“Well, that is disappointing,” the man named Quetzal said.
Unsurprisingly, the response rubbed Jon wrong. “I know Jenna appreciates your interest in her business, but she’s only one woman and this situation is out of her control. Be a fucking man and put up with grocery store pastry for a few days, and I’msure she’ll personally reach out to let you know as soon as the bakery is up and running again. The last thing she needs to be doing is spreading herself thinner by trying to juggle a secondary venture.”
“And that’s your call to make?”
“As someone who gives a shit about her long-term well-being, yeah. She’ll be in touch.” Jon disconnected with a sharp, dissatisfying jab of his thumb.
“Sounds like that went well,” Jenna quipped from where she was curled on her sofa, clutching a mug of steaming tea.
Jon willed the frustration from his system for the moment, set her borrowed phone back onto the table, and moved to lower himself to the couch at an angle so he could face her. “Ybarra was only trying to use you for his own gain and we both know it. The fact that he responded to being told that someone he supposedly had a vested interest in had collapsed and couldn’t make their appointment with the same emotion as subpar artificial intelligence ought to be proof enough.”
Her lips twitched. “You have very different comparisons for things than I’m used to.”
He gave a light shrug. “Different experiences, different views.” He reached out and gave her ankle a gentle squeeze. “Now that that’s handled, what the hell happened out there?” Was it possible that the blonde woman Jenna had referred to as ‘Ella’ was the same as the one Lance insisted he’d forgotten? The actual-goddess responsible for Lance’s slowed healing?
And if that had been her, what the hell had she done to Jenna?
Jenna exhaled hard, her hands flexing around the ceramic of her mug. “That woman was a reporter, or a journalist, or whatever. She wanted to ask me questions, but it turned out she ended up playing messenger instead.” She paused and a bitter amusement twinkled in her eyes. “Actually, I don’t suppose youfeel like yelling at some incompetent legal people for me? I don’t think I have the stomach.”
Jon scowled. “I’m very good at making just about anyone feel small if I’m motivated enough. Comes with having a command position. But I’d need to know why.”
Her chin dipped in a half-nod. “You remember the … ex I mentioned? The one that’s locked up?”
He did not like that lead-in at all. But he did remember, so he nodded.
Her face seemed to drain of its regained color as she spoke. “Turns out he’s not anymore.” Her lips trembled. “H-he made parole,” she stammered. “Last week.”
Fuck.
A tear rolled down Jenna’s cheek. “They—the DA’s office—they were supposed to warn me.”
But they hadn’t, and instead she’d found out because some random busy-body had ambushed her at her door. In the middle of not the best week of her life.
The day after a mysterious home invasion.
Jon bit the question back. Jenna was too fragile for him to put that thought into the world where she might have to hear it, think it, let alone survive it. And he didn’t need her to explain anything for him to understand that a former abuser was precisely the type of individual to behave that way.
Jenna took a small, careful sip of her tea. “Colin,” she whispered. “His name was—is—Colin Carr. And he’s not just my ex, he’s my ex-husband.”
The words hit Jon like a punch to the throat.
The idea of Jenna married. Jenna married to a piece of shit wife-beater.
Colin Carr.If he ever met Colin Carr, he’d drown the fucker with the bastard’s own bodily fluids. Or maybe he’d pull everysingle drop of hydration from Carr’s body until he was so brittle he fell apart.
“It’s not a unique story,” Jenna said, still speaking on a whisper. “I ignored the warning signs when we were dating. I was lonely in California and desperate to feel wanted, desired, again. At first, I thought I felt some of that with Colin. I told myself I did, and when the relationship grew harder, I told myself that meant it was more ‘real’, more ‘adult’ somehow.” Her tears fell freely but she’d mostly gained control over the shaking, her knuckles white as she clung to the mug. “He didn’t start with the physical violence until we were married. By then I knew, on some level, he thought he owned me … but it was the beating, the constant bruises and insincere apologies, that finally opened my eyes. Although it took a neighbor who called the police, me being hauled off to the hospital, and a stern-faced lady-doctor to finally accept that my ‘adult, real-world’ relationship was going to kill me.”
He knew a lot of ways to kill a man, but Jon didn’t think he knew one truly satisfactory enough for Colin Carr. So, when he inevitably met the bastard, he’d have to get creative.
In the meantime, Jon slid off the couch and dropped to his knees at her side. He reached up, cupping her face in his hands and wiping away her tears with his thumbs. “Jen, that’s enough. You don’t have to relive anymore, I get it.”
Fuck, if he never saw her hurt again the way she was in that moment, it would be too soon.
Jenna blinked watery eyes at him, like she didn’t know whether or not it was safe to stop.
He eased the tea from her hands in order to lean in closer, to pull her tighter to him and press her sad face against his shoulder. One of his hands tangled in her hair. “I know you’re scared, baby, but it’ll be okay this time. He can’t hurt you again.”
Chapter eleven
