Sure enough, Patrick points back to the door. “Will you relax, psycho? Jase said I could stop by and grab something quick.”
Is he kidding?Jase gave this fucker permission to come intomyhouse?
“He doesn’t live here, asswipe,” I seethe. “Ido. And what you’re doing right now is trespassing.”
To anyone else, that statement alone would be more than a threat, especially since Vanessa insisted that Blythe install security cameras at the front and back entrances last summer. There’s literal evidence proving Patrick illegally entered the premises. Unfortunately, that’s merely an inconvenience for an Untouchable, so I have to step up my game.
“Either you back the fuck up and leave, or I’m completely within my right to defend myself.” The way I emphasize ‘defend’ makes it clear I’m taking liberties with the word, especially sinceI’mthe one stepping forward.
If Patrick thinks he can make a habit of dropping by here whenever he feels like it, Trent will certainly follow suit, and theonly way I would let that happen would be over my dead body. Literally.
The asshole looks equally freaked out and agitated. “Jesus, calm the fuck down. All I need is a few minutes to run upstairs quick, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
“I have a better idea.”
Patrick whirls at the sound of the voice behind him, and even I startle.
Jase comes to stand in the back entrance, leaning contentedly against the doorframe.Where the hell did he come from?His bike is next to impossible not to hear, and there hadn’t been so much as a whisper of the engine.
I anticipate the bromance from the country club, waiting for the inevitable when he welcomes Patrick inside, takes him upstairs, or hangs with him in the family room as they watch sports highlights and porn.
So color me surprised to see Patrick recoil at the very sight of Jase, apparently deciding it’s safer near me and my chef’s knife. That healthy, tanned complexion looks a few shades paler, and Patrick Bouchard, Prince of the Untouchables, begins stammering. Yes,stammering!
May I repeat again: what the fuck?
Jase’s left cheekbone and eye look even worse than they did yesterday, and I can’t help but also notice Patrick’s right hand seems a little worse for wear as well. Bruises have formed on his knuckles, and there’s a split in his skin between the pointer and middle finger.
If his excuses are anything to go by, it seems Jasehadn’textended an invitation to Patrick. He suddenly claims he just stopped by to talk to Jase, that he thought he was home, and that he wanted “to make amends.”
Moving faster than I can track, Jase charges for Patrick, and there’s an audible crack as his fist connects with the latter’scheekbone. Patrick drops to the ground in a daze, uselessly trying to wrestle Jase’s hands away as he fists the front of Patrick’s shirt.
“Not so tough without your henchmen, are you?” Jase pries Patrick off the ground and through the back door as Bouchard stumbles and bumbles some more, his equilibrium shot.
I’m not one to snoop, but the two brought their shit into my house, so I feel a little deserving of some context. The nook of the kitchen is too far away to hear what’s being said, but the window is the only one overlooking the pair as Patrick gets slammed against the siding of the house hard enough that it leaves him doubled over. Jase isn’t done, because his hand goes right for Patrick’s throat, hauling him upright even as the latter coughs and wheezes.
And oh boy, does Jase look pissed. He’s smiling, but the look in his eyes is one I haven’t seen before. At least not to this extent. He radiates ire, the muscles in his entire body flexing, including the ones in his arm that pin Patrick to the side of the house. A fair amount of pressure must be applied, because Patrick’s face turns red…and then begins taking on an alarming shade of blue.
Only once Patrick’s eyes start rolling back in his head and he wheezes something does Jase release his hold. Patrick is back to doubling over, gasping and coughing as Jase says one last thing before slamming his fist into Patrick’s stomach. The punch isn’t nearly as hard as the first, but it gets the message across all the same.
What that message is, I have no effing clue, and I’m not about to ask. Not when the back door slams shut and Jase’s footsteps approach the kitchen.
I make it back to the island before he sees me, so at least it’s not obvious that I was snooping. Jase turns the corner and looks at me, or rather down at my hand, and only now do I realize I’m still wielding the chef’s knife.
“You okay?” He’s holding his hands up in front of him, but not in the same way Patrick just was. He approaches me slowly, his voice lowered, like I’m a cornered, feral animal. “Did he hurt you?”
Apart from giving me a heart attack and making my lungs jump up into my throat? I manage to shake my head, and only once he reaches to take the knife away do I see how badly I’m shaking now, the adrenaline leaving my nerves fried. He sets the blade down on the counter, and then…
He’s reassuring me I’m alright, and he keeps repeating the words, as if to assure himself as well. He’s whispering, and his hands cradle my arms just below the shoulders ever so softly—the very same hands that he was just choking Patrick with. And he keeps calling me Birdie.
He isn’t mocking me or giving me a cold shoulder, and for the first time in four years, the nickname he assigned me doesn’t sound like an insult. I flinch at the thought, but he mistakes the reaction, pulling back to inspect the areas he touched, expecting to see bruises or something. When the assessment comes back empty-handed, Jase finally understands thathe’sthe one freaking me out now, though not for the reason he probably thinks. I’m more than rattled by Patrick showing up here, yes, but Jase’s response—the fact he’s beinggentle—startles me more.
I should be demanding answers. I should be pissed that Patrick dared to show up here. But addressing either would mean having to talk, and I don’t trust myself right now to try. The impulse to run is doubling on itself, and I’m not about to argue. Jaseistrying to speak with me, but all I can manage is another shake of the head, staggering out of the kitchen on numb feet.
Well,at least now I know why Patrick thought I wasn’t home. I walk out onto the driveway to find my car gone, again. It’s also not in the garage, but I remember what Blythe mentioned the other night on the ride back from the country club. She has a catering service showing up sometime today for a party she’s throwing, and, like always, she doesn’t want any of our vehicles (a.k.a. mine) obstructing theirs. Instead of, God forbid, pulling my car into the currently empty garage, she’s left it out on the street…three houses down. If not for the car being red, I probably wouldn’t have spotted it.
And, of course, she never bothered to text or leave a note to let me know where the car was. On any other day, I would be pissed, but right about now, I can’t process much of anything. I just wander in a daze down the street towards my car, trying to make sense of what happened.
Patrick Bouchard broke into my house.
