Hold Him Like Gravity (Lombardi Family #4)

Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Kick

I’d met Kyle the first week I was working an overnight shift at a little coffee shop. I was young and nervous about being all alone, save for the guy in the back who was prepping the pastries for the next day. But he would be no help in an emergency since he was both stoned out of his mind and listening to music through his headphones so loudly that I could hear the death metal screams from several feet away.

But, damn it, I was a strong, independent woman. I could take care of myself.

And the counter was probably too high for anyone to actually, you know, jump over.

Still, it was nerve-racking.

So I busied myself by wiping down every single surface behind the counter and restocking the beans, filters, and hot chocolate machine to help the time pass and keep my mind from going off in too many directions.

There was no chime on the door. I had no idea I wasn’t alone as I leaned over the massive notebook that we kept behind the counter to do a pastry inventory, so the manager could decide the batch bake list for the next day.

I turned as I noted down that there were ten French crullers left.

Then there a man appeared.

A shriek escaped me as my whole body jumped, making the notebook fall from my hands, landing near my feet with a loud smacking sound.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he’d said, head tipped to the side as a little smile tugged at his lips.

Looking back over the years, I could see how—even in that first interaction—he enjoyed my discomfort.

At the time, though, all I seemed to register was how handsome he was.

He was six-two and fit in a way that wasn’t obnoxious or overly intimidating. His brown hair was a little long, curling toward the collar of his shirt. And he had these captivating green eyes that I found it hard to look away from.

“You dropped your notebook,” he’d reminded me, that smile curving a little higher. But not touching his eyes. I would learn, eventually, that no smile ever did.

“Oh, right,” I’d said, shaking my head at myself as I ducked down to grab it and the pen that had wedged itself under the counter.

He didn’t apologize.

I never realized that in the moment either.

I was too busy feeling embarrassed that I’d overreacted to a customer.

“In my defense, no one has been in here in hours,” I’d told him as I set the notebook back under the counter. “What can I get you?”

“How about a smile?”

Again, I must reiterate how young I was. Fourteen years his junior, in fact. With an extremely limited dating history. Back before there were a lot of conversations about how weird it was when men would tell women to smile when they would never, ever, demand that of another man.

Smile for me might as well mean perform for me .

But I smiled for him.

“That’s better. You’re much prettier when you smile,” he’d said. I’d taken that as a compliment. It would be years before I even heard the term ‘negging’ let alone realized Kyle was guilty of exactly that. “I’ll have a large coffee with an extra shot.”

“No cream? Sugar? Flavor?” I’d asked, plugging my code into the register to wake it up then tapping in his order while I waited for him to answer. But he refused to until I glanced back up at him.

“No,” he’d said with a tone that suggested anyone who did want those things was an idiot.

“Okay. That’ll be four-ninety-nine,” I’d said, waiting for him to produce a ten, then handing it to me.

“Keep the change,” he’d said with an air of importance like he’d given me a hundred for a tip.

But, well, it was generous compared to what I’d gotten so far, so I’d been excited as I reached to dump the coffee.

“I’m going to make you a fresh pot,” I’d told him. “It’s been sitting for a bit.”

“Sounds good,” he’d said, and I was hyperaware of his eyes on me as I went through the motions of making a new pot. Then, waiting for it to drip, I took his cup to the latte machine to make his extra shot. “How long have you been working here?”

“Well, I trained for two weeks. But this is only the fourth night I’ve been working by myself.” He only nodded at that. I’d been desperate to engage him further, so I looked over at him and asked, “Do you come here often?”

“Every night,” he’d said. Instead of feeling suspicion, since I’d been there every night for four of them and this was the first I’d seen him, I’d only felt excitement at the idea of getting to see him again. Maybe I could even have his drink waiting for him. People liked that. It made them feel seen and important.

He did come in every night after that. And I did learn his schedule, having fresh coffee ready, then just throwing it together when I saw him walking up.

“How old are you?” he’d asked sometime that first month after weeks of having long conversations where, mostly, he talked or picked apart my answers to his questions. I’d thought it meant he was interested, not that he was criticizing me.

“Nineteen,” I’d told him, shoulders pulling back, feeling that nineteen was so mature.

“That explains it,” he’d said, making my shoulders immediately fold forward as my mind raced, trying to figure out what I’d said wrong to make him think that.

I would see in the coming weeks, months, and, yes, years, that I never actually did anything wrong, that he was always looking for subtle ways to knock me down a peg, to keep me from feeling confident or comfortable in my own skin.

