12 Rounds (Knockout 1)

I know I sort of know Sean, but that slight action takes me back.

Because I see them.

The thick, dirty calloused hands of my attacker.

I swear I can feel them caressing my flesh.

Clasping around my throat.

Suddenly I feel like I can’t breathe.

My whole chest vibrates and my stance starts to waiver, falter. I swallow hard, trying to hold back the sobs stuck in my throat, and just when I think I’m going to hit the ring floor, Sean catches me. He catches me and covers me with his arms, holding me tightly. “Hadlee,” he says gently. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m…I’m sorry,” I stammer. I keep trying to gain control of my emotions, but nothing I do seems to work. I breathe in and out. Think calming thoughts. Have visions of metal bars, orange jumpsuits, and men lifting weights in a prison yard. I tell myself that I’m okay. That I’m not in any danger, but I can still feel my attackers hands. I can still hear his voice. Suddenly I’m falling apart, sobbing, and trembling and Sean’s arms seem to be the only thing holding my together.

He whispers soothing shhs into my ear, cradles me in his arms, and rocks back and forth slowly from foot to foot. Smoothing my hair away from my forehead, he looks into my eyes. His eyes are full of hurt and agony and remorse when he asks, “What did he do to you?”

I’d like to answer him with a question and ask, What didn’t he do to me?

Somehow with insistent hands and forceful slaps, my attacker managed to shred me up like smokehouse cheddar spit out of a cheese grater. He managed to tear away every ounce of confidence I had and make this weak, feeble person whom I hate. But not only that…No… He managed to fuck me up in the worst way possible, making me fear simple human contact.

Something that is supposed to be natural between a man.

And a woman.

Something that is supposed to beautiful.

Now here I am, wrapped up in man’s arms, curled into a ball of hysteria, not knowing what the hell it’s going to take for me to get over my shit.

I snake my arms around Sean’s back and cling to him. He’s like the life vessel I’ve never had and I’m too overwhelmed with emotion and too terrified to let go. I bury my head into the crook of his neck and at last let go. The sobs come out muffled against his skin, and now embarrassment mixes in with my fear, and I don’t know how to eliviate myself from this awkward situation.

Should I run from the room? Apologize again? Thank him for trying to teach me self-defense, but explain that I’m a lost cause?

Tell him that there’s no hope for me.

That I’ll be fucked up forever.

But he doesn’t give me a chance to say anything else. Because the second before I go with my notion of running from him, his lips find my ear again. They caress my lower lobe, sending shooting shocks of warmth through my skin. Then he whispers, “You’re safe now, angel. Everything will be all right.”

The words.

His words.

They’re beautiful.

Familiar.

Haunting.

They plummet to dark corners of my brain and realization blows up inside of me when I finally understand why they’re familiar and beautiful and haunting. I lift my head, staring up at him wide eyed, through my long tearstained lashes, and choke out, “Oh shit.” Then I gasp, “It was you.”

Chapter Twenty Two

~Connie~

Connor Doyle loved to people watch. He couldn’t explain why it thrilled him, but it was something he did often to calm himself. You could learn a lot about a person by their actions, their mannerisms, and watching different types of people not only amused Connie, but added to his repertoire for knowing how to read another human being.

And at the moment he needed to calm himself down.