Dirty: The Complete Series (Secret Baby Romance Love Story) (120 page)

“Since I’ve paid for you, you might as
well come home with me,” the man said. My heart beat faster in my chest at the
loudly spoken words.

“Excuse me?” Any pretense that Natalie had
shown of being calm and collected evaporated. “I think you have a really,
really
mistaken idea of the services
that my agency provides.”

“I’m not mistaken,” the man said, and I
could hear the sneer in his voice. “Don’t worry, sweetie—I’ll pay you a
generous tip.”

“You won’t, because that’s not what this
is about,” Natalie said firmly. I couldn’t help but smile slightly at the
strident tone of her voice. “Not only am I not going home with you—now or
ever—but I am going to contact the agency right now and make sure that you’re
barred from our services, as well as the services of any other agency in the
state and as many of the other agencies in the country as we can reach out to.”

“You bitch!” I saw the man stand up,
towering over her. “You wouldn’t dare, you fucking whore.”

“This meeting is over,” she said, standing
up herself. “I’m calling the agency as soon as I walk out of the door.” She
started to move away from the table, and the man grabbed her.

“Oh no, you don’t,” I heard him say,
cocking a fist. The sight of it made my blood boil, and before I knew it, I was
on my feet, as well. I barely had time to watch as the client started punching
and kicking at Natalie, throwing her onto the table, screaming and shouting
obscenities about her being a slut and a whore and good for nothing but a
cheap, easy lay.

In an instant, I was at the table. I
grabbed the man’s hand and pulled it around to his back, using the leverage to
shove him away from Natalie. I threw him against the chair he’d gotten out of
and held him there while I looked around—everything had turned to chaos. The
Maître d’ appeared out of nowhere and hurried over to where I stood. “Okay,
asshole,” I told Natalie’s client. “You’re done. If the management here won’t
call the cops,
I will.
”

“My deepest apologies,” the Maître d’
began, looking as if he’d swallowed a few dozen thumbtacks. “We’re calling the
police right now, sir.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll restrain this…” I
shook my head. “Person, until they arrive. I don’t want him to attempt an
escape.”

“That would be very kind of you, Mr.
Baxter,” the Maître d’ said, nodding enthusiastically. “I apologize again that
your evening has been interrupted.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” I told the man,
irritated. “There’s a woman a few feet away from me who’s probably had a much
harder time of it than I have right now.” I looked over to where Natalie had
fallen onto the floor. She was conscious, but I could see the bruises beginning
to form on her face, some blood spotting the tablecloth, the carpet, and her
clothes.

“Of course!” The Maître d’ looked around
and the hostess came over as if on cue, kneeling down next to Natalie and
beginning to quietly ask how injured she was, whether she would need an
ambulance, all of the standard questions. The client I’d manhandled began to
struggle underneath me, and I had to focus on him, keeping him pinned against
the chair, arm held against his back so he wouldn’t be able to get away from me
without dislocating his shoulder.

It seemed to take an hour for the police
to arrive, but I found out later it was only fifteen minutes. They hurried into
the restaurant, and I let the man go as soon as they told me I could. I knelt
down on the floor next to Natalie, who looked dazed and injured, but not
seriously. “How are you?”

“I didn’t even notice you come in,”
Natalie said, smiling and then wincing at the pain from a split lip. “God, I
hope they actually charge him with something.”

“I am going to raise so much hell that
they’ll charge him with whatever they possibly can,” I told her. One of the
clients I had worked with in the past had helped to organize the annual Police
Ball, and through that client, I had managed to forge a few relationships
within the Union, as well as an acquaintance with the District Attorney. I made
a mental list of people I needed to call, and told myself to take care of it as
soon as I left the restaurant.

In the meantime, the police took Natalie’s
statement, as well as mine. I explained that I had come on my own, just to have
dinner, and had noticed the client that Natalie was with acting strangely
throughout their date. I backed Natalie up on every detail, even the ones I had
missed, and they led the man away in cuffs. “You’ll want to go to the hospital,
make sure you aren’t more injured than you think,” the officer told her.

