Page 43 of Cross-Checked

It’s only been a minute when I get to my bedroom, and I’m surprised to find AJ standing there in the middle of the room, looking lost.

“I thought I told you to take that dress off.”

She puts one hand on her hip while her injured arm hangs limp at her side. “I’m not going to stand around in nothing but my underwear. Besides, I wasn’t sure how to close your shades.”

“Here.” I step over to the wall of glass doors that lead out to the same balcony that runs across my living room, and pull back the curtains to show her where the remote is mounted on the wall.

“Oh, fancy,” she says as the light-filtering shades descend. “I should get some like this. I don’t love having my curtains closed during the day because then it’s dark, but I also hate the thought of people in other buildings being able to see into my bedroom.”

“Same,” I tell her as the shades hit the lower lip of the sliding glass doors. “Now let’s see those bruises.”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” she says as she turns her back to me. “I’m only letting you look because I don’t feel like fighting with you. Take a quick peek, and then I’m going to sleep.”

“It’s nine o’clock.”

“And I’m exhausted. I don’t even remember what time we got back from the hospital last night.”

“Like 2 a.m.,” I say as I hook my thumbs under the neckline of her dress, and watch the shiver run down her spine.

Sliding the shoulders of the dress down each of her arms, I let it stop at her waist. The right side of her back is covered in angry purple bruises. Her entire shoulder blade is a grayish purple color, and it extends over to her spine. There’s a fainter line of bruises, not quite as bad, leading from her shoulder blade down to her waist. I push the dress down, exposing the curve of her ass, and in the relative silence of the room, I don’t miss the way she sucks in a breath as my fingers trace the dark line that runs horizontally from her sacrum over to her right hip, directly below the strand of lace holding her thong in place.

In the pattern of bruises, I can see exactly how she landed—her hip and ass connecting with the back of one row of seats, and her shoulder blade and spine connecting with the next row down. It’s amazing she didn’t break her back, along with her wrist.

My hands rest lightly on each of her hips, but it’s like I’ve been immobilized. I stand there, forcing myself to breathe as I look at her battered body, while every cell inside me is threatening to explode—from both anger and gratitude. I’m angry at the fans who started this fight, yes, but I’m also angry at myself. Maybe I couldn’t have stopped this from happening, but I could have done more to prevent it—I could have just done what she’d asked, and spoken out against fighting happening in the stands.

We’re so lucky that she wasn’t hurt worse, and I’m immensely grateful that she was able to prevent Abby from injury. I can never repay her for the way she kept my daughter safe.

I’m such a jumbled mess of conflicting emotions right now.

“So?” she asks, breaking me out of my trance.

I rest my forehead on the crown of her head, and breathe in the sweet scent of her shampoo. “Fuck, Alessandra.” I breathe out her name reverently. “I’m so sorry this happened.”

My fingertips move to connect over her abdomen so my hands are practically circling her waist. All I can think about is that I want to kill whoever caused her this pain. But then my fingers meet stickiness.

“What’s this?” I ask, pulling my fingers free where they’re lightly stuck to the sticky spots on her skin.

She tilts her head down to look at her stomach, and that’s when her dress falls past her hips and pools at her bare feet. My god, she has a delicious ass—rounded and muscular, sitting atop absolutely ripped thighs. Her body is all hard lines and flat planes...and I’m left wondering how she’s so muscular. It’s like she’s curvy, but it’s all muscle.

There’s not an ounce of softness anywhere on her body, which is kind of perfect because there’s not an ounce of softnessin her personality, either. Except when she’s with Abby, and then it’s like seeing a whole different side of her.

“It’s from those sensor things they stuck to me yesterday when they were running some tests,” she says, then looks over her shoulder and catches me staring at her ass.

“Eyes up here, buddy,” she says, her voice sarcastic. She doesn’t sound mad that she caught me checking her out.

“Sorry,” I say as I lift my chin to look her in the eye. “But I mean, you’re standing in front of me in a tiny thong, so you can’t blame a guy for looking.”

“I can, actually,” she says. “You said you wanted to see the bruises, not check me out.”

“Hey.” Reaching out, I cup the side of her face, pulling her toward me in a way that gives her no choice but to turn around. I keep my gaze locked on her face when I say, “I’m sorry.”

She rests her cheek in my hand, and I stand there wondering what it means that she hasn’t pulled away.

“You haven’t showered.” The words are out of my mouth the second they’re in my head. “No wonder you have sticky spots”—I look down at her abdomen, trying to ignore the curve of her breasts, covered by the thin fabric of her bra.—“all over you.”

“How would I shower?” she asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I can’t even use one of my hands, and I’m not allowed to take this splint off.”

I try to picture how she’d squeeze the body wash onto a bath sponge, or shampoo or conditioner into her hand. It would be impossible to do that one-handed.

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