Renewing Their Vows by Jessa Kane
Five
Grace
The arena is a madhouse.
As soon as I arrive at the will call window, where I know North will have left me a ticket—and I’m right—a large man approaches me, informing me that he’s my bodyguard. He’s wearing a suit, an earpiece and doesn’t seem interested in chit chat. He simply blocks me from the crowd and hustles me forward. I’m not naïve enough to ask why North arranged a bodyguard. If he’s throwing a fight for member of organized crime tonight, there’s always the possibility of trouble. Inviting gangsters into one’s life causes trouble, period.
That’s why I left him, isn’t it?
The organ in my chest beats dully, as it has since Tuesday night. I’m not handling the separation well at all. Yes, North is still watching me from short distances, following me to and from work, but the lack of touch, the lack of his voice is beginning to take its toll. I’m doing my best to eat and remain healthy for the baby, but the life is draining out of me slowly. And when I glance up and see a two-story image of my husband on a banner hanging in the rafters, a stark yearning almost collapses me.
Somehow I make it to my front row seat, dropping onto the leather cushion heavily. There is already an exhibition fight underway, though the majority of the arena is only now beginning to fill. For the main event, starring my husband.
My…Daddy.
In every sense of the word now.
I’ve lost count of the times I’ve replayed our encounter at Whiskey Tavern. How he made his hands on me feel forbidden, his tongue in my mouth corrupt. By the time he entered my body in the bathroom, I was another person. A temptation. A young girl causing an older man’s downfall. A participant in something taboo. Wrong.
I had no idea how much I hungered for those secret words and touches, but apparently I do—and that’s an understatement. I’ve been trapped in a constant state of arousal since North left me in the bar. There’s no way out, except through him. Another round of his treatment. Another, another, another.
Up in the boxing ring, one of the men knocks the other down, the referee rushing forward to slap the mat. The boxer doesn’t get up in time and a winner is declared. Almost the entire arena is occupied now, music blasting, men walking up and down the aisles selling beer. I feel completely disconnected from my surroundings. Like I’m not even here. It’s all just happening around me on a projection screen.
That is, until I sense someone’s attention on me and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Glancing around, it’s not long before I find the source of my discomfort.
Curtis Tennison sits on the opposite side of the ring.
Watching me.
He licks his lips, throwing me a wink, and I blanch, acid rising in my throat.
As if sensing my alarm, the bodyguard sidesteps and blocks the gangster from view.
But it’s then that I notice he’s with several other men. I don’t have a history with them, the way I do with Tennison, but they’re also known for being integral in most of the illegal practices that take place in South Boston. While Tennison was in prison, these men were more or less in charge of running the streets and I only know that because North pointed them out to me, unnecessarily telling me to keep my distance. As if I would have some reason to come into contact with men who run illegal gambling rings and extort local business owners for protection money. It never occurred to me now that they’d be in league with Tennison, but of course they are. His influence stretches into every dark corner of Boston, it seems.
Does this mean more than just Tennison will have my husband under their thumbs after he throws this fight?
When the lights go out and the announcer’s voice blares from overhead, a sick feeling pervades my belly, making it swim with nausea. This is it. It’s happening.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the main event.”
The cheers reverberate through the arena, lights flickering, bass shaking the ground.
My heart starts to pump.
North told me to trust him and I’m trying. I’m trying so hard. If I didn’t have faith in him, I wouldn’t have come here tonight. But it’s hard to be trusting when I saw the deal made with my own eyes and North never denied it once. It’s even harder when I haven’t held him in my arms for a week. Haven’t been in our home, experiencing his comforting presence around me. Our encounter at Whiskey Tavern almost seems like an erotic dream I conjured up. If it wasn’t for the fingertip bruise marks he left on my hips, I might believe that.
With that encounter at the forefront of my mind, a hot shiver works its way down my spine when his name is announced. The sight of him storming out of the tunnel, backed by his trainer and manager, packs a sensual punch. I cross my legs tightly to lessen the impact of my clenching sex, but it doesn’t help. He’s incredible. A male work of art. A muscular marvel with a severely beautiful face. It’s hard to believe this man being celebrated by thousands is the same man who has been following me in the shadows for a week. But it’s him. It’s my husband.
As he draws closer, his gaze zeroes in on me—heats considerably—and remains for long moments, right up until he climbs into the ring, taking his corner. Women scream when he removes his robe and throws it to his manager, but he doesn’t acknowledge the praise. He’s too busy prowling like a sleek animal side to side, waiting for his opponent. Shadowboxing.
