Page 82 of Fool Me Once

Forcing it into his palm, I pat his shoulder again. “Have yourself a good night, Johnny.”

Stepping toward Gemma, I take her hand in mine and step back into the elevator, and the entire time the doors close—at a turtle’s pace—my new friend, Johnny, stares at us.

Once they are closed and we’re finally headed to our room, Gemma bursts into laughter, putting her hand on my stomach and wiping her eyes.

“What is wrong with you, Smith Sawyer?”

“If Johnny ever gets the chance to get his dick sucked or fuck a sexy woman against this elevator wall, you’d best believe he’d do it.” I shrug. “I don’t feel bad. Plus, fucker got one hundred bucks out of me.”

“He didn’t even want it,” she points out, still giggling.

“Eh, well, figured it would make up for what we did.” I throw my arm around her shoulders, kissing her cheek. “You’re a dirty girl, Gemma Jones.”

“No. That was all your idea.”

She pinches my side but laughs, and the sound makes my heart so fucking happy.

It’s been a good day. My girl went to her first retreat for domestic abuse survivors. The Sharks won. And I got to fuck Gemma in an elevator.

Win. Win. Win.

Mr. and Mrs. Jones, my parents, Saylor, and I sit on the bench in the courtroom.

My fists are clenched so tightly that my fingernails are digging into my flesh. Richie hasn’t even walked in yet, and I’m fucking fighting an internal battle with myself because thoughts of me killing him keep flashing through my brain. I’m not stupid enough to do anything on impulse, but, Jesus Christ, it’s going to be hard to keep it together.

Even though we’ve had to be apart from Gemma while she waits to be called to testify, Saylor and I wanted to be here the entire time to not only watch it play out, but to be here for our girl when she came out. I know today is going to take a lot out of her, and I just can’t wait for it to end so she can put it in the past.

The door opens, and within seconds, Richie is walking past us with his lawyer at his side. His shoulders are tense, and even though he’s likely facing jail time, he carries himself with arrogance, his face remaining stoic.

When he takes a seat, he turns his neck just enough to look at me, and then he dares to glance at Gemma’s parents. Gemma’s dad mutters something under his breath, and her mom squeezes his hand.

The footage from that day replays over and over in my mind, and I know this is going to be a long-ass day of me biting my tongue and keeping myself contained.

He hurt my girl. He hurt my Firefly. He deserves more than a few measly fucking years in jail—if we’re lucky. Yet I’m sure that’s all he’s going to get.

I feel like I’m about to have a heart attack, and I clutch my chest.

My sister pats my arm. “Just breathe, Smith. I know. I get it. Trust me. But anything we do would have repercussions. We need to help bring this chapter of Gem’s life to an end. She deserves it.”

I know that she’s right, but, fucking A, I feel like a failure of a boyfriend,sitting here and doing nothing at all, just like I’ve had to do since I first found out what a piece of shit this fucker was. I would give anything—anything at all—to have ten minutes alone with him, and by the end of it, he’d be begging to go to jail. Or maybe he wouldn’t because if I ever was alone with him and I knew my actions wouldn’t pull me away from Gemma, he’d probably never speak again.

Because you can’t talk when you’re fucking dead.

The trial starts. My fists never unclench, and my jaw never loosens.

For a month now, I’ve had a ring for Gemma hidden in my dresser, but I want all the bad shit to be behind her so that she can truly enjoy the engagement. That, and I just want to make sure that when I propose, she’s ready. She’s had to fight her way to get her mental health back, but she’s done it. And I’m so fucking proud, but it also makes me want to take that next step. Once we get the fuck out of California and back home, I’m not wasting any more time. I want her forever. I want her to have my last name.

After what feels like the longest hour of my life, I can sense that the trial is almost over, and the only thing getting me through this testimony and feeling the stare of Richie’s cold, dead eyes on me is looking at Smith and Saylor. They both somehow send silent messages that tell me it’s all okay and that it’s almost over.

While waiting to testify, I couldn’t see them. I couldn’t hug Saylor or kiss Smith, and that was hell. But the second I was called on, I walked in and saw them both, and when they each gave me a small, reassuring smile, I knew I could do this.

Just last week, the Sharks had won the Stanley Cup, and while I loved celebrating with Smith, I think we both had this trial looming over our heads, knowing that, in just a few days, we’d have to travel to California and I’d have to face Richie.

“Thank you, Ms. Jones,” the lawyer says impassively. “You are dismissed.”

Even as I stand up and let my feet carry me as quickly as possible, I can feel Richie’s presence. I’m scared, even though I know he can’t hurt me.

It’s the kind of fear that creeps up your spine, rendering you useless. It makes your brain go numb and your fingers grow cold. I feel all of those things, but when my man stands and ushers me out of the room … it slowly dissipates.

---