Married To My Mysterious Ex-Con Husband

Keira woke up gasping. For a second, she didn't know where she was. The ceiling was cracked, a map of spiderwebs in the plaster. The light filtering through the window was gray and gritty. There were no curtains. Just a sheet of newspaper taped over the bottom half of the glass. Memory crashed into her like a physical blow. The Bronx. The apartment. Dock. She sat up, her heart doing a frantic rhythm in her chest until she saw the door. Still locked. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She looked down at herself. She was still in the wedding dress. The tulle was crushed, the silk wrinkled and sad. She felt ridiculous. She scrambled off the bare mattress. She needed to get out of this thing. She opened her small duffel bag-the only thing she had brought with her. Jeans. A white t-shirt. Sneakers. She stripped off the dress, her fingers fumbling with the tiny buttons at the back. When the heavy fabric finally pooled at her feet, she felt lighter. She dressed quickly, pulling her hair back into a severe ponytail. She needed to face him. She unlocked the door slowly, wincing as the bolt clicked. The living room was empty. The blanket he had thrown at her was folded neatly on the sofa. The air smelled of stale smoke and coffee. On the small wooden table, there was a piece of paper. She walked over to it. It was a note, scrawled in black ink. The handwriting was jagged, aggressive. Don't touch my shit. Keira looked around the room. In the corner, near the window, there was a stack of metal boxes. They looked like computer parts, or maybe radio equipment. Wires spilled out of them like black spaghetti. Her stomach tightened. Was it stolen? Was he fencing stolen goods? She took a step back. She didn't want to know. Plausible deniability. That was what the lawyers always said. But the rest of the room... It was clean, but it was messy. Dust motes danced in the light. She couldn't help herself. It was a nervous tic. When she was anxious, she cleaned. She found a broom in the narrow closet by the kitchen. She started sweeping. The rhythmic swish-swish of the bristles against the wood calmed her nerves. She organized the few magazines on the table. She straightened the cushions on the sofa. Keira was just bending down to pick up a stray piece of lint when the front door opened. She froze. Dock stood there. He was wearing a black hoodie with the sleeves pushed up and basketball shorts. He was sweating. He had been running. In this neighborhood? Alone? He looked at her. Then he looked at the broom in her hand. Then at the tidy room. One of his dark eyebrows shot up. "I didn't hire a maid," he said. He walked in, kicking the door shut with his heel. He was carrying two brown paper bags and a cardboard tray with two coffees. He walked to the table and dropped the bags. "Catch." He tossed something at her. Keira dropped the broom and caught it against her chest. It was a bagel wrapped in foil. It was warm. "Eat," he said. He picked up one of the coffees-black, no sugar, she could tell by the smell-and took a long sip. "You're not like your sister." The mention of Janie made Keira's spine stiffen. "What?" "Janie," he said, his voice flat. "She wouldn't know which end of a broom to hold. Did Daddy cut off the allowance?" He was mocking her. Keira gripped the warm bagel tighter, the foil crinkling. "I like things clean," she said quietly. He studied her over the rim of his cup. His eyes were too sharp. Too intelligent for a thug. He took a step toward her. The air in the room seemed to compress. "Let's get the rules straight, Princess," he said. He held up three fingers. "One. I don't support dead weight. You pay half the rent. You pay for your own food." Keira blinked. She had expected him to demand access to her trust fund (which didn't exist) or ask for cash. "Okay," she said. "That's fair." He looked surprised for a nanosecond, then his expression hardened again. "Two. You do the chores. I don't cook, I don't clean." "Fine." "Three," he stepped closer. She could smell the sweat on him, and the coffee. It wasn't unpleasant. It was... human. "We don't ask questions. You don't ask about my past. I don't ask about your family. We stay out of each other's way." "Deal," Keira said immediately. She didn't want to know about his past. She didn't want to know who he had hurt to end up in prison. "Good." He set his coffee down and pulled his hoodie over his head. Keira looked away, but not fast enough. She saw the ripple of his abs, the V-line disappearing into his shorts. "I'm hitting the shower," he said. "Don't steal the silverware while I'm gone. Oh wait, I don't have any." He disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, the pipes groaned, and the shower turned on. The sound of the water was loud in the small apartment. Intimate. Keira stared at the bathroom door. She needed money. She looked at the bedroom door where the Vera Wang dress lay in a heap. The deposit. If she returned it today, she could get the two-thousand-dollar deposit back. That would cover her share of the rent for months. Keira ran into the bedroom. She shoved the dress into the garment bag. It was heavy, awkward. She dragged it out into the living room just as the bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out. Dock stepped out. He had a towel wrapped low around his hips. And that was it. Water droplets clung to his chest hair, sliding down over those jagged scars. Keira froze, clutching the garment bag like a shield. Her face went hot. Blazing hot. He didn't even blink. He didn't cover up. He didn't apologize. He just looked at her, then at the massive bag in her arms. "Going somewhere?" "I... I have to return this," Keira stammered. "To get the deposit back." His eyes dropped to the bag. He knew what was inside. A dress that cost more than he probably made in five years. And she was desperate to return it for cash. Something flickered in his eyes. Calculation. "Right," he said. "Don't let me keep you." Keira turned and fled the apartment, her heart pounding in her throat. As the door clicked shut, Jonah dropped the towel. He walked to the table and picked up his phone. He dialed a number. "Chad," he said, his voice dropping into the commanding tone of a CEO. "Pull the financials on the Jacobson family. Specifically their liquidity." "Jonah?" Chad's voice was crackly. "Why? Are they a target?" "Something doesn't add up," Jonah said, looking at the door where Keira had just run out. "She's pawning a dress for rent money. Find out why."