Page 3 of Covert (Ruthless Love #2)

Chapter three

Beckett

T he new girl terrifies me.

And that's saying something.

Sure, I avoid women like the plague, but my anxiety around women has settled into a low, general hum. But Nikki? Leaves my heart racing and ants crawling under my skin.

And I know exactly why.

So, when I come out of the bathroom and find her just..

. there... I start to shake. I clench my fists and press them against my thighs.

My eyes dart around the entire room, looking for a witness, or an escape, or a lifeline, but Axel's got his back to the bathroom and is completely unaware, and Maddox is gone.

She folds her arms across her chest and pops a hip, looking less than pleased with me.

"Why do you hate women?"

I shift my weight uncomfortably and push my shoulders forward to make myself smaller. I'm six-six and two hundred and fifty pounds. I know how I look.

I open and close my mouth a handful of times, but nothing comes out. Why can't she just leave me alone? Leave the big, dumb guy alone so I can go about my life trying to be invisible.

She drops her arms and sighs. "Look, I can tell I'm triggering for you. I just want to understand what triggers you so I can fix things, and you can be more comfortable around me. Is it me being near you? Looking at you? Talking to you? I can't help if I don't understand. "

That eases some of the ants under my skin. I stare at her for way longer than is appropriate.

"Want me to grab a couple of coffees, and you can explain?

Or is it just me in general? I don't know how to change that.

" She looks down her body, arms splayed wide, as if she could find something in herself to change.

Except there's nothing I would change about her.

She's perfect. Small, delicate, feminine, and so achingly beautiful. It's me who is broken.

Fear loosens its grip on my stomach. She wants to know how to make me feel more comfortable, when it's her who should be feeling uncomfortable with me.

I'm six-foot-six and two-hundred and sixty pounds.

She's tiny. I'd guess maybe five-two? A hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet?

I feel like both of my hands could encase her entire waist.

I'm a monster who could crush her, but instead of being afraid of me, she's asking what she can do to be less frightening to me . I let that thought sink in slowly, as my body lowers its fight-or-flight response. She'd really change things to make me more comfortable in my own job.

I still don't trust her, but her perceived thoughtfulness has eased a bit of my discomfort. I'm just not sure how much I can trust it, or if this is just another trap.

I nod. "Coffee, but in a public place."

She smiles brightly, tipping up on her toes. "You're free for the next hour. Wanna walk to Jammin' Javas?"

I look at Axel. This is a bad idea, isn't it?

We'd be alone on the walk, but we'd be in public.

It might be nice to talk to someone about it.

The guys know some of what happened to me, but they don't talk about it.

They let me live in my miserable little anti-woman box and don't acknowledge what happened.

Can I trust her, though? Trust her enough to tell her everything?

She wants to know. Leana never pushed me, just accepted me the way that I am. Broken.

It's just a coffee.

I nod again and follow her to the front desk, where she grabs her oversized bag. She shouts to Axel that we're headed out, and I catch the surprised look on his face when he sees me trailing after the tiny woman. I keep three feet of distance between us as we walk the short block to the cafe.

We order and pay separately.

"Which table would you be more comfortable at?" she asks as we step back out to the sidewalk. I appreciate that she's letting me make the choice. It's not something a normal person would think to ask, which makes me wonder if she doesn't already know about my story, or maybe has a past of her own.

I pick the furthest one. It's private enough that we can have this conversation, but two men and a woman are facing our direction and can act as witnesses. I hope.

She even lets me pick which seat and then asks which one she can sit in. I point to the one directly in front of me and the furthest from me.

We sip our coffee and simply stare at each other for a little while. I'm mentally thumbing through my story, trying to figure out where to start and how much to say, what pieces of information I can share, and which ones feel too vulnerable.

And for a while, she gives me space to work through it .

But when I've struggled for too long, she steps in. "You don't hate women; you're terrified of them. So, clearly, a woman did something terrible to you. Do you want to start there?"

Yeah, I can explain that in one sentence. And then she can ask me questions if she wants to know more, and I can decide which questions I want to answer.

I nod.