Pride moves inside of me. Look at the boy from Southie I fell in love with at first sight. Regardless of the outcome, he’s about to have his first professional fight—and that’s something. It’s damn well something.
Through a veil of moisture, I watch the fight start.
My fingernails dig into the edge of the seat cushion, breath suspended in my lungs.
They trade jabs, getting used to each other.
North takes a hard right across the jaw, but his eyes remain focused and he comes back swinging, moving like a machine, the ridges of his back flexed and sweating. And he wins the first round. It takes all of my willpower to remain seated as they bandage cuts and squirt water into his mouth between rounds. His eyes find me once again over his shoulder before the second round. They flicker to the bodyguard, too, as if to reassure himself I’m being protected.
North loses the second round, but it’s a close call.
Finally, we reach the third and my chest fills with cement. I glance over at Tennison and the other men and they’re nodding at each other, looking smug, while the rest of the audience has no idea the outcome has already been decided. I ache to shout at North to come down out of the ring. To come home. But I know that’s impossible. He’s in too deep now. He’s agreed to deliver a loss. Failing to do so now would endanger him even more.
The bell dings and the fighters dance toward the center of the ring.
They trade a few left jabs—and then I see it. North leaves the other man an opening. Just a small window, leaving the boxer no choice but to take advantage. Oh God, North is really doing it. He’s going to throw the fight. A right cross comes speeding toward his jaw like a fist-sized bullet. But at the last second, he feints left, the punch sailing right past him. And with his opponent off balance, he delivers a right uppercut that has the crowd going wild.
The other boxer drops to the mat.
A knockout.
North has…knocked out his opponent?
There’s no way the man is getting up. He’s barely able to blink.
The referee slaps the floor ten times. It’s over.
I surge to my feet, my pulse hammering in my eardrums. The crowd roars and everyone seems to move at once. Managers climb into the ring. Announcers, too. The audience moves in closer to the ring, out of their seats. My bodyguard is right in front of me, blocking a lot of the action from view, but I crane my neck to get a look at Tennison and what I see causes my skin to prickle, head to toe. He’s white as a sheet, but the men around him still seem confident.
What is going on?
I have no way of finding out without speaking to North and suddenly, there’s no way to reach him. People are flowing down out of the stands, wanting to be ringside when the winner is announced. Security can’t hold them back. Media hold up cameras, flashes go off. I can’t see anything, but I can hear North’s name being chanted, can hear the announcer declaring him the victor. The crowd starts to grow unruly and my bodyguard’s expression turns to one of concern.
“We should get you out of here, Mrs. Whitlock.”
“Can you take me to North?”
He scans the immediate area. “No, I don’t think so. Our avenue to the tunnel is blocked—”
A shoving match starts among the displaced audience members and everyone seems to join in at once. Even my mountainous bodyguard stumbles sideways at the impact of someone running into him from behind.
“We need to go. Now,” he says.
I nod, wrapping an arm over my stomach instinctively.
He tries pushing through a less rowdy section of the crowd, but no one will budge. No, they grow even more out of control. My bodyguard gets on his earpiece and the panic in his voice turns my skin icy. My throat clogs. I just want my husband. I need my husband.
“Grace!” With a sucked in breath, I turn around to find North shoving his way through the crowd like a juggernaut, pushing people out of his way, gloves still on, covered in sweat. His eyes are crazed, frantic as he looks for me. “Grace!”
Going up on my toes, I wave desperately. “I’m here! North!”
He sees me and plows forward, reaches me in an instant.
And then I’m being lifted into his arms.
This place. My body cradled against North’s chest. It’s right. It’s my home. It’s the most satisfying place in the world. So satisfying that I bury my face in his sweaty neck and sob as he carries me through the crowd, bellowing at people to get out of his way.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, Gracie.”
It’s in that moment that I realize I’ve been a complete fool. I shouldn’t have left. I should have stuck with him, whether we disagreed about his actions or not. He would never do anything that could get me or our baby hurt. He would never. How could I have forgotten that for even a second?
I cling tighter, holding on until I hear the noise start to lessen. Then I lift my head to find us striding through a tunnel. Photographers snap pictures all around us, shouting questions. North’s manager and trainer stave them off, though, allowing us to keep going until finally we reach the end of the tunnel. A door slams and silence descends like a warm blanket.