“I think I’m mostly fine—just very sore,”
she told her man, giving him a half-smile.

“I can drive you, if you want,” I told
her, taking in the sight of her bloodstained clothes and the bruises on her
face and wrists.

“No, really, I’ll go to the doctor in the
morning, and if I feel really bad tonight, I’ll have someone take me. I’d
really rather just get home and get cleaned up right now,” she said, shaking her
head at my offer.

“Would you like an escort? Just to make
sure…if you’re more injured than you think…” The police officer was an older
guy—maybe in his mid-fifties—and it was obvious to me that he’d seen too many
people refuse help, only to end up more injured when they tried to drive home
with a concussion or something else wrong with them.

“I’ll accept that,” Natalie said. She
looked at me and gave me a wry smile. “Sorry I ruined your dinner,” she told
me.

“Oh shut up,” I said, shaking my head. “If
anyone ruined it, it was that asshole. Go home and get cleaned up.” I watched
the police officer guide Natalie out of the restaurant and wished that I had
had the moral courage to insist on her letting me help instead. I went back to
my table to see the check was lying there, marked paid, and my leftovers had
been carefully boxed up.

“Thank you so much for your help, Mr.
Baxter,” my waiter said, coming to my table as soon as I sat down. “I hope
you’ll see us again soon—I hope this incident hasn’t put you off.”

“No,” I told the man, gathering up my food
and my receipt. “I’ll be back in soon, I’m sure.” I stood up, feeling old and
angry, and left the restaurant.

Chapter
Twenty Five

Natalie

I checked the time on my phone. Brady should
be up from his nap in about twenty minutes. It had been a day since my
disastrous first meeting with Nathan Giles, and I had canceled the session I
had with another client. I was free for the entire day. I sighed, tugging my
favorite, worn blanket tighter around me. I didn’t want to take the full dose
of the pain medication, especially if Brady was going to be awake and playing,
but the half-dose I allowed myself to take didn’t completely dull the aches and
pains and twinges from the injuries that Giles had given me.

At that, I had to remind myself that it
could have been much, much worse. According to the doctor I ended up going to
see, I had two bruised ribs, a sprained knee and wrist, and of course, the
various bruises on my face, arms, and legs, along with the split lip I’d
gotten, but I hadn’t broken anything, and I hadn’t needed any stitches. I had
two weeks’ worth of Vicodin and prescription-strength Aleve, a brace for my
knee and wrist, and instructions to ice the worst of the injuries every few
hours and keep them elevated as much as possible. Of course, I couldn’t rest as
much as the doctor wanted me to—Brady, at three, couldn’t understand the extent
of my injuries and wasn’t about to change his normal activity level to
accommodate me—but I was glad that he slept well at night and took a nap
regularly during the day, and that for at least some of the time, I could sit
on the couch and watch him from there.

I’d called Katie as soon as I could,
informing her about Nathan Giles’ horrific behavior, and she’d immediately
sprung into action: he would, as I’d told him, be banned from any of the
matchmaking services that we had any kind of relationship with, and the company
would be filing civil charges against him to go along with my criminal charges.
He might be rich, but as long as we could push the matter, he wasn’t going to
get away with what he’d done.

I shifted on the couch to try and get into
a more comfortable position and winced as the movement sent new pain through my
body.
It could have been a lot worse,
I reminded myself for the tenth time.
In
fact, if Zeke hadn’t been there, it probably
would
have been a lot worse.
I shivered, remembering the feeling of
dread that had washed through me when Giles had come after me. Normally, I’m
fairly good at defending myself, and I did manage to get one or two hits in.
But I was so shocked that someone would actually get so physical in a public
place like a restaurant that I hadn’t been as quick as I normally would be.

