Yvette opened her door. “And you and Denver?”
Because his truck sat so high off the ground, he helped her out—and then lingered, his hands on her waist, his body blocking her sight of the pawnshop, near enough to be a buffer from the darkness that tried to creep in.
“We disagree on occasion, but you don’t have to worry about us actually coming to blows. Not in anger anyway. Hell, we fight for a living. We spar almost daily. Believe me, we know the difference between sport and life.”
“It seemed so...angry.”
“Just men being men.”
“Or fighters being fighters?”
“Maybe. But keep in mind that professional athletes, in MMA especially, are extremely disciplined. We can blow off steam on occasion without letting things get out of control.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
His mouth twitched into a smile. “It was cute how you tried to take charge of things.”
Things being big, muscular, capable men. Groaning, she covered her face. How silly she must have looked.
Cannon chuckled and hugged her into his chest. “You sure got everyone’s attention.”
She thought again of all those men staring at her, and swatted at Cannon. “Stop.” But she, too, grinned.
Smile fading, Cannon tipped up her chin. “Want me to go in first?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s fine.” Somehow she’d make it so.
After a deep breath, she stepped around him and faced the squat building. Blinds kept her from seeing through the dark, dirty windows that used to be lit with neon signs and proud displays. Without her grandfather’s weekly upkeep, dry weeds grew up in clumps along the foundation where the front walk had cracked away. Leaves and garbage had gathered in the corners of the door, carried by the wind, sealed by the rain.
So many times she’d come here after school, and one of her first jobs was always to sweep the walk. Her grandpa had insisted on everything being well organized, including her. He’d given her boundaries and purpose.
And so much love.
She didn’t realize how long she’d been standing there until Cannon’s hands rested on her shoulders and he leaned down to press his mouth to her temple.
Not rushing her. Just offering understanding.
With the keys already in her hand, she began unlocking the door. She appreciated how close Cannon stayed at her back, following her in so that she didn’t have to face the musky interior alone. Without air-conditioning, every breath that filled her lungs was thick and hot and stifling.
She flipped on the overhead lights. Everything looked so...stark.
The empty shelves and cabinets. The bare floors. The paint-chipped walls.
As Cannon pushed the door open wider to let in the humid breeze, Yvette walked to a metal shelf that used to hold coin collections. Next she turned to the glass cases that her grandpa had used as a reception area. It was barren now, but she could still picture how gold and silver watches and a variety of jewelry had glinted from the overhead fluorescent lights.
That was when it hit her, the warmth occupying places she hadn’t known were still so empty.
Heart beating fast in exuberance, she turned a circle, taking in the dimensions of the big front room. She wanted to fill it again. She wanted to bring this building—and the good memories—back to life.
“Over there,” she said, “is where they set up their video camera.”
Rather than crowd her, Cannon propped a shoulder against the wall. “I know.”
Of course he did. He’d learned every detail of what they’d done. But something inside her urged out the words, as if saying them again would somehow take them away. “The woman was drugged when they came in. We were just closing up. They pulled out their guns, drew down the blinds.”
Though he held silent, his presence alone gave her the security she needed to relive the past.
That awful day had been only the start of her nightmare. After she and her grandpa had been doused in kerosene, they’d had no choice but to helplessly watch the rape of the doped-up woman, all while wondering what would happen to them next. She’d never seen her grandpa so helpless and so afraid. For her.
But when the three men had finished with their sick game, they’d packed up to go—after warning Yvette and Tipton about what would happen if they called the police.
They hadn’t called, but Cannon had noticed things amiss. He was like that, always so vigilant when it came to his neighborhood and the small-business owners he cared so much about. He’d brought two friends, both detectives, to the shop and found Yvette and Tipton.
The memory was so vivid, Yvette wrapped her arms around herself.
Pushing off from the wall, Cannon approached. “I sometimes wonder if they’d have come after you at the house if I hadn’t interfered.”
Still studying the interior and layout, Yvette said, “You could never interfere, and yes, they would have come after me anyway. I knew it all along, though I tried to tell myself they wouldn’t. I tried to believe it had ended. But I knew.” Talking about it sent a shiver up her spine despite the suffocating heat. “I think they’d always planned to come back for me.”
And they had. She’d been assaulted at the pawnshop, then again in her home. Both times, Cannon had done his utmost to protect her. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d have been raped that day at home. I know that, too.”
There wasn’t a sufficient way to ever thank him, but her grandpa had tried. Looking up at Cannon now, Yvette asked, “Do you want to sell?”