seems almost pitiful now.
"Tell me what you want me to do with him, Emma." His voice is breathy, the severe tone terrifying, hinting that he'll do whatever I ask, even if that means killing him. I catch the rage in his green eyes, making them almost luminescent. This is not my Jake. This is a primal, carnal version of my Jake, and I want him to leave. I need my regular Jake back. I need his face, voice, and arms here with me.
"Leave him here. Leave him to rot in the street," I whisper, burying my face against his neck as his hand cradles my head protectively. He rests his mouth against my temple and breathes out slowly, some of the tension in his body releasing as he sags against me, using me to calm down and disperse all the anger and adrenaline coursing through his veins.
We stand silent for agonizingly long minutes as I watch Ray's huddled body on the damp, dark ground. He doesn't stir, and I worry Jake has killed him.
"We should call the cops," Jake mutters flatly, finally. His breathing has calmed to normal with his arms around me, which is all I can focus on.
"No, let him go. My mother blames me for enough already; this will only send her over the edge," I stammer hopelessly. His fingers slide under my chin to bring my face to his, showing the confusion in the depths of those green eyes, and I shake my head.
"Please don't make me tell you. Not right now. One day, Jake, I promise." He frowns, firmly pushing his forehead against mine as though he's trying to reel in frustration and anger but still respects my wishes. The fire blazes in his eyes, but he exhales deeply. His jaw is tense, which only adds to the male aggression in his look.
I can't help but think how breathtaking he looks in protective, fighter mode, with the scariness gone and overwhelming masculinity left. He's nothing like the men from my childhood who were aggressive and cruel. They liked to inflict pain on me, but Jake isn't that way; for all his strength and power, he's the gentlest person I've ever known regarding women. A real man, in my eyes.
He hauls me away from the lifeless body on the ground, then stops; thinking for a moment, he bends down and places a hand on Ray's throat to check for a pulse, his other hand still on my waist. He pauses, takes a count, sneers, then straightens up.
"He'll live, unfortunately," Jake growls, then delivers a swift kick to the man's ribs in passing, extruding a muffled grunt. He pulls me off in the direction of the apartment, his arm tightly around my shoulders now, keeping me pressed against him. I can feel the ripple of adrenaline coursing through him, but we walk in silence.
"Thank you," I smile up at him honestly. I know thanking him for physically beating someone up for me is wrong in so many ways, but somehow teen Emma, broken and cowering at the hands of that evil man, raises her sweet innocent head and smiles. Jake says nothing, leans down, and kisses me tenderly on the forehead, lingering a moment before giving me a gentle squeeze. We walk as he pulls me along until he stops to pick up my discarded shoes. Realizing I'm barefoot, he picks me up and carries me the rest of the way. I don't protest; I hold on, curl up in his embrace, and feel safe.
Jake, my boss. My friend. My protector. The first person in my life who has ever risen to the challenge of being one for me. No one else in my life deemed me worthy of fighting for.
***
In the apartment, we sit drinking coffee; we don't talk about what happened. Instead, I tell him about Sophie and want to help her. I can't tell him why without explaining my mother's injuries. I know if I tell him Ray is the reason she's in the hospital, he will go back out and find him and drag him to the police station or worse, and I know it's pointless. My mother will never point the finger at Ray. I already know that she won't even break up with him despite his actions. Instead, she'll be angry at me for letting Jake beat him up.
Such is the twisted logic of my mother.
"Isn't that what your mother does, help kids like Sophie?" he asks gently. I observe him, realizing I'm still obsessively scanning his face and hands for injuries. Since we walked into the apartment, I've been doing it, and I still can rest despite seeing no evidence aside from some bruised knuckles. He's indestructible, like a hero should be.
"No, she runs a homeless charity. She helps adults find shelter. Children are not her forte." Obviously.
"Sophie has real abuse issues; she needs a place that will help her heal, not here," I say. Never here.
"I'll call my mom; she has places she can put her while dealing with the legal side. Sophie will need protection legally, so her parents can't just come and take her back. My mother has lawyers who deal with all that." He frowns at me softly, reaches out, and entwines our fingers on the table with one hand, giving reassurance. It feels so ordinary and necessary, sending warm rivers up my arm.
"Thank you, Jake; this means a lot to me." I look down, staring at our hands, my tiny pale fingers in his large, strong, tanned hand, as different as night and day, yet they fit perfectly. They look right together.
"Where is she right now?" He's gazing at our hands, too, his expression blank.
"The hospital still. I stormed out. I should call her; she gave me her cell number." The questions arise in his face with the twitch of an eyebrow, but he decides to leave it alone. Thankfully. I reach into my bag, retrieve my cell, and text Sophie. I notice the email notification in the top corner and reflect on the song.
"Why did you send me that song?" I ask distractedly.
He shifts back in his seat with his arm fully stretched, so he doesn't need to break the hold of my hand; he looks thoughtful and then shrugs.
"It came on in the club and made me think of you; I didn't think you gave me any good reason not to follow you. You didn't respond, so I figured you still had no good reason. Here I am." His expression gives nothing away, but his eyes darken, his pupils expanding. His gaze is steady on me as I study him, neither of us saying anything.
My cell buzzing across the wooden tabletop breaks the moment, and I pick it up to check the text.
"Sophie is coming back; she got a bus. Jake, I want to go back to New York tonight," I say without looking at him; sure the questions will come this time.
