Page 35 of Every Broken Piece

Chapter thirty-four

Gabe

I exit Tess’s building on a mission to get some healthy food into her and check out the surrounding area. Earlier I asked Jack to send backup. There’s a security firm we use occasionally for just such a job and Jack assured me they were sending their best men to guard Tess.

She’ll hate it if she finds out, but I don’t plan on telling her because I plan on being with her every second of her day. Just like I told her—I’m not going anywhere.

However, it’s good to have another set of eyes for moments like this when I can’t be with her. Amelia is upstairs right now, making sure Tess takes it easy and doesn’t try to get back on her computer. Although I don’t think that’s a worry. TaskGenius has wiped her out of their existence.

I’ll take care of that little problem later. For now, it’s in her best interest to be offline.

Damn but that’d been a difficult conversation. The fear that leapt into her eyes when she discovered she’s unemployed is something I never want to see again. Right then my mission became simple—erase everything that made my Spitfire afraid.

I’ll make it so she doesn’t have to worry about another thing again, but I’m not stupid enough to tell her that now. It’s too much, too fast. I need to slow my emotions down before she runs. And make no mistake, she’s on the verge of running.

When I step outside, I’m glad to see another big, black SUV parallel parked on the street in front of mine. I don’t want these bodyguards to hide. I want to send a message to Sandra Jansen and her kind that Tess is now protected.

Tess’s new bodyguard, Roger, stands outside the entrance of her building, foot kicked back on the crumbling bricks, smoking a cigarette, narrowed eyes sweeping up and down the street. Ohio is an open carry state and his sidearm is in plain sight.

I drive to the closest grocery store, following the directions on my GPS.

The surrounding streets are a replica of Tess’s.

At some point this used to be a nice area.

The buildings are early twentieth century ornate, but falling apart, boarded up in some places, metal gates covering windows in others.

There seems to be a pawn shop on every corner, a few barber shops, and tired looking corner stores.

People hanging out at the intersections watch the cars go buy.

Angry eyes follow my SUV as I slowly cruise by.

The grocery store is a few miles away, in a nicer section of town.

It’s been years since I’ve been inside a grocery store.

Pax would laugh if he saw me navigating the aisles, trying to decide what Tess likes to eat.

I stick with foods that I think are good for recovery—mainly fruits and vegetables and proteins.

Like grocery shopping, I haven’t cooked in years either, but I still remember the days of cooking for Pax and Jack.

Jack was always a better cook than me and for some reason, pushing a rickety cart with a janky wheel and plucking spaghetti sauce off the shelf is making me nostalgic for the past, when Pax was a little guy, and Jack and I were struggling to make it all work.

Now Pax has one foot out the door, ready to embark on his own adventures. Jack is doing what Jack does. Most of the time it’s a mystery to me what that is. But the three of us are still close. God willing we’ll always be close.

I load more food than we need into my car and head back to Tess.

“Everything good?” I ask Roger after I park in front of her door.

He takes a long pull off his cigarette and blows it out. He lifts his chin toward the corner. “Punk kids came by a little bit ago but stayed over there, watching. They’ll probably try jacking the cars tonight.”

“You have relief coming?”

He nods while taking another drag. “There’s four of us in a rotation. Mr. Sterling requested it.”

Leave it to Jack to think of everything.

“You have my number?”

“Mr. Sterling gave it to us.”

“I’ll be upstairs. Apartment 4B if you need anything. Even to take a piss.”

His lips twitch in what I suppose passes for a grin.

He’s what you’d think a bodyguard would look like.

Tall, dark hair, dark eyes, built like a freight train.

Jack probably requested a certain look to scare the locals and any other punk ass that thought we were fair game. Like the asshole who attacked Tess.

I pull his picture out of my pocket because I carry it with me and show it to him. “You see this guy you call me. Don’t approach. He’s mine.”

Roger studies the picture until he has it memorized, then nods once. “Got it.”

Before grabbing the grocery bags, I make my own assessed study of the street. The kids are gone, a few cars pass through the intersection a block away. Other than that, the neighborhood is eerily quiet. I get the groceries and close the car door with my hip.

As I turn, I see her slipping through the shadows of the building across the street like she knows how to stay invisible. Robert and I lock gazes. I nod to let him know I’ve got this. He nods back, but remains on alert, gun hand free and near his weapon, cigarette crushed beneath his shoe.

She hesitates in the darkened doorway of an abandoned building. Even from across the street I catch the telltale signs of someone coming down from a high. She shifts from one foot to another, rubs at her face, pulls at strands of her hair.

She takes a tentative step forward. Stops. Pauses. Lifts her chin, then marches toward me.

She looks nothing like Tess.

This woman is brittle, fragile, but not delicate.

Every wrong decision, every difficult path is marked on her skinny body and in the premature lines of her hard face.

I don’t know how old she is. I haven’t had a chance to read the report Jack sent me a few hours ago, but I can guess that she’s far younger than she looks.

