Authors: Cher Carson
“Steve was just showing me his boat,” she said, trying to slip out of his grasp. “You should check it out. It’s beautiful.”
His hand moved down to cup her ass. “Only if you’ll come with me.”
“Get your…” Steve came up behind them, grabbing Nick’s arm and twisting it behind his back. “Don’t make me break your arm a few weeks before the pre-season starts, Morris.”
“What the fuck?”
“If I ever see you grab her like that again, I won’t think twice about kicking your ass. Consider yourself warned.” Steve released his arm, shoving him forward.
Nick glared at him. “She’s my date. Why don’t you mind your own fucking business, Davis?”
“Your date thinks you’re a dickhead, same as the rest of us.”
Nick looked at Brooklyn. “Why don’t you let her speak for herself?”
Brooklyn knew tact was wasted on a man like Nick, especially in his inebriated state, so she opted for brutal honesty. “He’s right, sorry.”
“You little bitch,” he said, taking a step toward her. “It was him you wanted all along, wasn’t it?” He crooked a finger at Steve. “You were just using me to get to him.”
Steve grabbed his shoulder, hauling him back.
Brooklyn was used to dealing with confrontations. She dealt with enraged men too often in her line of work. “No, I thought you might be a decent guy. Obviously, I was wrong.”
“You didn’t even give me a chance,” he shouted. “As soon as you got here, you were all over Davis. You think just ‘cause he’s got a bigger contract, he’s got a bigger dick, too? Sorry, baby, it don’t work that way.”
She had spent so much time inside of maximum security prisons over the years that there was nothing he could say that would faze her. “I couldn’t care less about the size of your dick or your bank account. I’m not interested in you, period.”
He lunged for her, but she was fast enough to side-step him before he connected. He was a big man, but she had no doubt that the self-defence skills her martial arts instructor had taught her would have put him in his place.
Steve grabbed him by the back of his shirt. “Get the fuck out of my house, now.”
Mark approached, grabbing Nick’s arm. “I’m leaving now, man. I’ve got to get back for my old man’s birthday party. Let me take him off your hands.”
“Thanks, Mark,” Steve said, releasing the back of Nick’s shirt. He turned away, storming out onto the small barbeque deck set off the kitchen.
Brooklyn followed him, closing the door behind her.
He was gripping the cedar railing, drawing deep breaths as he stared out at the water.
“You okay?” she asked quietly.
“No.” He clenched his jaw. “The thought of a man, any man, putting his hands on a woman makes me crazy.”
She touched his back tentatively. “I’m fine; I’m used to dealing with assholes like that.”
He looked down at her, and she saw a reaction so intense, so raw, it stole her breath.
“You’re really not okay, are you?” she said.
He wrapped his hands around the railing, his knuckles white. “He used to beat the hell out of her,” he whispered, his eyes glazed.
“Who?”
“My old man.”
She knew instinctively he had never shared this with anyone. “He hit your mother?”
“He didn’t just hit her; he beat her.” His face was a mask of pain and fury. “I was too young to stop him. I couldn’t do anything to help her.”
She moved closer, wrapping her arm around his waist, settling her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Steve. No child should ever have to witness something that horrific.”
“He was going to put his hands on you,” he whispered. “I don’t know what the hell happened. Something came over me. If he had touched you, laid one hand on you, I think I would have beat him until...”
“Sssh,” she said, moving into the circle of his arms. “It’s okay. He didn’t touch me—he didn’t hurt me. He’s gone now.” She reached up to stroke his face, trying to replace the frightening, vacant look in his eye. “Do you want to talk about it, what happened with your parents?”
She’d worked several domestic violence cases in her career. She’d even defended a few women who killed their abusers. Those were cases that consumed her day and night. She couldn’t allow a woman who had been victimized for years to be abused again by an overzealous prosecutor. But she was a defense attorney, and that meant she was also in the position of having to defend men like Steve’s father. Men the world considered monsters still deserved a defense, according to their justice system. It killed her to know she was responsible for putting men like Steve’s father back on the street.
He positioned her in front of him, wrapping his arms around her waist as he stared out at the water. “He was a hockey player, made the big leagues, but salaries weren’t all that impressive back then. Careers were a lot shorter too.”
“How old was he when he retired?” She turned in his arms, pressing her back into him as she took in the panoramic view of the lake.
“Only thirty-two.” He sighed. “Hockey was the only thing he’d ever known. He worked toward one goal his entire life, going pro.”
“It must have been difficult for him, when he wasn’t able to play anymore,” she said, stroking his forearm.
“It changed him. He wasn’t the same person anymore.” He flattened his palm against her stomach, holding her tight. “He was depressed all the time, started drinking too much…”
“How old were you?” She was honored that he was willing to share such a personal and painful experience with her. It made her feel closer to him, as though they had a shared history.
“I was about eight, I guess. That’s when I became his pet project.” His arms tightened, his hands flexing. “He became obsessed, going to all of my games and practices, arguing with the coaches and refs, antagonizing other parents. It was a nightmare. I just wanted to play the game I loved, but I quickly realized if I didn’t win, she paid the price.”