What’s this? he’d ask when I was getting changed in front of him, grabbing hold of the fat covering my hip, or my inner thigh, my lower tummy, making me immediately aware of his disapproval without him actually having to say anything else about it. Then, if I knuckled down, starved myself, exercised myself to exhaustion, he would nod at my new body and declare That’s more like it.

Over time, the praise got less and less frequent. Which, as sick as this was, only made me strive harder and harder for it.

He liked sports and made it clear that my ignorance was a turn-off, so I’d go online and study for hours at night when he was asleep, trying to learn everything I possibly could about how the game worked.

I learned quickly that while he did want me to know some basics, it pissed him off to no end when I eventually became studied enough on a topic to correct him.

What, you read a couple articles and think you know more than me? He’d rage as he jumped off the couch, going to grab his wallet and keys as I rushed after him, begging to know where he was going. To spend time with people who don’t act like little know-it-alls.

I wish I could say that I recognized it as control. Especially as he started taking my paycheck, only giving me a small allowance back to buy my own personal items with. Or when he would sit me down for a ‘serious discussion’ when he thought I was becoming too friendly with coworkers, telling me that they didn’t have my best interest at heart.

When he sensed I was finding too much joy in a job, suddenly, we would have to move apartments, and I would have to get a new one.

It took a couple of years to get me trained enough, submissive enough, that he knew I wouldn’t run when he escalated from emotional and mental manipulation to actual physical abuse.

It was a backhand across the face one night, the pain a shock, but not nearly as bad as the emotional wound that opened up and bled inwardly.

But it was all my fault. I just wouldn’t stop nagging him, wouldn’t shut the hell up . He just wanted some fucking peace .

And it was never, ever going to happen again. He’d promised over and over as he kissed my swollen eyelids in bed after he’d listened to me cry for hours.

Inevitably, though, it did.

Then it escalated.

Got more frequent.

But at that point, even if I thought to run—and I didn’t—I had nothing to run with. He kept all of my money, making sure there was never enough left over to create an escape plan with. Hell, some months I would have to ask him, cheeks blazing, for a couple extra dollars to buy myself tampons.

Then, though, one night, he didn’t come home.

I didn’t learn until the morning when I saw his face pop up on the TV screen at work, that he’d been arrested for petty theft.

He didn’t call me asking to be bailed out, likely knowing I didn’t have the money. Or access to his money, wherever it was.

So, for the first time in years, I was all alone. My money was mine again. I didn’t have someone constantly beating me down, mentally and physically.

I gained some perspective.

My confidence started to grow.

I saved up a few paychecks.

Then I packed my shit and I got the hell out of there.

I thought that was it.

I was free.

I would never see Kyle again.

Until one day, about eight months later, when he was suddenly outside my door when I was about to head out on a date. My first date since I’d met Kyle years before. With this sweet, Golden Retriever of a guy who’d stuttered when he’d asked me out.

I didn’t slam the door in his face.

I didn’t demand he leave me the fuck alone.

It was like the previous eight months of personal growth never happened. And, suddenly, I was right there under his thumb again, giving him my paycheck, enduring his abuse that escalated now because How dare I leave him when he needed me most?

But after having a taste of freedom, there was a spark in me that hadn’t been there before. One Kyle tried like hell to blow out, but even when it flickered and nearly went dark, I kept my hands cupped around it, breathed new life into it, kept it burning.

That was when Kyle stopped being subtle with his insults and control and got more overt with it. He was no longer keeping it behind closed doors and would yell at me, belittle me, and hit me even when we weren’t in our apartment, not caring who saw what he was doing to me.

But I was also working more than ever, spending more time away from Kyle than with him. Long, overnight shifts in a bodega in a shifty area full of drug dealers and pimps. None of whom scared me as much as my own boyfriend.

That had been a sobering realization.

The man I shared a life with, a bed with, was scarier than the men who came into my work with visible guns shoved into the waistbands of their pants.

In fact, it was one of those men who came in after a particularly bad fight with Kyle had left me with a fat lip and a steadily-darkening bruise across my cheek.

He brought up his usual coffee and energy drink, passed me the cash, then reached for the pen on the countertop.

“Carotid,” he said, running the nub of the pen against his neck. “Carotid,” he added, moving to the same spot on the other side of his neck. Then, pointing the pen to his thigh. “Femoral.” At my scrunched brow look, he put the pen in his fist, and slammed the tip down onto the counter. “Five-percent survival rate. Just something to keep in mind.”

And with that, he walked out.

I’d never considered violence before.

I was a small woman.

Kyle was a big guy.

Even trying to pull away had never been successful for me. It seemed absurd to think I could overpower him and do any damage.

Let alone kill him.

I wasn’t a killer .

That remained true.

Even through two more times of getting fed up and leaving him, trying to start over, only to have him track me down again, pull me back again.