I remembered Zeke’s sudden appearance at
the table, remembered the sight of him hitting Nathan Giles, twisting the man’s
arm behind his back, and pinning him to the chair. He had looked amazing:
strong, capable, and fierce. Almost unwillingly, I compared him to my ex in my
mind. While I was sure that at some point in his life, Alex had loved me very
dearly indeed, I didn’t think that he would have been even half as capable as
Zeke had been in protecting me. The thought made me feel a little ashamed; I
knew I shouldn’t compare my ex-husband with a man I wasn’t even romantically
involved with, but I couldn’t help it.

And, Zeke had stayed with me even when the
cops arrived. He had offered to take me to the hospital to get checked out. If
I hadn’t been feeling so angry, so shaken up and determined to call Katie and
get the ball rolling on making sure that Nathan Giles got what he deserved, I
might have actually taken Zeke up on his offer. I couldn’t help but feel
grateful for the fact that he had been there, in that restaurant, at that
particular moment in time. I had no idea at all what had brought him to the
place where I was meeting with Nathan for the first time, but I had to admit
that if anyone else had been there instead of him, I would probably had come
out of the meeting with more than one broken bone.

My timer went off, and I got off of the
couch as slowly and carefully as possible, turning the buzzer off. It was time
to wake Brady up from his nap; hopefully he would be able to get himself out of
bed without help from me—because between my wrist and my knee, I wasn’t sure
I’d be able to drag him out from under the covers. I limped through the house
and down the hall to his little bedroom. “Hey, little bug,” I called in through
the door quietly. “Time to get up.” Brady wriggled and squirmed under the
blankets, murmuring something sleepily. “If you get up, we can get a snack!” I
grinned to myself as he sat bolt upright in his bed.

“Snack?” his eyes were bright, no sign of
any sleepiness at all in him.

“Come on, little man. Let’s get you a
snack and get something fun on TV.” Brady followed me into the kitchen like I
was the pied piper, and I managed to get a bowl of cut-up fruit out of the
fridge, along with a jar of almond butter. He toddled back into the living room
to wait for me while I wrestled with his snack, scooping out a few spoonfuls of
banana slices, apple chunks, and grapes onto a plate and then adding a dollop
of almond butter on the side for him to dip them into. I fixed myself a bowl of
the fruit as well, and limped back into the living room where my son was
already seated on the floor next to the coffee table, rummaging through his box
of toys for what he wanted. I put on an episode of
Yo Gabba Gabba
and sat back, propping my injured leg on the coffee
table.

“Mama,” Brady said, dipping a banana slice
into his almond butter and quickly devouring it.

“What’s up, little boy?” I munched an
apple slice.

“Who hurted you?” I snorted.

“One of my clients,” I explained. “I just
met him for the first time. He was a bad man.”

“Not Mr. Zeke.” He made the statement not
quite a question.

“No, not Mr. Zeke,” I confirmed. “Mr. Zeke
actually helped me.” Brady selected a grape and ate it thoughtfully.

“You see Mr. Zeke soon?” I shrugged.

“I’m not sure.”

“I wanna see him,” he told me. “He’s
nice.”

“He’s very nice,” I agreed. “Why don’t you
watch your show? I think it’s your favorite episode.” Brady turned his
attention halfway onto the TV, continuing to meditatively consume his snack. I
slipped my phone out of my pocket as I decided that dinner—three hours in the
future—would be leftovers of the spaghetti sauce I’d made earlier in the week,
along with some pasta. I pulled up Zeke’s contact information and opened up a
text message to him.
I wanted to thank
you again—if I remembered to thank you the first time—for what you did for me,
I wrote.
I’m a bit worse for the wear,
but nothing that won’t heal.
I set my phone aside and gathered up my empty
bowl and Brady’s empty plate.

By the time I managed to limp back into
the living room, I heard my phone ringing; a quick look at the screen told me
that it was Zeke. “Hey,” I said as soon as the line connected.

“How bad are the injuries?”

I laughed. “Nothing broken,” I said first.
“A couple of bruised ribs, a sprained knee and wrist, bruises here and there.
Nothing needed stitches. I think that’s probably the best outcome I could have
expected.”