Suddenly, Ernie’s fist shot out, but Jerry ducked. He came up from under, slamming the base of Ernie’s jaw. The impact sent Ernie arching backward, and when he looked about to lose his balance, Jerry swept his foot behind Ernie’s legs, bringing him to the ground with a crash. Before Ernie could move, Jerry had dropped on top of him and was punching his face again and again and again, his expression tight with purpose.
“Stop, Jerry! You’ll kill him!” Adele shouted, rushing in and grabbing his arm before he could strike again. He resisted, as if he didn’t feel her there at first. She had to use all her strength to hold back his next punch. “It’s done! It’s finished!”
Jerry stilled, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was the laboured breathing of all three of them. Then Jerry got to his feet and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, clearing some of the blood, glaring down at Ernie.
“You might think you’re king of Windsor these days, looking down on us peasants from your castle, but you’re forgetting gravity. Once you’re up that high, you got a lot farther to fall.” He jabbed his boot into Ernie’s side, making him grunt. “Listen to me, Willoughby. Listen good. I have two things to say to you. Number one: you have your business, and John and I have ours. You stay on your side of the road, and we’ll stick to ours.”
Ernie grumbled something Adele couldn’t make out, and Jerry leaneddown, his voice a hoarse whisper she barely heard. “Number two: if you ever come near Adele again, I will have no problem taking you down.”
Willoughby dragged himself out of reach, his face a wreck. From an inside pocket, he pulled a white handkerchief and pressed it to his nose.
“We’re not done,” he snarled through bloodied teeth.
Jerry closed his eyes, calm again. “You still don’t get it. Wearedone.”
Willoughby rose slowly, then he bent to grab his hat. “We’re not,” he repeated.
“Ernie,” Adele said, and he turned.
She held out the necklace. He looked from it to her, his eyes sharp with anger and humiliation, then he thrust out his hand and grabbed the jewellery, shoving it into his pocket as he left.
“You all right?” Jerry asked after he was gone.
She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. She took a deep breath, fortified by Jerry’s steady gaze. “I am now.”
seventeenJERRY
Shame pulsed through Jerry, beginning in his fist where the skin had torn. One eye was swelling shut fast, and the inside of his mouth was metallic with blood.
He couldn’t even look at her.
He’d let it out. All this time and he’d never let the fury out like that before. There would be consequences to what he’d just done. There was no going back with Willoughby now. This whole time he’d been worried about John, but he should have been worried about himself. The worst was knowing she’d been there, witnessing the whole thing. She’d seen what Jerry had become.
Hugging his ribs against the pain, he turned toward Adele, taking in her pale beauty with anguish. He knew what she saw: his face smeared with blood, his eyes bloodshot from exertion, his shirtfront drenched. He’d dreamed so many times of seeing her again, but never like this.
“Jerry,” she whispered, disbelief sparkling in her blue eyes. “I can’t believe it.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You shouldn’t have had to see that. I’m usually more… controlled.”
“You rescued me,” she said simply, and Jerry thought in that moment that Willoughby could be the king of the castle all he wanted, just so long as Jerry could be her knight.
“Willoughby and I, we have a long history.”
“I gathered that,” she said. “I just… I can’t believe… Come here, would you? You’re bleeding, soldier.”
He sniffed. “Guess I am.”
She took his elbow, guiding him to a chair, and he smiled, watching her get her kit, take out the needle and thread, the antiseptic, the gauze.
“Here we are again. Just like old times,” he said wryly. His gut twisted when he saw a tear slide down her cheek. “Please don’t worry. I’m all right, Bluebird.”
She wiped it away and smiled, and his heart soared. “It’s a happy tear,” she said. “Now, let me see your face. Oh, he tore your scar. I can fix that quickly, but what a shame. It had healed so well.”
He couldn’t take his eyes off her. He didn’t flinch when she wiped the area clean then injected anaesthetic into his cheek, didn’t say a word. Neither did she, as she carefully sewed him back up again. But he was achingly aware of her fingertips, light on his face, so gentle, as they had been years before, cleaning his throat and ruined face with that cool, damp cloth.
“There,” she said eventually, and he watched her put her tools away. “He hit more than your face, though. Your ribs—”
He jumped slightly when she touched his ribs, and her eyes creased with laughter. “Why, Jerry Bailey. You’re ticklish.”
