She wrenched free. “Now get out, before I call the police.” They should be on their way, anyway.
“No.” He grabbed her again. “You can teach me to dance the way you taught him.”
“No.” She pulled away, slapping his hand as he reached for her chest. “Get away from me!” She followed this up with a solid kick to his groin.
He swore and hunched over, wincing, and she fled, knowing the pointe shoe would have to hurt. She’d almost reached the door when he grabbed her, something dark filled his face, then he slapped her and she fell to the floor. He straddled her, pawing at her chest as she screamed, and slapped him, scratching his face as he swore and threatened and she cried and kneed him and did her best to roll him off. But he was too big, too strong, too heavy, too much, and—“Lord, help me!”
She heard a yell, her vision blurring as she caught a glimpse of a face then a booted foot, heard a high-pitched yelp, as pain, exquisite pain, rocked her face and she blacked out.
“Bailey! Bailey!” Luc tried to shake her awake but she didn’t move. He glanced at where Sean Hart lay out cold, as sirens blared. Footsteps rushed down the hall and he braced, but no, it was only Poppy, who must’ve got the same emergency call that had hauled his big butt here, where he’d seen Hart assaulting poor Bailey.
Poppy’s shriek was like a wild animal’s. “Is she alive?”
“Yes, but unconscious.”
Some guy he’d never met entered, glanced at Poppy, glanced at Luc, then staggered to a stop. “Whoa. You’re Luc Blanchard, right?”
Luc ignored him. “Have you called the police?”
“That’s them now.”
A groan stole his attention to his ex-teammate lying in the corner. “Poppy, come here, check on Bailey. I need to make sure that”—he said a non-Bailey’s-dad-approved word— “doesn’t go anywhere.”
Poppy nodded, wiping her face, smearing her makeup, while her date, whoever he was, drew out his phone, then took a pic of him and one of Bailey.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Luc yelled.
Poppy stared, horrified, from her position on the floor. “Devon? What on earth—?”
Luc hurried over to him, snatched his phone and threw it across the room where it smashed into a hundred pieces. No way was anyone ever going to post about this. What a sick—
“Hey!”
Sean rolled, groaning, and Luc was sorely tempted to kick him where it would make it impossible to procreate, when the police arrived, followed by the paramedics.
“You, hold it right there.”
Luc put up his hands. “This man tried to rape my girlfriend.” His voice shook. “I got here and kicked him off.” His throat closed. “Please, help her. She’s unconscious, and—”
“Who are you?”
He told them—“you’re Luc Blanchard?”—and Poppy shared what she knew, including the date who’d tried to take a photo which accounted for the smashed phone.
“He destroyed my phone! I don’t care how famous he is, he’s gonna have to pay.”
The next moments were a blur as Luc answered more questions, tried to recall specific details, tried to think how this would play out. But he had zero experience with anything like this, only knew that somehow he needed to let the club know that their new captain had got into a fight and police were involved.
He called Bailey’s mom, his coach, his agent, his mom, and Mike Vaughan. He needed people who would pray, who’d help him and Bailey, and needed news of this contained. How on earth was anyone going to trust a man potentially accused of assault—with leading the team, with Bailey?
Emotion clamped his throat, and he sank to his knees, hands over his mouth, as he watched Bailey being loaded onto a gurney. “Can I go with her?”
“Sorry. You need to come with us to the station.”
It was late when he made it to his apartment. Travis had collected him from the police station, and he’d been assured by Poppy from the hospital that Bailey had woken and was fine, but couldn’t see visitors.
He unlocked his door, threw down his keys, and stumbled to the bathroom, regrets chasing him inside. Why couldn’t he have got there quicker? If he’d skipped the haircut which he’d done to look more professional he would’ve been there, could’ve protected her. Instead he’d failed. Let her fall. None of this would’ve happened if it wasn’t for him. It was his fault.
He turned on the shower, catching a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. The haggard cast to his face, the shadows, the blood that still spotted his shirt. Thank God none of that was Bailey’s. He couldn’t live with himself if that was so.
He stripped off his clothes, but barely noticed the water pummeling his shoulders as awful memories from the night bubbled like a toxic brew. Bailey, helpless. Evil, trying to steal. Her mom’s scream. His coach’s shock. The police interviews. The murmurs that he might face possible charges against Sean. His team wouldn’t want him as captain. Bailey wouldn’t want him when his presence in her life had put her life at risk. Her family who’d dealt with domestic violence in the past would only see his violence again and not that he’d just tried to save the woman he loved.
That he loved.
“Lord. We need some miracles.” And he sank to his knees, his tears joining the water from above.
CHAPTER 28
Words were funny things. They had the power to hurt or heal. They had the power to strengthen or steal. I love you. Please forgive me. I’m sorry.
The whispers of this trio of phrases rolled to her ears, in and then out like the waves on the sand. I love you. Please forgive me. I’m sorry.
She recognized the deep voice, but not the rasp, not the wobble, not the break, like this man was in tears. She slowly opened her eyes, saw gray light wash over a bowed dark head, a man clutching her hand. Who?
Maybe she made a sound, for his muffled words ceased as he looked at her, his dark eyes widening. “Bailey? Oh, thank You, Jesus. Bails, do you recognize me?”