"Okay," is all he says as he squeezes my hand a little. I'm confused; this is so non-Jake, but I don't push it. He's being agreeable for once, without questioning, pushing, just letting me be, and I love him all the more for it.
***
By the time Sophie walks in, I'm cooking dinner for the three of us as Jake watches an action movie in the living room. He's lounging on the couch as if he's always lived here, his shoes discarded on the floor; I smile at his ability to just exist in any surrounding that he's put in. He adapts effortlessly and never questions or criticizes. I'm sure he's on the verge of sleep; I can tell by his relaxed posture. It all looks pretty domesticated and normal like this is how we always are.
After changing her clothes in my old room, Sophie enters the kitchen and casts me a timid look. I know she wants to talk about what happened at the hospital, but I shake my head and nod toward Jake on the couch. He's engrossed in his movie. She smiles softly with an understanding nod and lets me introduce them properly instead.
They seem to get on immediately. Throughout the introductions, he keeps casting looks from Sophie to me, and I know what he's thinking; he can see the resemblance. He's wondering how deep it goes. I'm apprehensive; I try and ignore it. While Sophie seems awed at his presence at first, that Carrero charm soon lulls her into relaxation, and he has her joking and laughing with him before long. A cute camaraderie develops quickly between them. Eventually, she joins me in the kitchen to prepare the food while he returns to lazing on the sofa.
I tell Sophie my plan to leave, but it's met with resistance as she wants to stay until my mother is home and healing and be here to take care of her until she is sure she can cope alone. I think of Ray and shake my head. Sophie shouldn't be here; it won't be long before he's back, and my mother won't throw him out. Jocelyn Anderson will never give him up, not for Sophie, me, or anyone. I try and talk quietly, so Jake doesn't hear the conversation.
"One week?" she asks softly, and I hate the desperation in her eyes; her affection for my mother is strong. I don't want to push her away, but this is hard. I need to relinquish a little over this. I close my own and steady the internal war.
"Okay, but you come to me in one week, and we go from there. You call me every night, Sophie, so I know you're okay. And no lies!" I am stern.
She snaps her head up to look at me, and we see each other deeply. She knows that I know she lied for my mother. She doesn't know I used to do it too. She nods and bites her lip, another teen Emma trait; I wonder if that's why she keeps her hair tied up, away from fidgeting fingers, yet another teen Emma trait. I sigh at the girl, the shadow of my past. Only this one has a chance at being saved.
"Okay," she finally pouts, and I nod, not fully happy. She makes me think of everything I was when I first arrived in New York. Like I did, she has a fire inside her, determined to rise from the ashes. She'll be okay; she is a fighter and no longer alone.
Jake sits up suddenly and fishes his cell from his pocket, putting it to his ear; he says a few words, then looks across at me with a glance, catching my interest.
"When then?" He sits up properly and plants his feet on the floor, sounding annoyed.
"Okay … Well, yeah … Sure … First thing … Keep me updated." He closes the cell and casts me an apologetic grimace.
"No flight home tonight, Emma; jet's grounded. There's a storm brewing west of Chicago and heading this way. New York is also in a full-blown blizzard." He shrugs to emphasize that he can do nothing, and I curse inwardly. The drop of weight in my stomach at the disappointment is painful.
"When's the soonest we can leave?" I ask, certain he can hear the edge to my voice.
"Maybe in the morning; we'll have to wait and see." He gets up and stands beside me in the kitchen, tucking a loose strand of my hair behind my ear, then leans on the counter between Sophie and me. His touch makes me smile.
"Need any help?" he asks.
I shake my head. Jake is a half-decent cook, as his mother taught both her sons at a very young age, and he told me he does it occasionally.
"We're about to serve," I shrug at him. Inside I'm deflated; I had pinned my hopes on leaving tonight.
"I'll head to my hotel after we eat after I lock this place up and check there are no snooping assholes. I'll call you in the morning to let you know when the plane is ready to go."
"You're not staying?" I snap my eyes up to him, the fear of Ray still in the back of my mind. I'm still shaken from earlier despite pushing it to the depths of my brain. He sees the hesitation on my face and moves close so that our noses almost graze, tilting his head toward me and stooping slightly to bridge our height difference.
"You just need to ask," he utters softly, and the overwhelming urge to lean forward and rest my face against his grasps me; I move back unsurely.
"I would feel safer," I say instead, in a way asking without having to say the words. I don't know why it's so hard for me to do so. I need him to stay with me.
"Well, if I'm staying, I'm sleeping with you; that couch is a no-go," he winks suggestively, grinning at me. I think he's waiting for my refusal, but I say nothing. Sharing a vast king-size bed with Jake is hardly a punishment. It's not that much different from sleeping beside him on a plane or like that time when our flight was delayed for two hours, and he fell asleep on my lap on a couch in the waiting room. I shrug as if to say, "Fine by me," and ignore the shiver of anticipation running up inside my stomach. Truth be told, being alone with only Sophie tonight after what happened with Ray is the last thing I want. Having Jake in my bed may help me sleep.
Tomorrow I get to leave here for good. I'm never coming back. Not for anything.
I think about my mother for a second, how she looked in the hospital, and push it away, an internal pang I don't want to experience. I know she'll try and call me when she's mobile. She'll guilt me about leaving and taking Sophie away, and I don't want to hear it. She's betrayed me for the last time. This one was a huge deal. She let the one man back in her life who could have destroyed mine, and it's unforgivable.