Shattered (3 page)

I gaped at the scene before me. Two of the
drunks were laying in the gutter, a tangled collection of
barely-moving limbs. One man was lying face down on the sidewalk,
groaning pitifully. Another was slumped against a brick storefront,
his eyes half-open, and his head lolling from side to side. And in
the midst of all the bruised and sprained bodies stood the most
gorgeous man I’d ever laid eyes on. He scanned the men grimly—I
could tell that he took no pleasure from demolishing opponents of
such poor quality as these.

My heart was hammering against my ribcage
like it was trying to escape from my chest. Even as the fear and
shock subsided, I was finding it hard to breathe, and difficult to
see straight. At first, I wondered if I’d hit my head too hard, but
then I felt a new, amazing feeling welling up inside of me. A warm,
needy pressure surged from my core to the tips of my fingers and
toes. I wasn’t scared, I was unbelievably turned-on. And all of the
sudden, hot desire was leveled squarely at this beautiful,
mysterious savior who had come to my aid when I needed him the
most.

I gasped as the fighter swung his eyes toward
my hiding place. He closed the space between us, lowering himself
down on one knee and peering into the darkness of the alley. I was
paralyzed in the shadows, stunned by his unearthly beautiful
presence. His eyes scanned the narrow space and finally came to
rest on my face. The full force of his gaze nearly sent me toppling
back into the darkness, but I managed somehow to peer out at him.
The grim, intense expression on his face wavered, and the tiniest
suggestion of a smile twitched on his lips.

“There you are,” he said. His rich voice sent
a thrill through my very bones.

“You...You saved me,” I managed to say.

“That would seem to be the case,” he
responded, offering me his hand. I brought my fingers trembling
toward his and stifled a sigh as he took my hand with a firm,
knowing grip. He pulled me up out of the shadows, supporting my
entire weight on one arm. It wasn’t until I straightened up, or
tried to, that the pain rippled through my body. I gritted my teeth
as my back lit up in a blaze of hurt, and my limbs began to shake
uncontrollably.

“Jesus...” I moaned, clutching onto his
arm.

“Come on,” the fighter said, “Let’s get you
home.”

“I...I live just over there,” I said, nodding
toward my apartment building.

“You think I’m going to leave you on some
doorstep?” he said, sounding almost offended. “You’re not fit to be
alone right now. We’re going back to my place.”

A spark of excitement shot through my pain
like a firework in the night sky. Who was I to argue with the man
who had just saved my life? “Is it far?” I asked. “I don’t know if
I can walk—” My words fell away as the man tucked his arms under my
arms and legs and drew me to his chest. He was cradling me against
him as though I was weightless, and the sudden closeness of our
faces...our lips, it nearly knocked me unconscious.

“Hope you don’t mind if I give you a lift,”
he said, the hint of a smile growing on his face.

“N-not at all,” I spluttered.

He turned and nudged one of the men out of
the way with his boot, clearing a path for us. I glanced back at
the four bruised bodies we were leaving in our wake. Minutes ago,
those men had me pinned and powerless. Now they were sprawled
messily across the sidewalk, four drunken sacks of fat spread out
like bowling pins in the gutter. They were the powerless ones now.
I hoped they were experiencing even a fraction of the fear and
shame they’d tried to inflict on me.

The men fell out of my range of vision as the
fighter carried my swiftly around the corner, weaving through back
alleys and side streets. He moved through the city like he owned
it, like he’d built it from scratch. There was an authority in his
every motion that left me speechless. I pressed myself against the
hard, sculpted panes of his chest, trying desperately to memorize
the feeling of his arms around me.

Despite what had just happened to me, despite
the pain that was gnawing at every inch of my body, some deep part
of me was rejoicing. To be close to this person, this mysterious
savior, was a pleasure I’d never felt before in my life. I looked
up at his stunning face and wondered who he could possibly be, this
hero of mine.