"I was in foster care when a fellow foster sister accused me of rape."

Her eyes widen, but I can tell she's trying to school her features to give me the space to explain it all. "I didn't do it, of course, but the jury ate up her story and crocodile tears, and because of my size..." I trail off, shrinking in again.

"Because of your size, they assumed you did it."

I nod.

"And there were no witnesses..."

I nod again.

"So, it was your word against hers..."

I nod sadly again.

She leans back and crosses her arms across her chest.

"Prison tats. How much time did you do?"

I wince. I don't love them, but they were a good distraction while I was in. I also haven't had the heart to cover them up. Many days, I'm still locked up in there, unable to move forward or backward. "I was tried as an adult," I continue.

"Because of your size," she finishes for me. And she's not wrong. Even though I was only sixteen, I looked like a grown man and was deemed too much of a threat to be out in the general public.

"Because of my size," I parrot back .

"How long were you in for?"

"Five years."

The air whooshes out of her lungs as she blinks at me.

She leans forward and touches my hand briefly before I pull it back instinctively. I don't want to be like this, but so far, I haven't learned any other way.

She leaves her hand in a fist on the table and says, "I'm so sorry that happened to you, Beckett."

Now it's my turn to take in her serious brown eyes and the sincere tilt of her brows.

"You believe me?"

"I have no reason not to believe you."

"But look at me."

She does, and I instantly regret it. Her eyes trail over my broad shoulders and thick neck, down my large arms and faded black prison tattoos on the backs of my hands.

She softens when she works her way back up to my face. I know how I look. Long hair, tattoo up the side of my head. Built like a brick shit house. I know I look intimidating. It's on purpose. It's a defense mechanism. But at the same time, I want someone to see beyond that.

She shakes her head. "You're not a predator, Beckett. You're gorgeous, and your size is a gift."

I scoff into my coffee before taking another scorching sip.

She shakes her head and sighs as if she's having to explain basic math to first graders.

"You have no idea what it's like to be a woman, do you?"

I raise an eyebrow at her in challenge .

"The greatest worry a man has is if he's going to be embarrassed by something.

A woman's greatest fear? Men. No matter how strong we are, no matter how much we prepare, no matter how much bear spray we have in our purses, it only takes a second for a man to attack us.

You see your size as proof of this, but your size is a gift.

If you were mine, I wouldn't have to plan what time of day I get gas or what time of day to go to the grocery store.

I wouldn't have to walk from the grocery store to my car with my keys between my knuckles to use as a weapon.

If I had a man like you, maybe I could finally fucking relax for once in this life. "

Okay, now she's getting worked up. This seems to be less about my size and more like.

.. how she's felt vulnerable as a woman?

I don't know what to say. Because in the same breath, she's talking about how my size would be a shield for her.

She's talking about needing a shield from guys like me.

Guys who could easily overpower others and take what they want.

And my blood runs cold.

Has someone taken something from her that she didn't want to give? Has she been in the dangerous situations she described?

"Have you been...?"

She shakes her head quickly. "No. I take Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu for self-defense. Maybe that's one of the reasons I'm not afraid of your size. I know I could take you. But if I can't see it coming..." she trails off sadly.

I nod, not wanting to press her, and eventually her eyes snap back to mine.

"Okay, so triggers." She takes a sip of her iced coffee and waits .

I shrug. I've never really thought about them. I've existed in this miserable bubble of anxiety for five years now. Leana knew to avoid me, I avoid going out, and don't have women as clients. That's been my coping mechanism, just a lot of avoidance.

"Women in general?"

She nods thoughtfully, running her thumb over her bottom lip in a way that is incredibly distracting.

An incredibly inappropriate thought of her lips wrapped around my thumb pops into my head, and I grimace.

Maybe all men are monsters, but thinking about her sexually feels like sexual harassment.

Allowing her to participate, unknowingly, in my sexual fantasies feels just wrong.

She mentioned casually that I'm "gorgeous" and "if I were her man".

I do allow my brain to wander down that path.

If I weren't broken, would I ask her out?

We'd go to dinner and a movie. I'd hold her hand as we walked and kiss her goodnight.