The last time was the most hurtful time.

Because for the first time ever, I’d been desperate enough to go to my brother for help.

I’d shown up at his door bleeding from my nose with a black eye steadily forming, begging him to let me crash for a couple of weeks, just until I had enough of a savings to start over again.

Because Kyle had found my secret stash of money in the bottom of a bulk tampon box under the bathroom sink. The money I’d been saving to get away. For real this time. For good.

I’d barely been in the door before he had me by the hair, pulling me through the apartment to the bathroom where he had the cash on the sink counter.

There’d been a lot of screaming and pain. And the whole time, all I could think about was never letting this happen again.

Then, as soon as I could, I ran.

And things seemed okay then for a bit.

I got a new job under the table so Kyle couldn’t find me. I slept on the couch in Jake and Bobby’s living room. I made plans. I got stronger, more confident; I stopped taking shit from men, never wanting anyone to think they could take advantage of me again, to hurt me again.

It was the first time in my adult life where I had hope, where I felt in control of things.

Until, one night, I was taking trash out to the dumpster at my job.

Then there he was.

“Your brother said I could find you here,” he said, standing between me and the door to my job. Not that there was any real safety inside. I was working alone. The store was empty.

Jake?

Jake had sent him?

Betrayed me?

Even after he’d seen what Kyle had done to me?

The betrayal cut, perhaps more than it should have, given that Jake had never protected me a day in his life. Not when the neighborhood guys would catcall or grope me when we were growing up. Not when our parents would blame me for something he’d done.

Never.

Still, it hurt.

And, in that moment, I decided I didn’t have a brother anymore.

“You’re coming home with me,” Kyle had said, advancing toward me, making the already minuscule alley feel all the more claustrophobic.

“No, I’m not,” I’d said, taking a step back until the damn dumpster prevented further retreat.

“Yes, you are. You belong at home with me. Where I can take care of you.”

“Take care of me?” I’d scoffed, a strange, hysterical kind of laugh escaping me. “All you have done is hurt me.”

The argument escalated from there as he continued to approach me, to close me in, to make it impossible to escape when he finally started to strike.

It was when he pinned me against the dumpster, the metal crushing against my shoulders and hips, that I remembered the pocketknife I had in my back pocket.

I don’t know if I was consciously thinking of that random guy at my old job and his pen-to-artery instructions when my hand slipped into my pocket to close around the metal that was warmed from being against my skin.

All that seemed to cross my mind was that I needed this to stop . That I never wanted him to put his hands on me again.

I flicked the knife open as his hand closed around my throat, starting to cut off my air, making my face and brain feel fuzzy.

“You belong to me,” he’d snarled in my face.

Not anymore.

Never again.

And I just… raised my arm and started stabbing.

Once, twice, three times.

More? I don’t know. It was all an adrenaline-filled rush, making everything sharper—the stink of the trash behind me, the sweat from the heat soaking my shirt, the bright, red color of his blood as it started to flow out of his body—but also strangely far away. Like it was something I was watching, not something I was doing.

Kyle’s hands pressed to his neck, the blood flowing between his fingers, as he fell back, then slid down the brick wall.

I didn’t really think then, I just… walked away.

I walked back inside.

Like nothing had happened.

I went into the bathroom, washing my hands and arms.

Then I… went back to work, sure that any moment, the cops would come rushing in with guns drawn, ready to take me in for murder.

But the cops never came.

Numbly, I finished my shift. Then, when my relief came in the morning, I gathered my things and I just… left.

I went to Jake and Bobby’s, grabbing as much as I could as quietly as I could, so I didn’t wake anyone up.

Then I walked away.

Out of the apartment.

Out of the Bronx.

I stopped at a seedy hotel where I showered then just sat on the bed, waiting for the police to find me.

They didn’t that day.

Or the day after.

Or the day after that.

Despite having used my credit card for the room.

So I started to think that maybe, just maybe, I’d somehow… gotten away with it. That the cops hadn’t found any evidence pointing at me.

There were no cameras in that alley, after all. And my fellow employees and I long-suspected that the ancient-looking cameras inside the store hadn’t been working in at least a decade. On top of that, my work uniform was all black, so no one would see the blood on me.

As if that wasn’t enough good luck, I’d been working off of the books so my boss could avoid having to pay me the shift differential. That was why I’d taken it in the first place. Because there wasn’t a paper trail leading back to me for Kyle to find and track me down.

No one, it seemed, was looking for me.

Kyle’s murder, I began to hope, would just go down as another cold case no one even cared about.

I was free.

I could start over.

And he would never hurt me again.

Except, of course, he wasn’t dead now, was he?