Page 74 of Rush of Jealousy

“Graham.” The word is more movement of my lips than actual sound.

Collins reads my concern. “He’s fine and on his way.”

He removes something from his ear, slipping it into his pants pocket, and drapes a fleece throw over my shoulders as a double layer. I clutch the material tightly around me, making my knuckles almost crack open from the strain.

“Drink more,” he demands, twisting the protective seal, handing me a fresh chilled bottle. This time it is water. “How do your mouth and nose feel?” He studies what I assume is a cut at the corner of my lip, and then turns my face with the gentle touch of his hand to look at the bridge of my nose.

I glance away, trying to force myself not to relive the moments in the hotel room with Mark. “I’m fine.”

Collins exits the car and rummages around in the front seat. He returns with a first aid kit. Opening it, he removes a pair of latex gloves, some antiseptic wipes, and a one-time-use ice pack. He slides on the gloves and opens up several individual wipes.

“This may burn,” he warns, pressing the dampened cloth to my split lip.

I close my eyes as he cleans my face and disinfects my wounds. Every time I open my mouth to talk, I feel the pulling of my cut and the faint taste of blood. “Thank you,” I mouth.

Collins snaps the cooling pouch in half, moving the inside particles around to activate it. “Put this on your nose and cheek to help with the swelling.”

I just nod and keep my eyes cast downward to avoid feeling any more vulnerable. The ice helps to numb the pain radiating from my swollen flesh.

He removes his gloves and gathers the wrappers for the trash bag. “Are you hurt anywhere else besides your face?”

I think about the question. “No. But I was drugged.”

Collins nods and growls, “We are aware.”

Damn.

His eyes darken. He looks murderous but not shocked. I can tell he wants to say something but resists, keeping his impeccable manners in check. All along, Graham and Collins must have suspected Mark; however, maybe they weren’t quite sure to what extent.

Did the same thing happen to Penny? Did Mark try to do to me what he may have done to her?

Eight couples pass by in the parking lot before Graham shows up—dressed in a pair of easy wash jeans, a gray hoodie, and a black ball cap—with his union of guards in tow. Collins exits the backseat and shuts the car door quietly behind him, joining the men.

I watch the animated debriefing unfold. Graham’s twitching jaw, his ready-to-pounce stance, and his sapphire blue eyes all show evidence of his unrelenting rage. Apparently beating a man to a bloody pulp did not help alleviate some of his anger issues. It probably only helped fuel his hunger for revenge.

I watch in quivering fear as his hands make punctuating gestures in the night’s air to what I assume is about me. He rips off his hat, runs his fingers through his hair, and tips his head back to look up at the night sky. He whips his cell phone out of his back pocket and rapidly talks. The car is soundproof, so I can only read lips.

One of the guards opens my door from the other side of the car—away from the conversation—and hands me a duffle bag. “Put these on, ma’am.”

“Here?” I choke out.

“The windows are tinted. You have privacy.”

I scoff to myself as he closes the door.As if privacy matters after tonight.Everyone has seen everything. Being modest now is almost a joke.

I grab hold of the bag and pull out similar attire to Graham’s—all in my size. I flinch when I search the bag in the dark confines of the town car, finding the soft lacy cups of a replacement bra. My other one most likely got tainted with the sins of the night. Please tell me a girl was in charge of picking these items out. Yeah, right. This shopping excursion, most likely in one of the ground level stores of the hotel, was done by one of the men on Graham’s payroll.

At the bottom of the bag is a small pack of wet wipes. I pull out several and wipe at the dry blood that is crusted on my stomach. It is revolting to look at, so I just rub vigorously all over and toss the trash into the empty bag.

I slip out of the charcoal suit coat and quickly hook the pink lace demi bra in back. I discard my current panties because they feel tainted with Mark’s touch and pull on my new pink pair. I slip into the softest denim jeans, buttoning the entire fly. The wash looks trendy in the dark, yet completely meant for comfort. I could sleep in these—they are that luxurious. The solid black hoodie serves its purpose by providing warmth; the silver thread at the seams and pocket provide just enough edge to make it a bit more than just casual attire. Burgundy sequined ballet flats complete the look. The fit of everything impresses me. Someone has done their homework. The thought alone unsettles my stomach.

The men finish up and diverge into two separate vehicles. I watch as Collins disappears into the driver’s seat—the privacy screen blocking my vision.

I stare out the window as Graham paces a trench beside the car. His hands clench and relax like he is squeezing an imaginary stress-relief sponge ball. His knuckles are stained with round bloody sores—a reminder of tonight’s event. The clotting agent starts the process of his scabbing. I want to kiss each knuckle, one by one, and express how sorry I am that I was stupid enough to fall for Mark’s ruse.

But true to form, he has rescued me from a horrible situation. The thought of what would have happened to me if he did not show up makes me want to shrivel up into a ball.

Confusion washes over me as I try to speculate how Graham knew I was at the Maylord Hotel. Did he know Mark and I were having a meeting? How was he able to locate the exact room we were in? Has he been keeping tabs on me, all while giving me the illusion he was ignoring me? I doubt it. If he was, then Mark would not have gotten as far as he did.

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