Page 1 of Her Older Protector

Chapter 1

Leah

“Pruitt, McCoy, & Black, how may I direct your call?”

It’s four fifty-six in the afternoon, and I’m just packing up my bag to head home from my job as a law firm receptionist. We don’t get many calls this late in the day, so I’m surprised when the phone rings with just minutes to spare before our official closing time.

But when I recite our standard phone greeting into the receiver, no one responds.

“Pruitt, McCoy, & Black,” I repeat.

No one speaks, but I can hear deep, unhurried breaths, and a slightshhhhhnoise in the background, like the caller is in a moving car.

“Pruitt, McCoy, & Black.” My voice softens to a fraction of its normal volume, and ice floods down my spine.

Shit. It’s him.

I throw the rest of my things into my bag, grab my jacket and keys and hustle out the door, breaking into a run as soon as my feet hit the sidewalk. My fingers shake as I press the button to unlock my car door and slide inside, but with a deep breath, I will myself to keep moving.

Keep going.

Do whatever I need to do.

My little hatchback rumbles to life and I punch the gas pedal hard, kicking the car into traffic as I zoom out to my little rental house on the outskirts of Fairview. I can’t afford an apartment in a high-security building, so this unassuming little place off a hard-to-find back road, obscured by trees, was my next best option. There are only a few houses back here, and all of us are single people who keep to ourselves.

I drive as fast as I dare down the little gravel road, dust and rocks kicking up behind me, until I round the bend and my little white bungalow comes into view. Anger boils up inside of me when I see the car that already sits in the drive.

No.

Not today, shithead.

I slam the brakes, sending rocks and dirt flying everywhere as I throw the car into park. I pause for just a second to slide my sharp keys in between my clenched fingers and fling my door open.

“What are you doing here, Patrick?” I hiss at the man standing on my porch. I climb out of the car and take a few steps forward, then stop. I want to leave enough space between us that I can get back to my car and lock the door if necessary. “I still have a restraining order.”

Patrick holds his hands up and steps toward me. I skitter back, adjusting my sweaty hand around my keys.

“Baby-“ he starts, but I cut him off.

“I’m not your baby. I’m not youranything. What do you want?”

He sighs. “I just want to talk.”

I shake my head. “I don’t. I want you to leave.”

From behind his black-framed eyeglasses, Patrick gives me a look—like I’m a rebellious teenager and he’s an exasperated parent, just trying to get me back into line. That condescending, shitty expression cowed me so many times before, and some wounded part of me still wilts under the weight of that disapproving gaze. But I shove that feeling back and steel myself for what I know is coming.

He takes another step forward. “Leah. Don’t make me-“

I throw my hands up. “Don’t make you what? Hit me? Force me to drop my friends? Stop speaking to my family? Give up my job?”

“That’s it.” He darts toward me, and I turn to get back into my car, but he moves too fast, and before I can slip inside and lock the door, his fingers grip my arm with punishing force.

“Let me go,” I say through gritted teeth. His fingers flex around my forearm, and I know that he’ll leave five finger-shaped bruises on my pale skin. Not for the first time.

“We have to sit down and talk like adults,” he says. “Come inside.”

Patrick turns to drag me toward my house, but before he even takes a step, a big man hurtles into him, knocking him off balance and breaking his grip on my arm. Patrick stumbles and catches himself, and we both turn to look at him.

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