Chapter
Two

He drew up before a stately apartment
building and placed me delicately back on my feet. “Can you make it
inside?” he asked. “My doorman might be a bit alarmed if he spots
me carrying a woman up to my apartment.”

“I’m OK,” I said, trying to fight through the
pain. My hero opened the front door for me and ushered me into the
lobby. I smiled at the doorman, who waved cheerfully back at us.
The fighter drew me into a waiting elevator and pressed the button
for the highest floor. The elevator car rose smoothly up through
the building, and I leaned against the man to keep upright. The
walls of the elevator were mirrored, letting me see exactly how
banged up I looked. My hair fell in messy tendrils all over the
place, my jeans had earned themselves a few new holes, and my arms
were scratched and smudged. I looked a mess, but it could have been
much worse—would have been, if not for the man beside me. The car
drew to a stop at the top of the building, and I was surprised when
the doors opened onto yet another door.

“What the...?” I breathed, as the man fitted
a key into the second door’s lock.

“This is my floor,” he said, pushing the door
open. I gasped as a sprawling penthouse apartment was revealed to
my astonished eyes.

“Your apartment is the entire floor?!” I
exclaimed.

“Well, yeah,” he said, helping me over the
threshold and closing the door behind us. “What, yours isn’t?”

I swung my gaze all around the apartment,
struggling to take in the full expanse of it. This person had an
entire house inside of a New York City apartment building. I didn’t
even know that places like this existed outside of the movies. I
spotted a staircase across the front room and let out an amazed
laugh.

“So you’re some kind of action hero, right?”
I said, “Some Batman character, out saving damsels in distress in
the middle of the night?”

“Something like that,” he said. “Come with
me, we’ll see what the damage is.”

He helped me to the next room, a huge living
space with soft leather couches and an enormous entertainment
console. As I lowered myself onto the nearest couch, I let my
imagination supply me with a picture of this man taking me right
there on the leather. Of course, I could barely even scratch my
nose in my condition, much less enjoy a romp with a powerful
specimen like him. The man helped me settle into a reclined
position, picking up my legs and placing them gently on the couch.
For someone so muscled and forceful, his touch was delicate now.
The tenderness in his touch was nearly as captivating as the sheer
power he’d demonstrated in taking down my attackers. He was larger
than life, this savior, too much to take in all at once.

“OK,” he said, “Walk me through it. What
happened with those assholes?”

“I was leaving work,” I told him, trying not
to drown in his bottomless eyes, “I’m a barista at Joe’s. They were
standing outside of the bar across the way, I guess. After I closed
up and left, they started following me. They came out of nowhere
and boxed me in. I got my pepper spray out in time to get one of
them, but that just egged them on. They got me on the ground
and...”

My voice caught in my throat, and I felt
sudden tears stinging in my eyes. The terror I’d been holding at
bay since the men had attacked me broke over me like a wave. I
began to sob, fat tears running down my smudged cheeks. The ordeal
had been too much for me to shake away so flippantly. If the
fighter hadn’t come along, there was no telling what they would
have done to me on the empty street. They could have raped me,
killed me, left me bleeding on the sidewalk and gone about their
merry ways. But they failed, and it was all thanks to this man who
had saved me. He was crouched beside me, watching me work through
the shock and fear without a trace of irritation or embarrassment.
There was no surprise in those eyes of his—it made me think that he
was very familiar with sorrow himself.

“Listen,” he said to me, his voice soft, “You
didn’t do anything wrong, do you understand me? You shouldn’t have
been left alone so late at night. Your boss must be a real
idiot.”

“He is, that and more,” I said, laughing
through my tears.

“Some people might try to tell you that you
were dressed the wrong way, shouldn’t have been asking for it,
whatever,” he went on, “But that’s all a bunch of bullshit. What
happened was those guys’ fault, not yours. And don’t let anyone
tell you anything differently.”

I nodded, wiping the tears away from my face.
“Who are you?” I asked, in a voice that was barely above a
whisper.

“I’m Anderson,” he answered, “Anderson
Cole.”

