Page 121 of The Anchor Holds

I went through the motions the rest of that night. I waited on tables, my smile pasted on as I spoke to people, my movements robotic until the last table was served.

I ate the lobster roll that Elliot wordlessly presented to me, with his unsaid order that I eat the whole thing.

I closed out my tables, weathered the withering glances from Betty—the blonde waitress—which had become routine by that point. I wouldn’t be surprised if the young girl had tried to make a deal with the devil to get me out of her life. I’d already done that and it was only a matter of time before my deal came due.

Beau came out from the kitchen to share a quick conversation with me and Elliot. The man was warming to me, as much as a man like Beau was capable of warming toward a woman who wasn’t his daughter.

I watched how he spoke to his poor nanny, all grunts and glowers. I didn’t know how she handled it. Luckily, she had Clara, who was a ray of sunshine and hopefully made her job worth it.

Beau said his goodbyes, eager to be back with his daughter who was now almost entirely ready to be in public without a mask, without all the precautions we’d been adhering to in order to ensure that she stayed healthy.

“I hope he pays his nanny well, considering all the emotional distress and toxic masculinity he exposes her to,” I said when he left.

Elliot chuckled. “I know for a fact he pays her well, but I agree, he could be a lot easier on her.” He paused, wiping down the bar top. “But I’m thinking it’s that old childhood, playground behavior. It’s always the ones who pick on the girls they like.”

I scowled. “First of all, that explanation was made to normalize men treating women badly. Fuck that bullshit. Don’t utter it again.” I wagged my finger at him. “Secondly, you really think that BeaulikesHannah?” I was categorically shocked.

I was also genuinely curious since I didn’t think Beau was capable of having feelings like that. And because I was desperate to get as far away from having to discuss Jasper as possible.

Elliot polished a glass, looking at the door his brother had exited before returning his attention back to me. “I could bewrong. I tend to be, especially when normalizing toxic male behaviors from childhood,” he teased. “But I know my brother. He’s rough around the edges, which have only gotten rougher with Clara being sick. But the interactions between the two of them are harsh even for Beau. And I don’t sign off on it. I’ve talked to him. As has my dad. We’ve both gotten our proverbial throats ripped out, which means that he cares more than he should and is probably punishing himself for it. Beau doesn’t let himself think he deserves good things. So he tends to fight against them. Punishes himself for wanting them in the first place.” His eyes seared into me with practiced intensity. “Not unlike someone else I know.”

I pursed my lips. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He watched me as he silently polished another glass, that intense gaze on his face as I waited for the questions. About Jasper. About my life in New York. There was no longer any space for us to ignore it.

Elliot let out a long breath. “Do you want to go home?”

My spine straightened. “Home?”

He nodded.

Home. He spoke of it like it was something we had. Something we shared. I knew I’d best correct him.

“Yeah, I’d like to go home,” I replied quietly.

Twenty-Three

I Was Just Leaving — Ryan Montbleau

We were at Elliot’s. There was no question about it … it was home.

Elliot had made good on his promise and fucked me with urgency, intensity. I’d let out all the coiled steam from the interaction with Jasper, but even after three life-shattering orgasms, there was a tension inside of me that wouldn’t unravel until all of this was over. Until the cat was out of the bag.

I was wearing Elliot’s tee and panties, curled up on the sofa, cradling the martini he’d wordlessly made me after sex, despite the late hour. Elliot often went to bed early because he rose early. But it was an unspoken agreement that both of us were too keyed up to sleep. He shared sips from the glass with me, my back against his chest, both of us basking in the silence.

“What is this from?” Elliot’s rough fingers traced over the small scar on my forehead. No one else had noticed the thin line. It was almost invisible to the naked eye. It helped trick me intobelieving that the damage hadn’t been that severe since the only reminder on my body was a small, thin scar.

I could’ve lied. That had been my plan. If anyone asked questions about the scar, there would be a lie. About racquetball, about mixing booze and sleeping pills and passing out in the kitchen. Anything but the truth.

“I, uh, had a run-in with the Russian Mob.” Chewing my lip, I wondered if he could hear my thundering heart. “Not a run-in, that’s a lie. I used to work for them. The semi-legitimate side of their operation, at least. The scar is from me refusing to work for them once I grasped the breadth of what I was doing. What I was contributing to.”

When he asked the question, Elliot’s expression had been serene, curious, his tone almost lazy. Elliot, who had grown up in Jupiter, on fishing boats, hadn’t gone any further. He wasn’t stupid by any means, he was educated, smart. But to Elliot, a scar on a forehead meant a trip and fall, a fishhook, a benign, everyday accident.

When everything about him stiffened, I regretted not making up some excuse. But it was time. Past time to tell Elliot everything.

“Tell me more.” His demand was stated softly, yet there was a thin tremor of rage simmering underneath the words.

“There’s not much to tell,” I lied, unable to meet his eyes. I’d known this was coming. A long overdue explanation for all the shit I’d put him through. The shooting, the fire, Jasper contaminating his life.

---