By the time I leave Gabriel’s office, grab my purse and exit the gym, Keller is gone. I send him a quick text to let him know I’m on my way home, and head out.
I stop to get my mail before heading upstairs to my apartment and freeze with the key in the lock when I glimpse the gilded envelope with the SASS return address among the pile of bills and flyers.
Before the panic can take root, I unlock the door and hurry inside, slamming it shut behind me, twisting each bolt into place. Everything in my hand slips to the floor except the thick envelope. I hold it away from my body, pinched between my thumb and forefinger as if it might explode like one of those messages on Mission Impossible. My hand shakes badly, but I manage to throw it on the small kitchen table with the piles of other stuff I ignore on a daily basis. Maybe out of sight, out of mind will work this time, because for some reason, I can’t bring myself to throw the letter away.
Great. My nerves are shot and my mind is torn in a bunch of different directions at once. After the scene with Max and Keller, meeting with Gabriel not only about his decision to fire Max but also about Keller’s upcoming fight, and now the invite to the upcoming anniversary for “the incident.” I’m a complete and total wreck.
Numb, I head into the bedroom, strip off my clothes, and climb under the covers, my phone tucked to my side. Still no response to my text to Keller. It takes so much energy just to keep from falling apart, I pass out from exhaustion a few minutes later.
* * *
By Monday morning, I’m a mess. Keller never responded to any of my texts or calls over the last few days. At first, I was merely pissed off, but with the looming anniversary, and spending the entire weekend alone thinking about it, I’m on the verge of a full-on nervous breakdown and having a difficult time hiding it from everyone.
Exhausted from spending three days tossing and turning and getting almost no sleep, I end up doing something I hardly ever do and drive my car to work. I probably shouldn’t, especially after the recent seizure, but it’s less than a five minute drive and I don’t have to energy to walk.
When I pull into the lot, I swear I spot Max’s car in the very back. No, it can’t be. Gabriel fired him, I should know. I had the unfortunate luck of watching Max storm out of the gym, shooting daggers at me the entire time, sending chills up my spine.
I hurry inside and notice Keller isn’t here yet, which is disappointing. My first instinct is to tell him about possibly seeing Max outside. Then I remember Keller ignored me all weekend and the anger I felt at his callous treatment rises up.
A knock on my office door accompanies the voice. “Britt, you have a minute?”
I turn to see Jackson Wolfe in the doorway, a hesitant look on his face. My shoulders drop and I realize I was hoping, no matter how angry I am, it was Keller.
“Jack, sure. Come in.” I wave the big man into the office. “What can I do for you?”
“My shoulder is tight. Can you put some of that icy crap on it?”
He might irritate me sometimes, but today, I thank god for Jackson Wolfe. I laugh at his unique description of my medicated ointment, instantly feeling lighter than I have in days. “Icy crap, Jack?” He grins and I giggle at him. “Get on the table. I need to check the joint before putting it on.”
He hops up on the exam table and whips off his shirt. I close the office door so Jack has some privacy. He grimaces when I touch his shoulder.
“Sorry. My hands are freezing.”
“It’s okay, Britt. I’m hot enough for both of us.” He chuckles and once again, Jack makes me laugh.
“If you say so, Jack.” After manipulating his shoulder, pushing and palpitating the joint, I dig my finger into the space between his clavicle and his humerus. Jack hisses and gives me a scathing look. “There’s no swelling, but if this is tender…” I dig into the spot again and he groans.
“Can you please not do that? It hurts.”
“Sorry, Jack.” I pat his shoulder and grab the big tub of ointment. As I rub it over the joint, I tell him my thoughts. “You’ll need to ice it a few times a day and take some ibuprofen with meals. If it doesn’t feel better by Wednesday, we’ll have to schedule an appointment with Dr. Watkins to get you a cortisone shot.”
“Okay, Britt. Thanks.” Jack pulls his shirt on and hops down, but doesn’t leave. He stands next to the table, his thumb and forefinger rubbing together.
“Jack?”
The fighter’s face is hesitant. Whatever Jack has to say isn’t going to be something I want to hear.
“I just… Britt… you know I like you. I mean, I have a lot of respect for you.”
“Okay.”
“I guess… I want to know… damn. Shit, this sounds so bad.” He blows out a breath. “What I’m saying is, just be careful around Killer, Britt. He’s… not normal.”
I stiffen defensively. “Don’t, Jack.”