“Hi, Anderson,” I said, savoring the taste of
his name in my mouth, “I’m Kaela. Thanks for saving my ass.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, letting an
actual smile play across his full, firm lips. “Tell me what hurts.
Does anything feel broken?”

“I don’t think so,” I said, trying to hold as
still as I possibly could. I could feel a wet trickle of blood
against the side of my face where it had been slammed into the
sidewalk. One eye was sure to be black by morning. The skin on my
back felt grated, as did my hands and knees. “I think I’m just a
little beat up, is all.”

“Don’t try and act tough,” he said, “That’s
my job. If something feels broken—”

“It’s OK,” I said, “I think you left those
guys in much worse shape than I am.”

His look darkened. “I wouldn’t have done that
if they’d backed off,” he said, “I didn’t want to do any of that,
you know.”

“I know,” I said, “I could see that.”

“They should have just...Never mind,” he
said, shaking the thought out of his mind.

“Where did you come from?” I asked him, “It
was like you fell from the sky or something.”

“Nothing quite so dramatic, I’m afraid,” he
said, “I was just, as they say, in the neighborhood. I was heading
home from a gig and I heard you screaming.”

“A gig?” I said, “Are you a musician or
something?” He looked like a rock star to me, anyway.

“Not exactly,” he said.

“Some kind of performer?” I asked.

“Yeah...” he said, “Yeah, you could say that.
Hold still for a second, I’m going to get some stuff to clean you
up.”

My skin erupted with goose bumps as I
imagined those strong hands of his soaping me up in the shower. I
closed my eyes and let the fantasy land as Anderson fetched the
first aid supplies. I couldn’t keep my mind away from thoughts of
him. My body seemed to respond to him like a sunflower to the sun.
I knew that wherever this man led, I would follow. I wouldn’t have
a choice. He came back to me with a bowl of steaming water and a
first-aid kit. Suddenly I realized why so many guys had sexy nurse
fantasies of their own.

“Can you sit up?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said, struggling to do
so.

“You’re doing great,” he said, kneeling
before me and dipping a washcloth into the water. He brought the
cloth up to my face and began to clean away the blood that was
already drying there. I drank in his face, so close to mine, so
perfect. He was focused on his task, but the way that his hands
lingered on my skin, brushed against me ever so gently, had me
wondering if he was feeling the same pull that I was. We were quiet
as he tended to my wounds, dabbing away the dirt and blood
masterfully.

“You’re good at this,” I said.

“I’m used to it,” he replied.

“Lots of injuries at your performances?” I
asked, “Are you some kind of crazy performance artist who beats up
his audience, or something?”

“Nope,” he said, smiling, “Nothing like
that.”

“Then what is it you do to afford a place
like this?” I pressed, leaning into his careful hands.

“I fight,” he answered, looking at me
squarely in the face. I could see that he was trying to gauge my
reaction.

“What do you mean, you fight?” I asked, “You
mean like...professionally?”

“Exactly,” he replied.

“Like in those ultimate fighting things?” I
went on, instantly regretting my choice of words. I sounded like a
twelve-year-old.

“Kind of like that,” he answered, “Though
what I do is a little more intense than MMA.”

“MMA?” I asked.

“Mixed Martial Arts,” he clarified.

“I thought that was the most intense thing
ever,” I said.

“Maybe the second most intense thing,” he
responded. “Now hold still.”

We lapsed back into silence as he cleaned up
my legs. I racked my brain, trying to call up everything I knew
about ultimate fighting and whatnot. My full knowledge of the
subject did not take very long to collect. My mom hated any sort of
violence, and would not allow even the suggestion of it into her
home. We didn’t watch war movies, boxing and wrestling were banned
from the TV, and any sort of physical violence was completely
prohibited. Once, when I was eleven, I’d punched a male classmate
in the mouth for saying that I looked like a toad. My mom had never
been more furious with me than when I’d been sent home for
fighting. Cursing, the occasional bad grade, and the very frequent
bad boyfriend were tolerated, but violence was totally out of the
question.