Yes, Mr. Van Der Wells (Not Another Billionaire Romance) (52 page)

I’m not foolish enough to think I can win an actual fight with him, but if Noah and Muscles are searching for me—
God, Dear God, I hope they are
—then this will buy them some time. Andrew is just a woman beater, not a trained fighter, so some of the tricks and moves Noah taught might also help with the prevention of him defeating me in 0.5 seconds.

Andrew scratches his jaw, cocks his head to study his friends, scratches his jaw some more, and then brings his eyes to me, but speaks not to me when he says, “Back in the wheels, guys. Let’s find the closest, darkest alley, open lot, or desert. Whatever suits my fiancée.”

As the men scramble off back to their vehicles with intrigued mutterings, Andrew walks up to me and cups my face, kisses me softly before whispering, “I won’t enjoy this, baby, but it’s your call.” He smooths his thumb over my lip, but it doesn’t have the heart-melting effect on me like when Noah does it. “I’ll let it slide this one time only because I’ll get to teach you a lesson out of it, but don’t you ever,
ever
, challenge me like that in front of my guys again. You won’t like the consequences.”

My nod is quick this time, only because I want to get away from this wedding place as fast as possible.

Appeased with my easy complaisance, he spins me and leads me back to the car.

Las Vegas comes alive in the nighttime, so finding the empty parking lot of a vintage style diner, one of the very few places that sleeps at night here, took us some time.

A lone car is parked in the last lot of the left. Other than that, the area is fairly deserted.

Backing up from Andrew and me, the men line off on the banking to the diner, a few sucking on cigars and expelling swirls of smoke.

Andrew shrugs out of his leather jacket and tosses it at one of his guys. Crossing his arms while regarding me in sheer amusement.

Seeing as I was nabbed while wearing a short, flirty plum dress paired with thigh-high boots, fighting in such a getup would fail me, so I’ve stripped down to my red, lace underwear set. A new underwear set I wore to surprise
Noah
after we got back to the hotel. Yet here I am, an eyeful of red lace for Andrew and his men. Epic fail, huh?

I’m barefoot, the ground rough with pebbles poking my soft soles. But I don’t let the discomfort bother me, stretching my arms and legs, cracking my knuckles. Ridiculous, I know, but it’s all part of my delaying tactic. If Noah and Muscles aren’t searching for me, I’m screwed.

“Is this an aerobics class,” Andrew asks through a mocking laugh, “or are we going to get this joke of a challenge over with?”

“You look nervous, sweetie,” I goad him. “Worried you might lose?”

His lips tighten. Hating that little taunt. My ex gets off on me staying in line. Not mouthing off.

“So, you learned a thing or two about self-defense and suddenly you think you can
beat
me?” With a howl of laughter, he does a 360 with his arms spread wide, garnering encouraging grunts from his men. “Let me show you how ineffective self-defense lessons are.”  Before I can prepare, he sprints across the space between us and head-butts me.

HOLY FREAKING HELL, that hurt!

Momentarily blanked out, I stagger back before tripping to the ground, flat on my ass.

He laughs, ridicule in every breath. “Self-defense didn’t teach you how to protect yourself from one of those, baby?”

His men join in with rumbles of laughter.

“Aw, go easy on her, Drew,” one throws in.

It takes more than few seconds for the dizzying stars to disappear.

Leisurely, cockily, Andrew struts to me, squats just barely, hands on his knees, as he asks, “Re-thinking this challenge already? I can stop if you
beg
me to.” His chuckle is bitter. “Or maybe I won’t. Teach you a
real
lesson.”

His right hand moves from his knee, and all of a sudden, it’s as if everything is happening in slow motion. I see his move, know what he’s about to do. At once, I’m catapulted to that afternoon in Noah’s gym, remembering how he attacked me with this move Andrew’s about to make, over and over, never easing up until I got it.

Fueled, prepared this time around, I grab and twist Andrew’s wrist until he yelps like a bitch, a yelp that gets cut off at the middle when my other hand whacks out, palm down, striking his throat. 

Eyes bugged out at me, his hand flies to his throat, holding, as he makes a disturbing choking noise.

Thank you, Mr. Van Der Wells
.

I continue twisting his other hand until he weakens, drops to his knees, while I rise to my feet.

Temporarily incapacitated, unable to speak, he blinks incredulous at me.

Once I’m standing, and he’s struggling to get around the pain in his throat, I drive my knee straight up under his chin. Andrew’s head snaps back, blood instantaneously erupting from his mouth. Back he falls, onto the asphalt. Further undermined.

Realizing just how down and out he is, my confidence rises. Maybe I
can
beat him after all? It can’t possibly be this easy, can it?

Apparently not, because when I move in to kick him in the side of the head, down and out as he is, he catches my foot, twists, and throws me to the ground.

Expecting the fall, I immediately put into action what Noah taught me. To prevent a head injury from a backward fall, instead of flailing my hands to gain balance, accept that I’m falling and lock my hands behind my head, and then quickly twist to the side before I hit ground. Better a few fractured ribs than a cracked skull or a snapped spine, he’d told me.

Therefore, I do just that, wincing at the pain racing up my side and the scrape of my forearm against that tar. For no more than three to five seconds, I remain curled up, only because Andrew is still weaker than I am at the moment. He’s pushed up from the ground as much as his single elbow allows him, blood trickling down both corners of his mouth like a vampire who’s just fed.

Uncurling, I pull my free foot back and then drive it forward, ramming him clean under the chin again. With a pained, gurgled noise, my other foot is freed as he crashes back to the ground.

Wasting no time, giving him not a second to regain strength, I jump astride him and begin doing the same thing Noah always forced me to do to his punching bag for the first fifteen minutes of our training hour: punch the crap out of it. 

