Before he could land the next punch, Patrick and Billy were able to separate Jamie from him and walked him down the block. Jamie wasn’t very mobile and they were sort of dragging him down the sidewalk. Patrick was yelling, mostly obscenities. George couldn’t make out the words, but he didn’t care where the fucker was going anyway, as long as it was away from him. Maybe they’d get lucky and he’d get hit by a car crawling back into his fucking hole.
Billy turned and looked back at them, making eye contact with Stella. George’s rage was red hot and pulsed through his entire body. He clenched and released his fists rhythmically while he tried to calm his fury.
“George!” Stella was calling his name. She still had him by the arm and was pulling him toward his bike.
Without a word, George pulled up the hem of his shirt and wiped the blood from his face, then got on this bike and cranked it. He waited for Stella to get on and then took off, trying not to drive as fast as he wanted.
Stella clung to George as they rode back to their house. She could actually feel the hatred rolling off his back. She was astonished that Jamie just showed up; couldn’t believe the audacity of the bastard. What the hell was he thinking?
When they entered the garage and the door went back down, she released the breath she’d been holding. She got off the bike slowly and helped George take off his helmet. She examined his face, skating her fingertips over his quickly swelling eye. “Are you hurt?”
George scowled in response, turning his head away from her touch. “I hope I broke that fucker’s face.”
“Well, it looked like that might be a possibility,” Stella retorted.
George gingerly got off his bike and stalked into the house. He walked to the freezer and grabbed a bag of frozen peas. Stella followed him. Cooper followed her, his tail frozen; he could tell something was wrong.
“Are you okay?” She touched his back, which was bloody and dirty from the fight.
“NO!” He turned and faced her, blood dried to his cheek and fury still in his eyes. His right eye was turning an angry purple and there was a ragged cut underneath it. There were scrapes along his chin and Stella reached up to wipe some of the blood off his jawline. “No, I’m not fucking okay! I’m not okay that the guy that shot you and kidnapped you just fucking showed up at our friends’ fucking house like it was fucking nothing! I’m. Not. Fucking. Okay!” he yelled. His hands formed fists so tight he ripped his makeshift ice pack, peas scattering all over the floor.
“That’s a lot of fucks you got there,” Stella appeased, ignoring the peas. “Just think of it this way—we don’t have to look for him anymore.” She raised her eyebrows in appeal. It wasn’t like Stella to look for the positive in the situation—that was always George’s place.
“Awesome,” he agreed with an exasperated sigh. “Fucking great.”
“He’s here and he’s close. And confident enough in his asshole self to just ‘stop by,’” she pointed out. “Patrick didn’t know he was going to be there, either, George. He was just as shocked as we were.”
Cooper wagged his tail along the floor; swish, swish, swish. “Millie thinks you just beat the shit out of someone who works with Patrick.”
“Yeah, I guess that might be difficult to explain.”
“George.” Stella wrapped her arms gently around his waist and laid her head on his chest. “You beat someone up for me,” she said and laughed. “I feel like I’m in high school.”
George didn’t think that was funny at all. His face turned impossibly redder through the purple bruises and spots of blood; Stella couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed or enraged. “He’s lucky I didn’t have a gun,” he ground out against her hair. “I would’ve finished all this.”
Angry it is.
“Come on, Rocky.” Stella pulled him by his bruised and bleeding hand and led him up the stairs.
George kept the remaining peas on his face until they got into the bathroom. Stella took her clothes off and then undressed him, watching as he moved his ice pack further and further away from his face. She pushed him unceremoniously into the shower and grabbed a washcloth. Turning the rain cannon on, Stella soaked her washcloth with warm water and took the peas from George, throwing them outside the shower with a plop, stifling a giggle as more peas rolled out of the bag. She closed the glass door behind her and delicately began to wipe away the blood on George’s face.
“I love that you felt you needed to do that, George,” she admitted quietly, “but I don’t think it’s the way to solve this problem.”
George ran his hands up the sides of her body and then pulled her toward him. “And how do you suppose we solve this problem, El?” He leaned down and pulled her earlobe into his mouth.
She moaned and grabbed his face, kissing him as tenderly as she could, feeling like they couldn’t be close enough. She wished they could stay in this shower forever and hide from the world like they were in a warm, safe cocoon. She sighed into his chest. “George, I worry that I’m a bit like a hurricane and if you’re in the path you’ll be destroyed.” She pulled back and looked into his eyes. “I can’t take you getting hurt because of me.”
George gave a resigned sigh and ran one of his hands down her body, walking her to the bench. He sat down and enveloped her in his strong, safe arms, pulling her onto his lap and meshing his swollen lips to hers. His hands were all over her, like he couldn’t get enough.
“You think this may solve our problems?” she asked in between kisses.
“Less talking, more kissing,” George retorted, ignoring her.
George rolled over as the early morning light coming from behind the new shades Stella bought woke him. His entire body hurt. His ribs, his face, his fucking pride… He wanted to kill Jamie. I WILL kill Jamie. Now that he knew Jamie was back in town, taunting them both with his confident demeanor, it gave him more focus. Stella let out a sigh in her sleep and his heart clenched. He ran his hand down her leg. Both of his hands throbbed; he should’ve taken pain medication last night.
“Love?” he said and cleared his throat. He wished his mind wasn’t full of cobwebs.
Last night after their shower they’d shared wine and whiskey, too much wine and whiskey, both of them lost in their own thoughts of what this really meant for them. Jamie was back and it was go time for them both. Stella was going to be bait for the FBI and George needed a plan ready to get rid of that fucker once and for all. He’d call Jesse. Jesse would help him figure out what he needed to do.
Stella ran her fingertips over his chest for a few seconds before she opened her eyes and focused on him. Her eyes were full of regret, dreams lost, and determination. It was a strange combination, but quintessentially Stella and he knew she’d been dreaming again.
“Love?” he whispered again.
“Yes?” she answered perkily, arranging her lips in her perfect fake smile.
“Stop with the fake smile,” he said without moving his lips that much.
“You look like shit,” she observed, the smile falling off her face.
“I feel worse than shit. My face feels like someone kicked it with a boot after that boot stepped in a pile of shit.”
“Wow. That was really descriptive.” Stella leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Your lip is split. Does it hurt?”
“My entire face feels like it looks—like I was hit with a frying pan several times, El. Can’t you tell?”
She gave him an exaggerated once over.
George rolled onto his back. “I think we need to talk to Patrick. See what he knows about what’s going on.”
“I think you may need to go to a doctor.” Stella’s voice was full of concern and she ran her fingertips gently over his right cheek where his cut had begun to scab over.