“The first time Vance hurt me, he said it was an accident. He choked me so hard I couldn’t breathe. I tried to use my safeword, but I couldn’t talk. I pushed him away, and he laughed. Left me on my floor, coughing, and just walked out. Sometimes he’d do that. Leave me alone after roughing me up. Sometimes he wouldn’t show up at all and I’d be left waiting. Kneeling, naked on the floor.” He shakes his head. “Sometimes I’d fall asleep and wake up to realize I waited all night, and I’d feel like absolute shit.”
“Christ, Alex. That’s fucking… awful.”
He stares at me, blinking a few times, and then continues. I’m hearing what he’s saying, but I don’t think I’ve processed it all yet. I knew it was bad, but this? It’s so much worse.
“The second time… he drew blood. Knocked me clean in the jaw and busted my lip up good. We lost the game, and he was not in the best of moods. I cost us the shot. So I paid for it. I locked myself in my room, and he screamed at me and told me he didn’t mean it. He was just so upset. The third time…”
He runs a hand through his hair, his shoulders tense. “I left so there wouldn’t be a fourth.”
He doesn’t look at me when he says it. His gaze falls to my lap, and I don’t think twice about pulling him close. He rests his head on my shoulder, and lets out a deep sigh, sniffling.
“I wanted to tell you. When you asked me that first day in your office what happened, I didn’t want to lie, but I wasn’t sure I could be honest,” he says quietly. “One, I signed an NDA when we started fucking around, due to the rough nature of our arrangement, and two, you weren’t exactly thrilled to see me.”
He turns to look at me with watery eyes. “What the fuck was I going to say?Hey, Jordan, how ya been? Oh, yeah, by the way, I broke up with my team captain and he broke my knee because he’s an abusive asshole?’”
I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t say anything. How can I apologize for something like this? It won’t matter. Nothing I say is going to fix what he’s gone through. Nothing is going to make it better.
“I just… didn’t want you to look at me how you’re looking at me right now. Like I’m fucking broken.” His voice is barely a whisper, and I hate that he’s right. I do feel that way, and I can’t help but look at him that way.
“I didn’t want you to know how fucked up I am. Because when I’m with you…” He flashes his watery green eyes up at me, his eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t feel like I’m broken.”
I wrap him in my arms and pull him as close as he can get. I can’t speak, nothing more than the “thank you” that I whisper, hoping like hell he understands I’m thanking him for opening up to me. Maybe one day I can tell him how much it means, but right now… I just want to hold him.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Alex
The coffee pot beeps loudly, breaking the tension.
Jordan’s gaze softens as I stroke his jaw, and then I let go. I clear my throat, get up and head to the kitchen.
“So, uh…” I run a hand through my hair, suddenly feeling more exposed than when I was bearing my fucking soul to him five minutes ago. “Coffee?” I ask, not sure what to say.
I look at him sitting there on my plush couch. He looks strangely small against the giant cushions, which is a feat. But he looks perfect.
So fucking perfect.
“Sure,” he says as he gets up from the couch. I set about grabbing two mugs from the cabinet.
He approaches me slowly, which I don’t know how to feel about. When he reaches the island, I notice the wayhe’s looking around my space, and it dawns on me that I’ve never had a guest over here.
The only person who’s been in this house, other than me, is Britt, and that’s because she helped me renovate it.
“It’s ostentatious, I know,” I say nonchalantly. “I went overboard.”
I pour the coffee into the mugs. I push his towards him, and he looks from my chandelier to the counter, to me.
“No, it’s pretty fucking amazing,” he says in awe. “Where did you find something like this?” He slides his hands across the black druzy crack.
“I made it.” I shrug, taking a sip from my mug. I wrinkle my nose. It’s bitter as all hell. Thank God I bought some sweet cream creamer. I practically run to the fridge to get it.
“You made this?” he asks in shock.
“I made most of the shit in this house, aside from the furniture. But I did make the bookshelves.” I chew my lip, feeling the strangest sense of pride and an overwhelming desire to keep talking.
“How long did it take you?” he asks, leaning against the counter.
“The whole house took about two years. I was…” My throat gets tight, but I fight the urge to run away. The worst is already out and I feel the dam is just… open.
