Page 81 of Torched Spades
“There’s always a choice, Becca. You picked the wrong one, so I fixed it.”
Iclose my eyes, his smooth, sinful voice rattling my resolve. “Why can’t you leave me alone, Johnny?”
“You know the answer to that.”
My eyes snap open. “Don’t act like this is about me.”
I hold my breath as I hear him take a few steps forward, only letting it out as they come to a halt. “Then what am I supposed to blame for intentionally putting myself back in a situation I have every confidence is going to blow up in my face?”
“Ego.” I chuckle, running my finger along the top of the silver picture frame sitting in front of me. “You can’t stand to lose, Johnny Malone. Everything in your world has to happen on your terms or not at all.”
“Becca…”
Turning the picture toward me, I gaze down at the man trapped behind the framed glass. I’m trapped between two sides of the same coin—the fallen knight staring back at me and the disgraced warrior standing at my back. I may not be that little girl who idolizes the white knight anymore, but I’ve still allowed myself to sink into the same psychiatric quicksand.
My relationship with my father created a blueprint that Johnny fulfilled. I’ve traded one hero-laced devil for another and once again, they’re both trying to dictate the events of my life.
“I went to see Owen Holmes last week, as I’m sure you already know,” I say, slipping under the protective layer of my iron shield. “I could’ve easily mailed the referral letter to him, but I wanted to meet the man and find out what you’re hiding. Of course he told me nothing, not that I’m surprised.”
“Maybe he couldn’t get a word in with you spilling out all our personal business like a fucking slot machine,” he says, his voice dropping a deadly octave.
Slamming the picture frame facedown, I spin around. “You think this is funny?”
The moment Johnny’s darkened gaze lands on my face, his chiseled features splinter as a wildfire ignites in his eyes. “Jesus fucking Christ!” I barely have a moment to blink before he’s on me, his strong hands cradling my battered face. “What happened to you?”
I glance to the side. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” he roars, his hands forcing my attention back on him. I can’t help it—I flinch. The feeling is too familiar, the memory too raw. Immediately, the pressure against my skin lessens, and Johnny brushes his thumb over my bruises, careful to avoid the still sore cuts. I almost cry out at the tenderness in his touch because I so want to believe it’s real. “Becca, someone put their hands on you, and I want to know who.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Me, too.” As his volatile expression flares to life again, I quickly add, “He was wearing a ski mask. I didn’t see his face.”
“Tell me everything that happened.”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
The gentle caresses stop. “What are you implying, Becca?”
Do it. Just say it and set yourself free.
Drawing in a breath of courage, I pull away from him, and thankfully, he doesn’t resist. Johnny’s hands fall to his side as I force out the accusation that’s been sitting on my tongue for six days. “I got attacked after meeting with Owen. After questioning you. I’m a psychiatrist and a cop’s daughter, Johnny. That’s logic and reality. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“You think I did this to you?”
I shake my head. “No. This man put his hands on me, and I know”—warmth floods my cheeks as I remember the feel of his hand around my neck and the smell of burnt pine and spice—“well, I know your touch too well.” Shoving the sleeve of my blouse up my arm, I point to the ugly purple fingerprints dotting my skin. “But these don’t have to belong to you to come from you.”
He clenches his fists. “I’d never hurt you, Becca. You know me better than that.”
“Do I?” I ask sharply. “I’ve seen you an hour a week for seven weeks now. You constantly tell me one thing, only for me to find out it’s a blatant lie or an intentional diversion. Even your patient profile is nothing but ramblings of two psychiatrists you toyed with until they broke. Is that what you want, Johnny? Do you want to break me?”
Please don’t answer that.
Please don’t be the man I think you are.
I don’t want to hear the answer, so I don’t give him a chance to give me one.
“All I’ve been told is that you're this disgraced fireman from Scranton. One whose twisted pyromania hero complex got him arrested and somehow plea-bargained down from second-degree arson to reckless burning. Then you show up in Providence, and my life turns upside down while yours remains under lock and key.” The edges of my vision darken. “Does any of that sound normal to you?”
“You want to know my shoe size too, Doc?” he snaps back. “I’d think you could guess that after last week.”