If I didn’t know her life story, I’d estimate that she’s in her mid-sixties.

Since I do know her life story, she’s probably closer to late forties, early fifties.

She stops a good distance from me, far enough that I can’t grab her. She knows. She understands how vulnerable she can be around a big guy like me.

Her eyes dart to Roger, who’s watching her but hasn’t moved and won’t unless I need him to.

It’s March in Ohio. I don’t know much about Ohio weather, but it’s mid-thirties right now.

She’s dressed in a stained, baggy Cincinnati Cyclones sweatshirt that hangs almost to her knees, and sagging leggings.

If she weighs more than ninety pounds I’d be surprised.

Her cheeks are hollowed out. Her over-processed, brassy blonde hair hangs limp and frizzy.

She has open sores on lips that she nervously licks.

Tess has her eyes, those caramel-colored eyes. But where Tess’s televise every emotion that rolls through them, her mother’s are blank.

Sandra Jansen tips her chin toward the building behind me as she buries her hands in the front pocket of her sweatshirt. I keep my eyes on that pocket in case she has a gun. I’m unarmed but Roger isn’t.

“You don’t live here,” she says with a voice that tells me she’s a three-pack a day smoker.

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

A lick of dry, chapped, and peeling lips. Her foot jiggles and her eyes dart from Robert to the building, to my groceries, to me, then up the street.

“I seen you,” she says, her gaze landing on me but not for long. She pulls her hand out of her pocket—thankfully it’s not holding a weapon—and taps the side of her leg with her fingers, before shoving her hand back in the pocket. “At the hospital. You’re Theresa’s fiancé.”

Tess’s name coming out of this woman’s mouth has bile crawling up my throat. I lift my brows. “Who are you?” I ask again.

She slides to the right, pulls her hand from the hoodie and touches my car. Her nails are bitten to the quick, her cuticles red and raw. “Nice ride.”

“Look, lady, I have to get these upstairs.” I lift the bags of groceries. “Say what you came to say.”

Her eyes jump to mine. Another lick of the lips. She’s missing a few back teeth. Meth will do that to you. “I came to see my daughter.”

“She doesn’t want to see you.”

Fury, swift and ferocious, darkens her expression, hardens her eyes. “Who the fuck are you to tell me that?”

“Her fucking fiancé.”

She takes a step closer. She’s within striking distance—me to her, and her to me—but doesn’t seem to notice or care. “Yeah? You really engaged to my Theresa?” She assesses my car once again.

“She’s not your Theresa. She’s my Theresa.”

I need to cool my shit. I let her get to me, thinking she has a right to a daughter she treated like crap her whole life. I don’t know what Sandra Jansen has to do with Tess’s attack, but I’d bet my corporation she had something to do with it. No way in hell I’m letting her near Tess.

Her expression is calculating, those hard eyes sweeping over my shoes, my watch, my car, to Roger who’s watching all of this go down.

“She landed herself a rich one.”

“Fuck off, lady.” I move toward the steps leading to the apartment building door, my anger at a dangerously explosive point, when bony fingers dig into my bicep. Immediately I shake her off, dropping the bags of groceries. Roger pulls his weapon but keeps it near his outer thigh.

I step into her personal space. She takes a hurried, stumbling step back, eyes widening. “Don’t ever touch me again.” For every step I advance, she retreats two. “And don’t ever contact Tess again.”

She pulls her shoulders back. “She’s my kid. I have rights and you can’t keep me from her. Besides, she owes me.”

Oh, hell no. This woman is not going to guilt Tess into helping her out of whatever jam she got herself into.

“You gave up your rights the minute you became a shit mother. She wants nothing to do with you. And just to be clear, in case you’re confused.

She’s mine.” I crowd her until she’s backing into the street, looking both ways, for help or escape I don’t know.

I’m too far inside my own anger to give a shit what she’s thinking.

“I protect what’s mine, Sandra. I’ll do what it takes to keep her safe.

And if I ever find out that you’re behind that attack on Tess, I will tear this fucking city apart to find you. Are we clear?”

Her eyes are wide. She shrinks into herself, curling her shoulders and wrapping scrawny arms around her middle.

She came here thinking she’d shake money out of me.

She’ll walk away with my threats in her ears and hopefully take them back to whoever assaulted Tess.

But if Sandra Jansen thinks she’s seen the last of me she’s wrong.

“We clear, Sandra?”

She swallows. “Y-yes.”

“Good. Now take that warning back to whoever you sent after Tess because that goes for anyone who tries to hurt her. Got it?”

She nods.

“I need the words, Sandra.”

She backs away, but there’s more grit to Sandra than I gave her credit for.

As she retreats, never turning her back to me, she sneers.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re up against. They know who she is.

And now they know who you are and they ain’t stopping, Mr. Hotshot Billionaire.

” She points a finger gun at me and grins a jack-o-lantern grin with those missing teeth before pulling the trigger. “Watch your back, asshole.”