North hustles me over to a chair and sits me down, kneeling in front of me. Ripping off his gloves so he can cup the sides of my face, scanning it with worried eyes. “Are you okay, beauty? Jesus…you got swallowed up.” His shoulders heave with leftover panic. “I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t find you.”
“I’m fine. I’m totally fine.” Tears swim into my eyes, voice cracking. “You won.”
He swallows hard. “Yeah.”
“You would never throw a fight. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, North.” I slide my fingers into his hair, pressing kisses to his cheeks and forehead and jaw. “I should have known that. I did know that—”
“Grace, I couldn’t tell you what was going on. I kept you in the dark. You had every right to go. I was dishonest for a reason, but you had no way of knowing that. You weren’t in the wrong, baby. No apologizing.”
I slide out of the chair and kneel in front of him, right there on the floor of what looks like a medical training room. “What happened? Can you explain it to me now?” I take a shivering breath. “Are you in danger?”
“No. We’re safe.” He kisses my mouth, lingering there a moment before pulling back and meeting my eyes. “I knew Tennison was going to come after you for putting him in prison. I just…knew. That information doesn’t stay under wraps. So I went to see him. I was prepared to offer him anything to leave you alone, Gracie. Anything. He asked me to take a fall in the third round in exchange for leaving you alone. I was worried if I told you Tennison wanted you dead, you’d get scared and…” He shudders. “I couldn’t have you scared or stressed now that you’re carrying our child. I couldn’t. And telling you I didn’t plan to take a fall? That kind of knowledge would have put you at risk, too. I was fucking stuck, you know?”
“You did all of this to protect me and the baby. I should have known.” Shaken by this knowledge, I walk forward on my knees and climb onto his body, wrapping my legs around his waist and pressing my face to the curve of his neck. “This wasn’t about making money?” I ask. “To replace what I gave up?”
He hesitates, his heart rapping against mine. “I won’t pretend that giving you the world isn’t something I think about every second of the day. But this time, it was about keeping you alive. I couldn’t let him hurt you,” he says hoarsely, stroking a hand down the back of my hair. “Tennison wanted his influence back. He’s not going to get it. I went to the men who’ve been running Boston since he went away and explained what was happening. It was a risk, but it paid off. I told them to put all of their money on me knocking out Bradley in the third round, despite what Tennison advised them. In exchange for making them rich, I asked for protection for you. From Tennison.” I glance up to find his eyes golden flickering with caution. “You…know what that means, Grace? There’s only one way to make sure he never comes after you.”
They’re going to kill him.
I don’t say it out loud, but I nod.
There’s no guilt, no shock. Only relief. Maybe I’m a lot less altruistic than I thought. But knowing our child is safe? I can’t help but be grateful, no matter how North achieved it for us. Sometimes the necessary thing isn’t the easy thing. I learned that when I wore a wire to help the police arrest my father and Tennison for their crimes.
“I understand,” I whisper.
North breathes a sigh of relief, tracing his fingertips down my cheek. “You’re free now, baby. You’re safe. You’re free.”
Magnetized by this man, this selfless, incredible, protective warrior of mine, I lean in and meld our mouths together, kissing him once, slowly. “You freed me.” Leaning away momentarily, I peel off my dress and let it drop behind me, rendering me naked, save a low-cut pair of white panties. “You made me and the baby safe.”
“You were trying to do the same, Gracie,” he rasps, my nudity winding him, flushing his handsome face. He devours the jut of my nipples, my mound pressing down on his stirring shaft, lifting his hips up beneath me. Giving me one, long grinding ride. “Christ, I missed you. I don’t ever want to be apart from you again. Please.”
“Never again,” I whisper against his lips. “It’s all over now. We can go home.”
“Yeah. Real soon, but I need a hit of my wife first. So goddamn bad.” Laboring to breathe now, North climbs to his feet with me wrapped around his waist, taking two steps and sitting me on a counter. Our mouths collide as North shoves down his boxing shorts and yanks me to the very edge of the cool surface, tugging aside my panties and thrusting home with such power, I see stars. “Ahhh fuck. It’s so fucking perfect,” he growls, holding me in place with a rigid forearm curled around my bottom and taking me roughly, panting and grunting in my ear, his sweat smearing all over my naked body. “Love my wife. Worship my wife.”
I arch my back, moaning at the thick invasion of him, love blanketing me, securing me in the moment—and the rest of our lives. “I love my husband,” I gasp, the desperate bucks of his hips making my teeth chatter. “We love each other and we’ll never, ever stop.”
And we spend the next seventy-five years proving it.