Longing like I've never felt before, squeezes my chest and makes me rub my sternum absentmindedly. I haven't thought about a future with a woman since the trial.

When I was sixteen, I had some idea of evil.

I knew it existed, but it existed "out there".

I never truly understood evil until I watched Samantha lie to the judge and jury about details that never happened.

How I held her down, how I tore her underwear, how I held her mouth closed with my hand.

Suddenly, evil was very much real and standing in front of me, condemning me for life as a registered sex offender.

I was stunned into silence that day and could do little else but argue that that never happened.

That she was lying, and that I was studying in my room when she said it supposedly happened .

We walk back to the shop together. I'm being rude and not really listening to her tell me about her job at the library that she just lost. I'm in my head, ruminating about Samantha, my life avoiding half of the population, and what that longing for a future with a woman means.

***

The next day, we open the shop around noon. We closed at midnight last night, so we have a late start this morning.

When we pull up on my motorcycles, though, the shop lights are already on, and the metal protective door has been opened.

"Did fucking Nikki forget to close up last night? I'll murder her," Maddox says, fuming.

He stomps over, throwing the door open roughly, ready for a fight, but when he spots Nikki's bag on the counter, his tirade stutters.

Nikki's in the back, on top of a ladder, screwing in some kind of round mirror into the corner at the ceiling.

"What the fuck are you doing?!" Maddox shouts at her, rushing towards the ladder. I wince. Maddox is a hothead, but I really wish he wouldn't take it out on her. However, she doesn't seem in the least bit phased.

"I'll show you, gimme a second," she says, sliding the tip of her tongue into the corner of her mouth in concentration.

Fuck, she's cute. I'd stayed up all night ruminating on the past, the present, and the future.

And one very terrifying thing stood out during the hours of restlessness.

When I pictured a future, it was only with one woman.

Nikki .

She'd seen me, my size, tats, and trauma, and demanded that I acknowledge that what happened to me wasn't my fault. She believed me without question and trusted me immediately. That kind of faith rocked me to my core. If there was anyone I was going to try to be better for, it would be her.

Terrified of what that means, I tucked that fact into the back of my brain early this morning and vowed never to look at it again.

Satisfied it's screwed in well, she slides the screwdriver into her mouth and starts down the ladder. Maddox grips her by the hips to guide her down like she's about to fall. His anger has turned into frustration and fear for her safety.

She gives him a quick "thanks," and folds the ladder before leaning it against the wall.

"Look," she says, walking up to my supply cart and tugging it to the chair closest to the mirror.

"If Beckett works from this station, with this mirror, he has a 365-degree view of the shop.

He can watch any woman who comes in and know where they are at all times.

And!" she says excitedly, holding up a finger.

She rushes to her bag, and all I can do is stare at the brilliant smile on her face.

She pulls out a bracelet-looking thingy covered in tiny bells. She bends down and attaches it around one ankle. She lifts her foot and gives it a little wiggle, setting the tiny bells off and sounding like Christmas.

"Now you'll always know where I am." She beams at me, and my heart squeezes painfully. She went out of her way to make accommodations for me. To reduce my overall anxiety about women in general .

Emotion clogs my throat, and I wish with every fiber of my being I could hug her, hold her, thank her with my body and not my words. I clear my throat, attempting to rein in my gratitude. Maddox rubs the back of his neck and stares at the floor. Axel, being Axel, makes a joke.

"Now you can have eyes in the back of your head."

Nikki simply smiles at me. I swallow again and rub the ache in my chest. Fuck, this is hard.

She seems to see the struggle on my face. She steps closer, careful not to touch me, and her little ankle bracelet jingles. Tears prick my eyelids at the sound.

"You have PTSD, Beckett, from something very traumatic that happened to you. But that doesn't mean you need to punish yourself, too. I just wanted to make life a little easier for you," she says quietly, for my ears only.

I clear my throat again and nod. "Thank you." I wish I could say my voice didn't crack, but it did. She looks at my arm like she wants to touch it, but flexes and balls her hand instead.

Fuck, this woman.