Page 15 of These Jagged Edges

For a moment, I can see just how broken Maddox is, and then it all snaps into place for me. For him, hiding behind his anger is more manageable than feeling the heartbreak and sorrow that has just filled his handsome face. Maddox can easily seethrough me because he himself hides so much from everyone. Without thinking, I carefully pull my shirt down to my sternum making sure not to expose my breast. "Forgot to unload the dishwasher." His eyes lock on the neat two-inch scar, and I see the wheels turning. "Paring knife took twenty stitches."

Slowly he lifts his hand and brings it close to the scar and I hold my breath in anticipation. Just before his fingers graze my skin he pulls away, giving me a sharp nod, pushing his glasses in place. "Let's get started," he says and heads into the gym.

His gym looks like CrossFit and boxing had a baby. There are weights, tires, climbing ropes, and punching bags randomly stationed around the room, and two boxing rings on each side. Then there is the bad ass mural Lou had painted in the back with hard reds and fancy script only kicking the atmosphere up another bad ass notch.

"You don't have to do this, you know. I'm sure Mercy can fit time in somewhere," I say, nervously fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. His big body becomes rigid, and he shakes his head, leaving no room for argument.

Maddox leads me to a workout room of sorts with thick mats lining the floor and a handmade sign that says, "At your Mercy!" with a smiley face. That damn Mercy leaves his mark everywhere.

Maddox rolls his eyes. "Mercy thinks he's a fucking comedian."

"He's definitely something. He said he was at my mercy the first time we met."

Putting my purse on the bench that lines one side of the room, I turn back towards Maddox. "Okay, so what first?"

He looks at me intently for a moment. "Take the shirt off."

"What? Why?" What the hell is wrong with him? Just because we had a show-and-tell moment doesn't mean I'm taking my shirt off. A cold sweat covers my body, and I step back.

He crosses his ridiculous arms over his chest. I'm learning this is his "in-charge" stance. "Take the damn shirtoff."

"N-no!"

"How the hell am I supposed to teach you self-defense if you don't follow simple instructions?"

"You're demanding me to take my shirt off, Maddox! Not punch a bag or something!"

He pushes his glasses on his head. "Okay, you're right. I'm not good at this, which is why Mercy usually teaches this class."

I cross my arms over my chest and match his stance. "Well, you better try harder to be good at this because I tried to go to Mercy's class, but you insisted on doing this. You, not me." I point my finger at him.

Maddox uncrosses his arms and takes a visible deep breath in and out before stepping closer to me. "Evie, your shirt is too big and can get tangled easily and that could be dangerous as we progress through the moves." He swallows, "The last thing I want is for you to get hurt"—He pauses—"Can you please remove your shirt?"

Well, damn. "Next time just say that.”

Slowly, I take my shirt off and sit it on my purse. I hear Maddox mumble, "Give me strength," as I turn around.

I've always been super self-conscious, so I tug at the bottom of my yoga tank out of habit. I stand in front of him, waiting for instructions, but he stares at me in a way that would melt my panties off.

His hands clench and unclench at his sides. "Evie, can I touch you?"

Knowing I'd have to get used to his hands on me, I give him a slight nod.

When his finger touches my wrist, I jolt not from fear, but surprise. His large hand feels hot on my skin as he slowly trails up my arm until he’s palming my nape.

I flinch back, squeezing my eyes shut as all the memories invade. Trent punching me for answering the phone. Trent slapping me across the face with his sneakers for not saying goodmorning after his morning run. Trent popping the belt before each time he beat me.

My breathing is rapid, and I know I'm going to black out. That place in my mind that I've hidden out so many times calls to me like a beacon home. Promising to help me escape the pain that's coming.

"Give me those eyes, Evie."

I try so hard to open my eyes, but I can't. My skin feels like a thousand ants are marching all over it. It's funny how trauma affects us all differently. In the unhealthiest way, I choose to ignore mine until it rears its ugly ass face.

"Open those eyes and fucking look at me, Evie," Maddox commands.

My eyes fly open and clash with his. "Tell me five things you can see."

"You," I look around, trying to find something else, "the door, a smiley face."

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