Page 39 of Sangre
“She was there when the fight broke out. She didn’t come back to the table?” The old ladies shook their heads. “Fuck,” he muttered in a low voice.
“Here,” Chelsea handed him a glass of water. “Wet the napkins.”
He quickly poured some water on them and scrubbed the dried blood off his face. “I’ve gotta find her.” His insides tightened and he dashed away. He flung open the front door and stepped outside, his eyes scanning the area around him. In the distance he saw what looked like a woman walking, her back to him. From the way her body moved, he was positive it was Isla.
Cursing under his breath, he ran after her. When he was less than a block away, she spun around, terror etched on her face. When her gaze landed on his, she turned back around and started to run. He caught up to her, grabbed her arm, and yanked her to him.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she said, twisting in his grip.
“Making sure your ass is safe. Why the hell did you take off? You got some crazy asshole after you, and you’re walking alone at night down a dark street in a pair of fuck-me heels? What the hell were you thinking?”
“I didn’t want to see you get your face smashed in. You acted like a damn Neanderthal back there. When you were in high school, I used to think you got in fights because everyone thought you were a tough badass and you wanted to show them you were, but… newsflash, Sangre—we’re out of high school. You can stop trying to prove you’re tough.”
“I’m not trying to prove shit! The fucker gave me attitude. Anyway, what does that have to do with you running out and pulling a crazy ass stunt like this?”
Her face softened a bit. “Okay. You’re right. I shouldn’t have run out of the bar—it was a stupid thing to do. I was just so mad and upset. Why the hell did you come over and start all that up?”
“I didn’t like the way he was touching you. He could be the sick wacko who’s sending you those letters. You should’ve pulled away. You can’t afford to be too friendly with strangers.”
“Well, if you were so worried about it, why were you hanging at the bar with your bevy of girls instead of protecting me?”
The heat of anger bubbled beneath his skin as his eyes narrowed. “I was protecting you, that’s why I pulled you away from him.”
“Or did you do it because you were jealous? It didn’t seem like you—”
“I wasn’t jealous.” He clenched his jaw.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah. Why the fuck would I be jealous? We’re not dating or anything. We’re just friends.”
She turned her face from him. “I know that. It just seemed that way.”
“I don’t want you pulling stupid shit like this again. You’re damn lucky nothing happened to you. This nut could be anywhere.” He was pissed at her but more at himself for letting his emotions claim him when he should’ve kept his distance and his eye on the situation. But when Sangre saw the asshole touch her, it was like the jerk had lanced a red-hot poker through him, and he acted without thinking. Isla was stirring up all kinds of shit inside him that he didn’t want to feel.
An audible sigh came through her parted lips. “I know. I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know. It just freaked me out when I saw that guy hit you. It really scared me.” She leaned into him and put her head on his shoulder.
All the fear and anger he had brewing inside him seeped away and he held her close. He inhaled, breathing in the fresh, citrus scent of her shampoo and the sultry fragrance of her perfume mixing together in a unique, warm, indefinable something that was only Isla. Her satin-soft skin glided under his fingers, making his dick stir. Tightening his jaw, he tried to clamp down his mounting desire.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was hoarser than it should have been.
“What can I say? I’m fucked up.” Her laugh was weak and dry. “It reminded me of my dad and how he’d throw punches at me and my sisters and brother. I just had to get away. I didn’t want to see you hurt. I wanted to stop it, but I felt helpless. Maybe that’s the way my mom felt. I always blamed her for not doing anything when my dad would punish us, but maybe she just felthelpless.”
A sudden coldness hit his gut. He’d known her dad was a strict disciplinarian and unreasonable, but she’d never told him that he’d hurt her or her siblings. “I didn’t know your dad hit you.”
“He knew where to leave the bruises so they wouldn’t show,” she said softly.
“You should’ve told me.”
“I never told anyone. None of us did. He had a way of making you think you deserved it.”
“Oh, Isla.” He squeezed his arms tighter around her, hoping to block out the memories from her difficult past. It’d never occurred to him that her dad had been hitting her because he’d come from a home where corporal punishment had never been used. If he’d known, he would’ve done something that probably would’ve landed him in jail. The idea that she was being hurt while they were friends ate him up inside.
“I didn’t mean to bring it up. It’s just that the fight brought back all these memories. One time, I tried to stop him when he was beating on my brother. He stopped then came after me with such viciousness that I had to stay home from school for a couple of weeks until the bruises and swelling disappeared. After that, I learned not to interfere. So, whenever shit went down with one of my siblings, I’d just run to my room and cover my ears while my insides twisted and churned. I hated feeling helpless whenever my brother or sisters cried out.”
Anger flowed through his veins. “Did he beat on your mother too?”
“Not with his hands—that privilege was reserved for us. He beat my mom up with his words and his cruel actions, like not giving her a gift on Valentine’s Day because she’d gained some weight, and he couldn’t reward that. Or he’d always tell her about the women he thought were sexy and attractive in our neighborhood or among her friends. It was terrible how he chipped away at her self-esteem. He did a great job of it with us too. I never could understand how he could do that to us. We loved him. Isn’t your dad supposed to love you?” Her voice hitched.
