Aiden glanced from my outstretched palm to my face before taking my hand in his. “Friends.” It was midshake that he looked down at his giant hand swallowing mine, and the most disgusted expression came over that perfectly stoic face. “What the hell happened to your wrist?”
Yeah, I didn’t even bother trying to pull my sleeve down and play stupid. I’d forgotten that I’d tugged them up like an idiot. I slipped out of his hold and let the familiar flow of anger creep down the back of my neck once more at the memory of my sister’s idiot husband.
Specifically, him grabbing my arm and yanking me away after I’d yelled at Susie because she’d practically said she wished she’d have killed me. I’d told her she was out of her goddamn mind. But I hadn’t asked her for the millionth time why she hated me so much. What could I have possibly done before I was even four years old to make me her archnemesis? I was mad at myself for not preventing the entire situation, mostly. Then again, her husband had dropped his grip of steel the minute I’d charged my leg upward to try and knee him in the balls, ramming him straight into the inner thigh instead.
“It’s nothing.”
Those dark brown eyes blazed up to meet mine, and I swore on my life, the fury in those irises was enough for me to stop breathing. “Vanessa,” Aiden growled, literally growled, as he softly tugged the sleeve further up my forearm to display the five-inch bruise just above my wrist.
I watched as he gazed at the stupid, stupid discoloration. “I got into an argument with my sister.” Was there a point in not telling him who it was with? I only had to glance at the hard drawn line of his mouth to know he wasn’t going to let this go. “Her husband was there and he got a little handsy, so I tried to knee him in the balls.”
His nostrils flared and a muscle in his cheek visibly twitched. “Your sister’s husband?”
“Yes.”
His cheek spasmed again. “Why?”
“It was stupid. It doesn’t matter.”
Was that a grumble caught in his throat? “Of course it matters.” His voice was deceptively soft. “Why did he do it?”
I knew that look on his face; it was his stubborn one. The one that said it was pointless to argue with him. While I wasn’t crazy about spreading Susie’s business around, much less share how rocky my relationship with my third oldest sister was, Susie and I could be on Jerry Springer. She made her choices years ago, and it was no one else’s fault but her own what she had gotten out of them. We’d grown up under the same circumstances, neither one of us having something the other didn’t. I couldn’t feel any pity for her.
Rubbing my hands over my pant legs, I blew out a breath. “She didn’t like the way I was looking at her and we got into a fight,” I explained, leaving out a couple of details and colorful words, even though it wasn’t much of an explanation. “Her husband overheard us arguing” —her calling me a bitch and me telling her she was an immature twat— “and he grabbed me.”
You snobby bitch. What gives you the right to think you’re better than me? She’d had the freaking nerve to yell in my face.
I’d responded in the only way all that pent-up anger in me was capable of. Because I’m not a fucking asshole who loves to hurt everything in her life. That’s why I think I’m better than you.
Aiden’s calloused fingertips suddenly brushed lightly over the bruising, lifting my wrist in the cradle of those hands that were an instrumental part of his multi-million dollar body. The tic in his cheek had gotten worse as I tipped my head further back to look at that hard line his jaw made when he was gritting his teeth. His breath rattled out, and the thumb and index finger of one of his hands circled the middle of my forearm as he said, “Did he apologize?”
“No.” I made myself clear my throat, uncomfortable, uncomfortable, uncomfortable.
I saw him gulp. The air filled with an unfamiliar tension. His swallow sounded loud in my ears. “Did he hit you?”
And just like that, I realized—I remembered why he might be so upset over the situation. I flashbacked to that memory I’d shoved to the back of my brain because I’d been worried about getting fired. How the hell could I have forgotten about it?
* * *
Almost immediately after I first began working for the man known as The Wall of Winnipeg, I’d gotten dragged to Montreal for a charity event that he’d donated to. Afterward, Leslie—who had since moved from Winnipeg—invited me along to his house with Aiden for dinner with his family. Aiden had seemed distracted that day, but I thought maybe I’d been imagining it. I hadn’t known him well then, hadn’t learned the little nuances in his features or in his tone that gave away an idea of how he was feeling or what he was thinking.
We’d been having dinner with Leslie, his wife, two of his sons, and one of his grandkids, who happened to be the cutest little boy. The four-year-old boy had been climbing from lap to lap throughout our visit, and at some point, to my shock, ended up on the big guy’s lap. The boy had reached up and started touching Aiden’s face, tenderly and casually. His hand strayed to that heavy, thick, scar that stretched along his hairline. The boy asked him, “What happened?” in that blunt, cute way little kids were capable of.
The only reason I heard his answer was because I’d been sitting next to him. Otherwise, I was sure I would have missed the whispered, casual reply.
“I made my dad very mad.”
The silence after his answer had been stifling, suffocating, and irrepressible all in one. The little boy had blinked at him like he couldn’t comprehend the answer he’d been given; why would he? It was obvious how much he was loved. Aiden’s eyes slid over to my direction and I knew he realized I’d overheard him, because I couldn’t look away fast enough and play dumb.
Aiden didn’t say a word after that; he didn’t remind me of the non-disclosure agreement that I’d been forced to sign my first day on the job, or threaten my life or future if I told anyone. So I sure as hell didn’t bring it up either. Ever.
* * *
Blinking away the memory and the sympathy that filled my chest because Aiden was so touchy over an incident like this, I dropped my eyes to his beard. I didn’t want him to see me because I was sure he would know I was thinking about something he wouldn’t want me to. “No, he didn’t hit me. He’s still alive.” I cracked a little smile.
He didn’t return it. “Did you tell anyone?”
I sighed and tried to pull my arm back. He didn’t let go. “I didn’t need to. Everyone heard.”
“And they did nothing?” Was his cheek twitching?
I shrugged my shoulder. “I don’t have that kind of relationship with my family.”
That sounded about as fucked up as it was.
The betrayal that had pierced through me in that moment stabbed me again, fresh and painful. Tears pooled in my eyes as I relived the incident when I was eighteen that ruined what was left of the fractured bond I’d shared with them. Even my knee ached a little at the memory.
Those large fingers eased their grip on my hand just slightly, and in a smaller voice than he usually used, he asked, “She’s your real sister?”