Brooklyn closed her eyes, fearing his next words.
“He’d get mad at me, but he’d take it out on her. Sure, he’d yell and scream at me, call me names, but when she tried to intervene, he’d beat the hell out of her.”
“I know how hard it is to try and live up to a father’s impossible expectations, but at least mine wasn’t abusive. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like for you,” she whispered.
“I became fixated on hockey because I knew if I played well, he’d be happy and she wouldn’t get hurt.”
“A little boy shouldn’t have to bear that kind of burden,” she said, swiping at the tears sliding down her cheeks.
“It was the only way I knew how to protect her. I’d skate from sunup ‘til sundown on the weekends. He made a backyard rink and he’d be out there for hours, putting me through my paces.”
“It must have been exhausting.”
“Yeah, he wouldn’t even let me stop to eat or drink.” He chuckled. “Hell, I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without his permission.”
“I’m surprised you don’t hate the game.” She couldn’t even imagine what that must have been like for him, to have his freedom of choice taken away at such a young age, to feel so helpless, yet responsible for the safety of another person.
“I did, for a lot of years. But eventually I realized that hockey was my ticket out of that house and away from him. I had the chance to leave when I was seventeen, to play for a team clear across the country. I left and never looked back. I hated myself for leaving her there with him, but I didn’t know what else to do.”
She closed her eyes, afraid to hear the next chapter in his heart-wrenching story. She’d heard this kind of tale too many times, but she’d never been so emotionally invested in the outcome. “You did what you had to do, honey.”
“Still, I’ll never forgive myself for letting him hurt her that way. For leaving her there with that bastard…”
“What happened?” she asked, trying to steel herself for the harsh words she knew would follow.
He cleared his throat, obviously trying to get the words out. “He threw her down the stairs, broke her back. She’s in a wheel chair, paralyzed from the waist down.”
She turned into him, wrapping her arms around his waist as she pressed her cheek to his chest. She could hear the steady pounding of his heart in her ear, a testament to all he had endured. “I’m so sorry.”
He kissed the top of her head, running his hands up and down her back. “So am I, so damn sorry I couldn’t have done more to help her. I wish I could have gotten her out of there before it was too late, but I was only seventeen. I didn’t have any money, no options. I couldn’t help her or myself.”
“Where’s your father?”
“He’s in prison, where he belongs.” He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “He’s due to be released soon. In fact, he should be out by now, but they tacked more time on when the stupid son of a bitch tried to escape.”
“Have you seen him?”
His arms tightened around her. “Hell no. The only time I want to see him is when he’s in a casket and they’re lowering his cold, lifeless body into the ground. Even then, I only want to be there so I can kick dirt in his face.”
She knew it wasn’t healthy to live with so much rage, but she wasn’t in a position to help him, at least not yet. “Where’s your mother now?”
“She lives in an assisted living facility a few miles from my house. I’d rather have her live with me, but she prefers her own space.” He chuckled. “She’s worried about being a burden to me, can you believe that? I owe that lady my life.”
She reached up to stroke his cheek, smiling. “You’re a good man and a good son.”
He closed his eyes, sighing. “I wish I could believe that.”
“Steve,” she said carefully. She knew he was vulnerable and she didn’t want to offend him, but she needed to express her concerns. “Has it ever occurred to you that your need to control every situation, including your relationships, stems from your childhood?”
He dropped his hands to his side, taking a step back as he glared at her. “Are you trying to say that I’m like that prick?”
“No, God no.” She took a step closer, pressing her palms to his chest. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.” She sighed. “Look, I’m not a psychologist, but I have worked a lot of these cases. I know the victim often feels out of control and helpless, especially the children. I also know kids who were raised in a toxic environment often feel the need to maintain control in order to feel safe.”
He shook his head, a sad smile playing on his lips. “If you’re trying to tell me that I’m a control freak, I already know that.” He pointed at the door. “If you don’t think you can live with that, you can leave now.”
She crossed her arms, intent on challenging him. “What if I told you that I’m not ready to leave until I figure out what’s going on between us?”
He stared out at the water, thrusting his hands in his pockets. “It won’t take you long to figure me out. Once you do, you’ll be gone.”
“Is that what you want?”
He looked at her intently. “No, I don’t want you to leave.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. There’s just something about you…”
“I feel the same way.” She knew she was taking a chance, admitting too much, but she finally felt ready to take a risk and put herself out there.
“Then stay, please.”
Steve hated feeling weak, but he didn’t want to be alone tonight. He needed her, more than he could ever remember needing anyone. He’d never shared his childhood memories with anyone, except the prosecutor who eventually put his father behind bars.
“What do you say? Will you stay, spend the night with me tonight?” he asked, his voice broken. He cleared his throat, trying to sound stronger than he felt. “If you need to leave, I’ll understand.”
“I don’t want to leave,” she said quietly. She looked toward the door. “You still have people here. A lot of them have been drinking; I don’t think they should drive home tonight.”
“I have a small guest house across the street. They can crash here; we could take the guest house, if you’re okay with that?”