Jonah (Chicago Blaze 7)

“Yeah. And you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but what I saw on your face back there wasn’t about that couple.” I pause, gauging her reaction to my words before continuing. “I feel like maybe you’ve been there yourself.”

It shocks me to think of Rey putting up with any man’s shit. She’s an absolute firebrand. But maybe an abusive situation made her into who she is today.

She looks over at me, her expression sad. “I’ve been there, yeah. But not in the way you might think.” Her exhale is deep. “I watched my father abuse my mother for years.”

My heart sinks. From her strained voice and the tears welling once again, I can tell how deeply painful this is for Rey. I reach over and take her hand.

“I always wondered why she wouldn’t stand up to him,” Rey says softly. “I’d ask her when we were alone why he was so mean to her. She said it wasn’t really him, but alcohol.”

“So seeing that woman back there justifying her husband’s behavior brought that all back,” I say, rubbing my thumb across the back of her hand.

She nods. “It brought everything back. And I wasn’t expecting it so it hit really hard.” She looks out the passenger side window. “My dad broke my mom’s arms and ribs. He pushed her down the stairs one time too. God, it hurt me, because I loved her more than anything in the world. And I hated him so much. I fantasized about killing him.”

I can feel the pain in her voice, hitting me square in the chest. “Jesus, Rey. I’m so sorry.”

“When I was six, she packed our things one day and told him we were leaving,” she says flatly. “I’d never been so happy. He went into a complete rage over it. He started beating her, and it was different than any other time. She yelled for me to run, and…I did. I went to our neighbor’s house; he was a former Marine in his 80s. When I told him what was happening, he called the police and barricaded us inside his house with a shotgun pointed at the front door.”

I’m horrified by Rey’s words. Devastated. The thought of a six-year-old girl experiencing what she did makes me feel physically ill.

“She was dead when the police got there,” Rey says softly. “My father went to prison for life. That’s why I was raised by my grandmother.”

“I’m so damn sorry.” My voice is rocky with emotion and I clear my throat.

Finally, she turns back to face me. “That’s why I do what I do. Protecting women and children is my life’s calling. It’s therapeutic. And I know my mom would be—” Her words are cut off as she crumbles into tears again, “proud of me for what I do.”

“Yeah, she would.” I close my eyes, trying to figure out what to do with the well of emotion opened up inside me now by Rey. “Do you want me to go wait for that guy to come out of the deli and kick his ass? Because I will.”

She laughs and wipes the corners of her eyes. “If I wanted his ass kicked, I’d do it myself.”

“I know you could. I just want to do something, you know?”

Rey nods. “I know exactly what you mean. When the memories hit me hard, I find a shooting range and imagine I’m firing at my father. After a couple hundred shots, I always feel better.”

“You want to go do that right now? I’ll go with you.”

She smiles and squeezes my hand. “I can’t, because I’m a makeup journalist. That’s the same reason I walked away from that situation back there.”

“I get that.” I think about our options for a minute and say, “It’s not the same, but I know a little ice rink where we can go shoot pucks at a net.”

“You’re a goalie. Do you even know how to shoot?” she asks in a teasing tone.

I laugh heartily at that and say, “You’ll find out. Let’s go.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll pick up some sandwiches on the way,” I say.

“Jonah…thank you,” Rey says as I start the car.

“You never need to thank me.”

She sighs softly. “I guess now you know the anger isn’t just because I’m Cuban. I’ve got another fire inside me, too.”

I squeeze her hand and I don’t want to let go. There’s an attraction building hard and fast inside me that I wasn’t expecting. I want to hold on to Rey, but I’m starting to also want more. To cool the flames she feels inside. Or at the very least, burn with her.Chapter ElevenReynaThe Carson Center is alive with energy. The stands are filled with fans dressed in red, many holding signs and yelling in anticipation of their team taking the ice. A photo of a bald man with flames painted all over his face and head appears on the Jumbotron and I turn to Mia Petrov, lips parted with surprise.