My hands hurt like a mother, but I don’t ease up, and his throat is too messed up to even beg me to. Punch after punch, I let it all out, a whole year of abuse and helplessness. I can’t even find words to throw at him like they do in the movies. Because movies are just that: movies, fiction, for entertainment value, so they have to add that unrealistic stuff. But in real life, it’s different. All your energy is channeled into defeating your opponent, and you haven’t an ounce to spare on words. Words are useless during a physical battle. Only thing that leaves me as I deliver each blow are harsh breaths.

What I’ve forgotten about during this battle though are Andrew’s men. Of course, they won’t stand by let me pummel their boss to death. So, when I feel strong arms around my middle, lifting me off the ground, I know it’s over. No matter what the terms of the challenge were, Andrew will
not
be letting me go.

“Enough!” barks Lucas, Andrew’s right-hand, in my ear. “So you learned some new tricks and felt the need to show it off. Cute. But playtime’s over. We have a wedding to resume.”

I don’t bother struggling, there’s no point. Doesn’t matter that I’ve just defeated a man who beat down on me for our entire relationship, it’s six of them and one of me. No amount of what Noah taught me can save me right now. He’ll have to come save me himself. This is the one time where I truly need his saving, wish he could bust through this scene and be my hero. But by the looks of it, if he ever does come to save me, it will be too late.

“Ah, wedding?” one man asks, taking a final pull from his cigarette before flicking it to the ground and rubbing it out with his boot. “Don’t think that man can work his mouth enough to say ‘I do.’ That was mean strike to the throat. Last time I got one of those, took me a full twenty-four to talk.”

“Shut up and help him up,” Lucas snaps. “This is my brother; I don’t get
paid
to be loyal. Been loyal for years, and my loyalty is real. If he wants to marry this bitch tonight, then that’s what’s gonna happen. Don’t know why he let her bait him in the first place.”

The man rubs his jaw for a few, watching Lucas with disdain, and then he cuts his eyes to me, before stalking to the car, without helping his boss up. No loyalty there, loud and clear.

Two others help Andrew up, another throws my dress and boots at me, and minutes later, we’re careening out of the parking lot, off to a wedding.
 

T
WENTY-
E
IGHT

I
’VE JUST FINISHED
lacing up my boots, when Andrew, who’s been watching me in silence for the last seven minutes as I struggle into my dress and boots in the back of the car, moves across the seat until his thigh is pressed to mine. Touches my arm, a muted plea for my attention.

I don’t care to give it to him; don’t care to give anymore of me. But you know what, I just kicked the crap out of him, and despite me having no control over what’s about to happen, I feel stronger than I’ve ever been. Who said you couldn’t be strong even while you lose? I’m a strong loser. A losing warrior. I’m not afraid anymore, just powerless, outnumbered.

Weakness has been defeated, crippled, wizened to dust beneath my feet, so I tip up my chin, grit my teeth, and give him the attention he’s panting for.

A wild and troubled face, but beautiful, even under all the trickling blood and swelling, busted lip, discolored bruises. His attractiveness is undeniable. Dark curls tumble down his forehead, jaw still prominently sharp. Bloody and busted as he is, I would kiss him, deep and hard, if he was a hero and not a villain. I would wipe his blood and tend to his wounds, then ease his pain with my mouth…if he was a hero and not a villain. I would go willingly to the chapel, fervently say “I do.” I would fall in love with him…if he was a hero and not a villain. God, what a complete waste of a beautiful man.

His mouth opens, attempts to speak, but what comes out is extremely hoarse and scratchy, thus incomprehensible, and it seems awfully painful for him.

Giving up on forming words, he gets out his cell, bloodstained fingers flying across the screen.

When he’s through typing, he holds the phone up in front of my face.

I saw you, three months before I let you see me. I watched you, I fell in love with you, and then I approached you. You were perfect. You were perfect for ME. If I had any sense at all, I would’ve given up from my self-loathing and let you make me happy. Instead I dragged you down into my shit. I loved you with my fist. I took your smile away. That first time you ran was when I realized I was doing it all wrong, loving you all wrong, and by then I knew it was too late to fix it. I was losing you, losing your light. Nothing I did or said would ever make you look at me the way you used to, with awe and excitement, with bright smiles and a smart mouth. But I couldn’t afford to lose you, so I foolishly thought the only way to let you stay was through fear. I upped the ante, I ruined you further, and every time you told me you loved me I knew it was a lie. It was Fear and Resentment who was telling me those words, not you. I know I should let you go. I’ve stolen so much from you. But I can’t. You’re the only good thing in my life.

My eyes slide from the phone screen to him. “Marrying me makes
you
happy, but leaves me imprisoned and depressed. How can you call that love? If you love me, you would let me go and be happy. Love is the opposite of holding onto someone who doesn’t want to be held onto because it makes
you
happy. It’s letting them go, even if it kills you to do so.” I shift more around to face him. “What you feel for me isn’t love, Andrew, it’s desperation. You want to be wanted and owned. You want the attention you never got as a child. You want
right
. But see,
I
wanted you once, Andrew, I wanted to own you. I could’ve given you that attention and that rightness. But you’re messed up in the head. You need help. And I can’t help you because you’ve lost me. You can force me to be here physically, but emotionally I’m out. I can’t make you happy if I’m not happy.”

He studies me for a beat, then clears his phone screen and begins typing again. Few seconds later, the screen is before my eyes again.

I can get help. I can change. I can make you happy. I can give you everything. If you just look at me the way you used to look at me in the beginning, I can get through anything. I can find another outlet for my anger, like a sport or something. It doesn’t have to be like this between us. I don’t like you hating me. It drives me crazy.