“Actually. We’re going to need another room,” Jillian smiled at the lady.
“No, we don’t,” AJ growled.
“Yes, we do.” Jillian handed her a credit card.
The lady’s eyes volleyed between them as she took the card with hesitation. After a few moments of Jillian refusing to acknowledge his crabby scowl, he huffed off toward the elevators. The tension coiled between them as the elevator made its accent to their rooms on the fifth floor. AJ could have pissed all over Jillian, the lobby floor, and the mirrored walls of the elevator and she still wouldn’t have given him the satisfaction of a single quick glance.
She shot out ahead of him the second the elevator doors opened, dragging her suitcase like a hostage behind her.
“Stop!” He grabbed her arm and swung her around.
Her eyes shot to his hand. “Let. Go. Of. Me. Now.”
He released her, but the anger that rippled his muscles and burned in his eyes remained. “I warned you.”
Jillian felt her own jaw tick as she envisioned him bleeding. “Good night,” she said with a stiff voice. Drawing in a quick breath, she turned. AJ out of control was enough. One of them had to keep it together. His game was to draw a reaction from her, maybe to lessen the burden of guilt. She refused to play it as her brain chanted: walk away, walk away.
She slipped the keycard in the door and hurried inside. The door slammed, but not shut—it slammed open against the wall before she made it halfway inside.
She closed her eyes for a brief moment then turned. The man before her looked like AJ, but the vacant look in his eyes and hardened features of his face were those of a complete stranger.
“I don’t recognize you right now, therefore my natural instinct for self-preservation will kick in and you’ll be taken out of this hotel on a gurney.”
The wrathful smirk he tossed her would have made anyone else cower.
“Go to bed.”
His eyes narrowed. “Don’t tell me what to do. I’m not afraid of you. I’ve looked fucking psychopaths in the eye and not blinked. You and me…” he tipped his chin “…let’s see who’s left standing.”
“You hate yourself right now, don’t you?”
“Stop…” He shook his head.
“Are the voices in your head fighting? Do you want to tell them to just shut up?”
“Don’t act like you know how I’m feeling,” he seethed, taking a step closer.
Jillian stayed rooted to her spot. “You want to hit me right now, don’t you? But not for the same reason I’ve made you bleed; you want it because the messed-up person inside your head is pissed that you ever let me make you bleed. For God’s sake, you let a woman break your nose. Senior Master Sergeant let a little woman break his nose.”
He balled his fists and clenched his jaw, taking yet another step.
“So here’s how I see it. You can tell that voice to fuck off and kiss me because even after that ridiculous episode in the truck … I’m still here. Or, you can hit me and I’ll even let you draw first blood.” Jillian held up her index finger. “But that’s all you’ll get. One. Shot.”
It was a risk that could have gone either way. Jessica once had Luke to teach her mind-body control and it was a conscious battle she fought everyday of her life. But AJ had nobody so Jillian would be that somebody even if it left a mark … which it did.
The blinding pain was bearable—just—and the blood was minimal as she tasted the familiar metallic tinge that pooled on her lip. She hid her smirk. Jackson treated her as an equal when they sparred. Backhanding was something men with small dicks and overinflated egos did to women they wanted to control. She expected more from someone with AJ’s experience and dick size.
“Fuck!” he yelled, holding his fisted hands to his head.
She didn’t touch him. She didn’t have to. The sacrifice was for the impact and with one slap, it was done. Her heart broke for him as realization pooled in his eyes. Nothing bled quite like regret.
“Oh, God … I-I’m sorry.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.
“Good night, AJ.” Jillian kept each word steady like walking across a tightrope.
His Adam’s apple bobbed as if he was choking on something. Pride? Turning, his shoulders curved in as he drudged through his self-made pit of misery to the door.
“Aric James.”
He glanced back over his shoulder.
She dabbed the blood at her lip. “I forgive you.”
AJ winced as if forgiveness was a burden—sometimes it was.
*
AJ wrung his hands together as he sat on the edge of the bed, feeling nauseous, dizzy, and plagued with shame and regret. Never in his life had he hit a woman. He despised the PTSD label. It was an excuse and he didn’t want an excuse. There was no excuse for the razor edge to his words or the lash of his hand against Jillian’s face. Who the fuck was that person?